[Part One here.]
"Aqui, Ernesto -- Plexiglas," Michael pointed into the bed of his pickup. The hand-crafted camper shell was almost finished, lacking only windows for the frames. It might have indeed been possible to find a large sheet of the hard clear plastic in Juarez, but he wanted that heavier grade stuff he spotted in El Paso on one of his shopping trips.
The elderly man pulled at the sheet and carried it carefully into his shop, which was actually just a lean-to on his house. It was open on the long side, but with a roof. He clamped the sheet to a frame, then began meticulously marking it for the various odd windows in the camper shell. Michael had no idea where Ernesto found the frames, but assumed they were just more of the kind of stuff the amazing man had scavenged from any number of dumps. He was pretty sure none of it was stolen, since the frames all had no more than a few shards of broken glass hanging in them. Michael decided Plexiglas was cheaper, and probably better for his use.
Any day now, the whole thing would be finished. Then he would mount it on his old pickup. Of course, this would remove his last excuse for staying here on the hillside above Ciudad Juarez. He'd have to head back to California.
It had been a marvelous vacation, and the hardest work he'd ever done. It was more labor than even the digging under the little house back up north. He tried not to think too much about that. Though news reports had never mentioned the SWAT Team, only an explosion and fire, he was pretty sure at least a couple of the officers had died. Also, reports hadn't tied the professor's death with the explosion. In fact, they never even called it an assassination.
Michael fastened his tool belt, then shifted it to a more comfortable place on his hips. The nails in the open pouches jingled merrily, a sound he now thought of as almost music. That's because one of the very creative college girls on the first mission team. She was sitting on the bare planks of a new roof during a lunch break, and began shaking her own nail pouch, in a very engaging rhythm. To this, another student added a gentle hammer tapping on a loose board, producing another tone. Then a couple more students joined in, and the girl made up a little chorus about work as worship.
He'd never forget that group, a small Christian college choir taking a mission trip on their Christmas break from classes. The little community did their best to put on a real celebration for their guests, and the simplicity of love made it seem lavish. More than one kind of love, too. Michael tried to stay away from Juanita, the young widow who served as one of the church cooks. He was pretty sure she had eyes for him. As he climbed a ladder to yet another roof in the same series of new homes, tears came to his eyes. He was the only Anglo on the building site today. There was another American, a volunteer from the big Baptist church over in El Paso, who was the master carpenter and instructor. That man had been born not too far from these houses. He was a local boy who made it big, got his legal citizenship in the US, them came back to help lift others.
Wiping a tear, he drove a nail through the plank into the frame below, in three practiced strokes. Michael so wanted to stay, but he couldn't.
The leather belt held a good framing hammer, flat steel nail puller, wide locking measuring tape, a couple of carpenter's pencils, small level, and a few other odd tools, along with the nails. Holding the tool belt in his hand, he considered a moment, then called the teenage boy over. The young man had hung around most days, helping with odd tasks, such as fetching small pieces, helping to hold something large against the gusty winds, or whatever else was needed. He was barefoot, gaunt, and ate the free lunch like it was his only meal. He didn't speak much, but sang rather well the Spanish hymns often shared to brighten the work days.
Michael never knew his name, and simply called him Hermanito, "little brother." Deciding it didn't really matter if the boy knew how to use the tools, and might sell them for food, he decided to give it a chance. He handed the belt to him and quickly got into his truck. As he drove away, a look in his side mirror showed the boy, standing dumbstruck, looking back and forth between the belt and the rear of the departing little truck and camper. As he rounded the corner, Michael was sure he saw the boy wrap it around his waist and run toward the half-finished house.
He must have driven this way into El Paso a dozen times in the past five weeks. This time he would keep going. He crossed the free bridge, and at the junction with I-10 he saw another small pickup similar to his, waiting at the light. It took his mind back. As he crossed the double intersection and onto the Interstate westbound, he could almost capture the feeling of fear, weariness, and bewilderment trying to find the route over the border. The day he left the little copse with the treehouse, and his good friend Burk, he had managed to get all the way to Monahans in the Permian Basin. The relatively warm desert air, awash in the smell of raw petroleum, was quite a change to the previous night. He and Burk had arrived at the cache of dry clothing, after confronting the police patrol watching for them, nearly frozen. Though the city there had been in a warm spell, that meant simply it didn't quite freeze at night. The basement was warm enough, where they waited for the SWAT raid. The entrance to the tunnel was okay, too, but the storm drain was cold. The park at Monahans was quite seasonable. He packed the coat away that next morning, and hadn't seen it since. It had been fairly cool the next morning as he crossed the high ridges between Pecos and El Paso, but even with the high elevation of the Rio Grande Valley there, it remained fairly warm the whole five weeks in Juarez.
He originally had planned to drive all the way down to Chihuahua, maybe visit Copper Canyon. For some reason, with a bad wreck in the main intersection just across the bridge, and still driven by fear, he found the right turn rather inviting. Just a block down, he caught up with the bus load of college students, stopped for traffic at a corner. Having seen the squalor of Mexican cities before, he was mesmerized more by the sign on the back naming their college, and by the young adults in the back windows, just a few years younger than he. Overcome by curiosity, he followed them. When they climbed the hillside into the real gritty slums, he stayed with them. They stopped in front of a little mission church. After watching them a moment, he realized what it was. There were a couple of small building foundations, and some of the students carried carpentry tools as they unloaded their luggage.
Pulling up beside the bus, he decided sight-seeing was not what he needed. He presented himself as a fellow Christian on vacation, and asked if he could join them, offering his services as translator. Without hesitation, they welcomed him.
Not everything had been sweetness and light. Some evenings he would pickup a wireless signal just strong enough to work with. Still somewhat fearful, he decided to install the Linux CD to his hard drive, wiping away Windows. The latter simply held too much risk for him. After figuring out how to get the firewall working, he felt much more secure, but changed his MAC address pretty regularly.
Naturally, he scanned for news reports of the incident back in that Midwestern city. As near as he could discern, his and Burk's diversion had served its purpose. It was after his second day there in Juarez he finally saw a preliminary report of the explosion, then an obituary on the professor. Then nothing. Well, not exactly nothing. When he visited some of the underground patriot forums, they seemed to be saying there was a large number of SWAT officers killed. Over the next few weeks, it seemed also there was a slight up-tick in the number of shootouts with police. A couple of police cruisers were bombed, and somebody fired a machine gun into the front of an urban police station. There were other, similar incidents. It's not as if he and Burk had opened a flood gate, but he decided there was a distinct response among those who objected to the rising police state.
There also appeared to be a matching rise in police brutality. He found several stories like the city police beating and threatening with death a drug suspect because he refused permission to search his house without a warrant. There were a few national events, such as the brazen attempt to plant evidence in one Congressman's office. The Capitol Police announced a bomb threat and cleared the building. One staffer had been puking in the bathroom, and started to leave his office when he spotted someone who was not on any Congressional staff, but wearing one of the staff badges. This man was carrying a box into a certain Congressman's office, the door held by one of the police officers. In spite of dizziness, the staffer was quick-witted enough to snap a picture with his cellphone without being noticed. Congressional leaders and the White House were in a stand-off over possession of the evidence.
Of all people, Michael was not surprised the major media outlets played down most of this. How often had an investigative story of his been spiked? Or how often had he been ordered to use propaganda from some bureaucrat or company? His impressions came from double-checking each story against independent Internet outlets or those based outside the US. While they, too, could publish nonsense, at least he was free to choose -- when he had time. He hadn't the time to investigate things too deeply. He was actually more worried about Burk. When he left Burk at the treehouse, the young man promised he wouldn't stay. He would check again with the woman in the barn, then move north as soon as possible, before heading back to the West Coast. Michael kept telling himself Burk was probably smarter about avoiding the police in the first place. Still, he had insisted Burk take some of his cash just in case.
Michael had been forced into frugality during his first year out of college, free-lancing. When he got the job at the publishing house, he never bothered to adapt to the materialism his co-workers celebrated. Sure, he dressed better than before, but that was a requirement for the job. He had traveled quite extensively as a mere reporter, then less often, but staying longer as a feature writer -- all at company expense. The accountant congratulated him on avoiding frivolous expenses. He had saved up quite a bit, paid cash for the inexpensive new car he had bought last year, and had paid a year's lease up front on his apartment in a distinctly middle-class area. Aside from the infrequent socializing with his previous editor, and mandatory office parties, he never spent a lot of time with co-workers. He also got the jobs they didn't. He had figured he had just enough to get by in Mexico for awhile without hitting an ATM. He left with most of what he brought, though.
It was getting dark when he spotted the first cell tower near Blythe, and decided to call the Bible study leader. Pulling out his cellphone, he realized it hadn't been turned on in nearly two months. Once he and Burk joined up, he had turned it off and kept it in the truck.
No sooner had he pressed the "on" button, it rang. He nearly dropped it. Glancing at the number, he didn't recognize it. Letting it ring twice more, he decided something was telling him he better take this call. As soon as he held it to his ear, there was no mistaking the voice on the other end.
"Michael, turn off your cell phone and leave it that way. Then check your email."
"Terrell?" Click. He realized it was a recording, and did as the voice suggested, turning the phone back off. As the paranoia resurged, he took the next highway exit and headed south. He probably had just enough gas to make Brawley. It occurred to him his former editor was the sort of man who could easily have found someone at the phone company to program such a recording to play the instant his phone registered its presence on the air again. With mountains to his west blocking out the last few rays of the sun, it was quite dark suddenly. However, the dark had a ways to go catching up with the blackness of his fear.
At one point, as the road climbed over a ridge-line, he suddenly rolled down the window and threw out his cellphone. A few seconds later he remembered the older one, reached between the bucket seats and dug in a bag. That one quickly followed the other. Wishing now he had decided to accept the invitation to stay in Juarez, he made it to Brawley with a couple of gallons to spare. Realizing the camper was probably helping, the memory of asking the old craftsman to make it aerodynamic as possible came to him. It allowed him room to sleep, have a desk and seat for his laptop, and still hold his gear. He had also asked for a hidden compartment. Having guns and grenades in his luggage made him a little nervous, in spite of the scrupulous observance of his privacy everyone practiced there in Juarez. He had had a tough time convincing Burk to keep his own handgun.
With the tank full again, he pulled over to a large empty parking lot. Michael was elated to find a wireless signal. He had been keeping up on his email, so it shouldn't be hard to spot a message from Terrell, his former editor. He checked each account, even reading the spam, to make sure it didn't slip through. Nothing. There were a couple of interesting job offers, and he was glad to see them, since his cash reserves were getting uncomfortably low. Giving those two a preliminary response, he sat back and wondered what Terrell's recording meant.
Flagstand. He suddenly remembered that war gaming site Terrell had convinced him to join. It had been amusing for awhile, but he let it slide when he took a trip for a story. This was some obscure site based in Poland, and the connection was less than perfect. This didn't hurt the games, since they were based on strategy and taking turns, but it just wasn't his kind of thing. He really had tried to like it, and Terrell made so much of it, but it just didn't grab Michael. That is, until just now, when he remembered the membership came with a free webmail account. Wracking his brain, he finally recalled the user name and password, and stumbled around looking for the link to the webmail. The site had been updated, and Michael was lost for a moment. Finally, he spotted it and clicked.
There were a half-dozen challenge messages, and right at the bottom something from Terrell. Growling about the lag time, he waited for the message window to display.
Don't go home. Don't go near your car. Nothing you
left here is worth your life. Meet me at the game
room.Michael sat staring at the screen for awhile. Then he closed the connection and put his laptop in suspend mode. He lay staring out the skylight for a long time before finally falling asleep.
Michael studied the menu for awhile. He decided something from the collection of wild fowl would be more palatable, and finally chose the roast ptarmigan. He just didn't think he could stomach any of the wild game animals with horns and hooves, and certainly nothing with claws. With little else to go on, he decided someone here would call Terrell to notify him Michael had arrived. Maybe it would be the waitress who had the hots for Terrell.
His former editor liked this little restaurant, and had once made a pun, calling it "the game room" because the entire menu was wild game. There was actually an ancient pinball game in one corner, so it took Michael a minute to catch on before he chuckled. Terrell loved the Sample Platter, which contained each time a slightly different random collection of bite-sized pieces of various creatures, variously cooked. Michael had turned down most of Terrell's invitations to return to "the game room," but not this time.
He had been staring at a teenager playing the pinball machine, and quite skillfully. The thing was making a racket, and Michael jumped when Terrell crossed his line of sight and sat down without speaking. The low lighting of the place made Terrell's dark complexion even darker. In full light, you would have seen somewhat rounded features on a long face, and a rather square jaw. With is silver hair cut permanently in a flat top, and no hint of facial hair, you could never guess Terrell's age, nor his ethnic background.
Staring down into a glass he had brought with him, Terrell said just loudly enough to be heard, "You were too effective."
"Too effective? At what?"
"I know the wire services avoided it for the most part, but I heard through some friends you and your buddy managed to kill the entire city SWAT Team." Terrell looked up with a faint smile.
Michael stared at his hands on the table in front of him. "I had no idea."
"Where'd you learn about LAW rockets? That was some trick. And how did you keep the front door from opening? Most of the time, a tactical ram opens on the first knock."
It was Michael's turn to smile a little. "Well, we had read about rams, and had added an extra facing of two-by-sixes to the door frame. That would require them to actually break the door, not just knock it open. It was a pretty solid door. As for the LAW, the instructions are written right on it. Ran a piece of nylon fishing line across the porch down low. It was tied to a pin holding everything up. When it was tripped, we had a frame drop straight down from the ceiling with the LAW cradled, already set to fire. An old heavy brick was rigged to fall on the trigger when the bracket was all the way down. I just looked up on the Net about shaped charges. Burk said something about shrapnel, and we added the plate as an afterthought. We found it in a bin outside a metal shop while looking for bars to form fake climbing rungs on our sewer shaft."
Terrell turned his head a bit, still eyeing Michael. "This is the first I heard of a sewer shaft."
Michael waited while a cup of tea was set before him. He turned to make sure the waitress was gone, then face Terrell again. "I had been wondering how we could divert attention from our tunnel, when I saw some construction on campus. They had pulled some old iron pipe out of the ground. It was rusted, but still solid. It was next to a concrete junction box about to go into the ground. I saw the short access shaft on top of the box and it gave me the idea to create a fake one in our basement. It happened we had a floor drain running straight into a sewer below the house."
Talking into his raised glass, Terrell murmured, "That explains the three days it took them to release the bulletin." He took a slow sip, then lowered the glass and swallowed. "That trick with the claymore was sharp. I'd never seen that before."
Michael looked down self-consciously, "The hand generator was hidden on a frame member where the open door would hit it. The hinges were well greased. We really weren't expecting to kill very many. We were just hoping to make some noise and hurt a few of them."
"Eight at the front door, four from the force of the ram shooting backwards when the missile hit the same spot. Six from the claymore on the back porch. I hear the SAC was terribly angry about being fooled." Terrell grinned as if proud. "However, that wasn't the worst of it. You took out one of the Shadow Government's favorite sons."
"Literal 'son'?" Michael asked.
"Cousin by marriage to the Rockefellers."
"Well, that detail got by me. Still, I'm not sorry for his loss."
Terrell looked over Michael's shoulder. "I don't blame you. Here's the food."
They engaged in some fake chatter about the local football team while the waitress popped open a folding tray rest, then swung down the loaded tray with platters, bowls, and saucers, topped with a basket of warm yeast rolls. She flirted with Terrell while scattering the meal on the table, then slowly retreated, turning back at least once to look at him again.
As soon as she was far enough away, Terrell's sunny smile faded quickly. As he rearranged dishes to suit him, he spoke with some of the seriousness he had in that closet three months ago. "Still, that's what will make it impossible for you and your buddy to do it again. Losing a few ground troops is no big deal." He took a bit of something meaty, and while chewing, "Taking down a family officer they won't overlook."
Michael picked at his bird, buttered a roll, the looked up. "So... now what?"
"Glad you asked," replied Terrell with a grin.
It was Saturday, just a couple of days from New Year's. They stood on top of a sand dune. The morning was cold and thinly overcast, but the breeze was gentle. Michael had driven back out of the city after the game dinner, and slept in his camper. Then he had come back and met Terrell over breakfast, who insisted Michael help him fly his radio-controlled glider. There were a few others in this semi-desert area outside the city, most flying motorized models. Terrell showed off with a few stunts, then brought the glider in toward them, slowing it as it dropped, finally stalling it just over their heads. Terrell caught it in one hand.
The glider was quite large. Though made of featherweight materials, it was rather heavy because of its size. Had Michael tried that catch, he would have dropped it because of the weight. Terrell was six-two and quite athletic. Michael knew he worked out, but was not aware of the details.
Terrell set it down on the sand, dropping to one knee. Looking up at Michael, he asked, "Care to guess how much of a payload it could carry and still fly well?"
Michael was a little tired of the games, but Terrell could hardly be pushed along. "Oh, five pounds?" he ventured.
"Close," Terrell announced. "Five kilos. I tested it a couple of times. It's sluggish, and won't turn nearly as sharp, but is much more stable. Hard to launch single-handed without a good head wind and a high spot."
"And?"
"There are almost no metal parts. The radio receivers are tiny these days, and the servo motors have just a bit of copper winding. Only the battery is of any substance." Terrell went on like a salesman.
"Unless your payload has metal in it," Michael offered.
"Nah, just some wiring." Terrell stood up. "I figure the idea is good for just one hit. Right now, air defense around critical buildings won't pick up model aircraft below a certain density, and below a certain mass of metal. This one was custom designed and built by hand several years ago. Today, you can order a prefab which is stronger, lighter, and a whole lot cheaper. It's not what a purist would do, but if you needed a dozen or so fast and cheap, they're good enough."
Michael caught on to the theory, at least. "One at a time by radio control? Aren't there risks with such a lag time between them? Even if you could teach me how to do it, that's still six separate flights. And wouldn't someone pickup the radio frequency?"
Terrell held up a plastic box, resembling a tiny MP3 player. "GPS module for weather balloons. With these, it's no longer necessary to have expensive tracking radar dishes. Any antenna tuned to the proper frequency can receive the weather data, along with coordinates in three dimensions. Like regular weather radiosondes, these are considered disposable on the battlefield, but the ones which make it back can be modified for certain uses. Attached to a guidance chip..."
"Okay." Michael asked, "How much of this do you already have? And why do you need me?"
Michael did not like those people. He didn't think it was a prejudice, because he didn't care what their ethnic or national identity was. What bothered him was the way they acted. It was as if he were three years old, and trying to convince some adults who spoke another language to fix a car. Their heavily accented English sounded almost like scolding. He didn't recognize the language in which they chattered to each other, so it was probably Persian or the like. Arabic he recognized by the unique sound, as well as Hebrew and Egyptian, but this was something else. Finally, they brought out the package and took the money Terrell had given him.
He assumed Terrell didn't want to be seen in this part of town. With his hair and beard regrown, Michael was an unknown. They dismissed him summarily, and he wanted to say, feelings mutual, but didn't want to set them off. As quickly as he could without looking like a man in fearful flight, he left the littered street in the smelly neighborhood, and headed back to the dunes. Terrell had also given him just enough cash to fill his tank on the way back.
There was a snack bar on the far side of the park, and he met Terrell there. Kosher dogs were something Michael had missed, and rather enjoyed his lunch. They ate in silence, watching the other model aircraft. "Finished?" Terrell asked.
"Sure." Before he could say anything else, Terrell was half way to his car in the parking lot. Michael followed him, but kept going a few spaces away where his truck sat. He had opened the back door, and was climbing in when he found Terrell on his heels. Michael sat on the bed, while Terrell took the desk seat. He had donned rubber gloves. Michael handed down the package from an overhead compartment. Terrell produced yet another gadget from his pocket. Michael realized it looked rather like an electronic bug sweeper, but with a much shorter antenna.
After passing it around all sides of the package, Terrell said, "Tsk, tsk. Naughty boys." He opened the package, checked each of the small boxes inside, and opened one. He passed the device over the little empty box, hesitating at one spot. Then he set it down, took out a knife and sliced the cardboard. After he peeled the layers apart, a flat, plastic chip fell out. It was no thicker than a guitar pick, but had electronic tracings clearly visible on both faces. Terrell grinned, then left the camper.
Michael followed wordlessly, watching.
Terrell produced a rather smaller glider from the back seat of his car. It was little more than a stick and some flat pieces for the flight surfaces. There was no paint, but on the nose was a lump of clay. Terrell pressed the electronic chip deep into the clay. Then he stood for a while, watching the flying models. The sun had come out strong about mid-morning, and it was a bit warmer. Grinning, Terrell began walking rather quickly out into the dunes, with Michael struggling to keep up.
After about a quarter-mile, Terrell stopped on the crest of one dune, looking out across a rather wide flat spot, where there was a good bit of dark flat rock poking out of the sand. He measured it with his eyes. Turning to Michael, he said, "Updraft. It's just about the right size."
The breeze had slacked off on the surface, but a few of the other models seemed to hit a drift if they went very high. Terrell walked just a few yards past the bottom of the dune, scanned the wide, rocky bowl, then drew back and launched the small glider with terrific force. It climbed straight up, then banked and did a few dips, coming to rest a few yards from Terrell. He ran to pick it up. As he walked back, he was pinching the blob of clay on the nose, and appeared to remove a little, applying it to one wing tip. Then he launched again. This time, the craft climbed in a rather flat circle pattern, just inside the ring of dunes around the rocky outcroppings. It continued to circle, and climbed slowly. Terrell rejoined Michael, still atop the dune. As they watched, it eventually caught the breeze aloft, and drifted with each circle, still climbing. After some twenty minutes, it was too high to see.
Terrell was still staring after it. "That chip was similar to the ones our government would like for all of us to wear under our skins. They sit quietly until hit by a transmission with the proper frequency. If that transmitter has a reader, too, at the right distance, it will get a response from the chip. Usually it's a string of code, representing some sort of identification. That ID is matched to an existing database. However, this chip was more complicated. By waving the detector close to it, I got a very weak response, so no one else could pick it up. It would send a response signal matching the strength of the query. It would also send more kinds of information, not just an ID string. Somebody will be disappointed when they find their chip somewhere far out in the desert, stuck on a glider you can buy all over the world. And without any fingerprints," he held up a gloved hand. "I was expecting this."
The aircraft would be delivered to an address in Stockton. The pickup date would allow Michael to get them on the way back from meeting Burk at the orchard. Michael was glad to have the camper, because he didn't feature spending money on a motel if Burk wasn't there. He wasn't. Michael decided to stay the night in the orchard.
The orchard was not deserted. There were a few pup tents clustered around a campfire. It was colder up this way, but someone used to it might do fine. Michael took a chance after his cold breakfast and approached the cluster of widely varying fabric accommodations. An older man sitting by the fire looked up, and smiled, "Nice rig."
"Thanks. I had it built to order in Mexico," Michael explained. "I'm looking for someone." He went on to describe Burk, and the man grinned.
"Yeah, know `im. Said to tell you he was staying with Mama for awhile." He looked up with a sort of question on his face.
"Ahhhh." Michael smiled, and stared into the fire a moment. Then, breathing in deeply, "Okay, thanks. I better move on, because I really need to talk to him."
"Got any spare coffee?" the old man asked, hopefully.
"Just a jar of instant."
"Better'n nuttin'."
Michael left the man a half empty jar of instant coffee and made his way toward the crossing where the cafe and tire shop stood, up in the national forest. No sooner had he left the valley floor, he was seeing snow. Patches at first, then large banks, and finally a good pack on side roads as he climbed to higher elevations. He was still wondering what he'd say an hour later as he saw the place appear around a curve. Pulling into the cafe, he got out and hurried inside. At this higher elevation it was quite cold. There was a strong smell of wood-burning fireplaces on the wind.
As he stepped into the cafe, he was greeted by Mama. She apparently didn't recognize him. "What could I get you, honey?"
He smiled, "A cup of your fantastic coffee and your son."
Her cheery expression became rather serious. "My only son was killed in Iraq. However, I won't have trouble with the coffee."
"Wait," he said. "I didn't mean that like it sounded. The last time I was here my friend was with me. I don't know what name he uses here, but he told me to call him Burk. He's a full head taller than I, much younger, speaks with a soft, raspy voice..."
She was laughing. "Oh, that son!" she interrupted him. Then cocking her head to one side, "I like the beard. Come on; he's in the back." She turned and stepped through the swinging half-door into the kitchen. There were two Hispanic women bustling around, and the place smelled delicious. Stepping through another doorway into a long stock room, she called out. "Take a break, Son! You have company."
She turned back into the kitchen, leaving Michael standing. He looked right, then left and spotted Burk, swinging a mop between the racks. He picked it up and set it into a wheeled mop bucket before he looked up. Taking a step forward, his eyes rose to meet Michael's and he looked surprised. "Michael!" The big kid nearly ran and grabbed Michael in a bear hug.
His grip was gentle, and Michael simply soaked up the moment of fellowship with the one who had become his best friend in the world. Mama returned with a tray, not just holding coffee, but a thermal pot, and plates of food. "Lunch time, boys," she announced, and led them out onto an insulated walkway between the cafe and a cabin out behind. The walkway was wide enough to accommodate a picnic table, and they were seated facing each other. Michael guessed it had once been open sided, perhaps with a roof. At some point later it was walled in with big windows, and a door added halfway up one side.
During the meal, Burk described his journey. Aside from cold, it was pretty routine. He left the area immediately as promised, and asked the woman in the barn for directions to the best way out heading north. She sent him to a camp ten miles away. It was empty, but the path leading away to the north was obvious. It climbed a ridge, then down into a valley with railroad tracks. Stopping in some bushes half-way down, he waited. The wait was longer than he liked, and Burk kept looking around, listening for every sound.
The blind side of the curve had trees, and he hustled over to them as soon as he felt the familiar vibration. At first it seemed to be coming too fast, and he feared he'd have to walk a bit more. However, the train began to slow, and was quite a bit longer than he would have expected with two engines. Then he reminded himself the Midwest was much flatter, so it required fewer engines than the mountainous West Coast. This, as he spotted his one best chance. Plunging out of the trees, he charged alongside the low-walled freight car. Tossing his pack over the side, he just managed to catch the step ladder, almost falling. The car was empty, and he didn't have much time, so laid against the forward wall with his head in the corner. He had long ago picked up a small, plastic hand mirror for the very purpose of peering around the corners of moving trains.
Seeing the signs of entering a town, he simply stayed down and waited. Eventually the train lurched subtly, picking up speed again. He ended up spending the whole day in that one spot, and was getting pretty cramped and cold by nightfall. It was tempting to get off and warm up somewhere, but he decided to take a chance and climb the box car behind him. Having seen nothing likely in the cars that passed while waiting to jump on, his only hope was farther back. Moving carefully, he passed back to a flat car with a road grader. That was no better, because it had an open cab. Passing more road construction equipment, he stopped. It dawned on him most of it was painted a buff sand color. It was military equipment. Looking quickly to see if any of it had bumper numbers indicating it belonged to a military unit already, he couldn't find any. Still, it made him extra nervous to think there could be military guards on the load.
Scrambling back to his first place in the low-sided open car, he tried to keep an eye out for the next highway crossing. It wouldn't be good to have this thing unloading, or even idling, inside a military installation. To his delight, he noticed they were slowing as the tracks crossed over what appeared to be an Interstate highway. Risking being seen, he leaned out, clinging to the ladder. First tossing his pack, he then jumped onto the grassy slope rolling down to the highway. He managed to stop about half-way down. Clambering back up to get his pack, he then crawled under the bridge. To his amusement, there were a couple of hobos there already. He shared his food stash, and passed the night warmly in a well-used pocket filled with harvested dry grass.
Dawn showed him just a mile from a truck stop. His associates were headed south, but assured him he could probably catch a truck needing a lumper up at the plaza. About half-way there, he stopped and extracted one of the bills from his stash, then finished the hike. He was reminded how it's always coldest just before dawn. From the dumpster out back, he fished out a cardboard box. Using his multi-tool, he cut out one large square side. With a piece of chalk he always carried, he made a sign: LUMPER, WESTBOUND. He folded it in half and went inside for a hot breakfast. Eating and paying for a meal would help convince the truckers he was no riff-raff looking for trouble.
As it turned out, he had just gotten a good start on pancakes, eggs and sausage, when a trucker walked over to his booth. "Lemme see that sign, boy." It was the faux tough talk truckers liked to use, softened by a smile. "Westbound, eh? Where you goin' out there?"
"Gonna go see my mama. She's in Californy," Burk mimicked the trucker's speech pattern somewhat. It was a reflex to cue off another's accent to reduce tension.
"Well, I got a split load of truck tires for Denver and Salt Lake." Burk's heart was warmed, and he remembered to thank God silently. "Think you can get 'em off pretty quick?"
"You won't even get a good nap before I'm done," Burk grinned with self confidence.
"I don't doubt it, big as you are. I can just about afford to feed you and haul you, but I don't have much cash. Hope you weren't looking to get rich. I'm just gettin' too old to toss them big tires anymore."
Burk had hardly slowed, eating the big bites typical of him. "All I really need is a ride. I'm glad to help you in the bargain." He reached out his hand.
The driver shook it, then told him which truck was his. He went back over to stand by a table with similar-looking men. Burk finished his meal, drained the coffee cup, and made a quick trip to the bathroom. By the time he reached the truck, the driver was already inside, revving the engine. Burk climbed in the passenger side expertly and they were off. As it turned out, the man was dispatched from Salt Lake City to Reno for his next load. The driving and off-loading had taken three days, in part because of bad weather, and delays in getting the receivers to take the loads so close to Christmas. They had chatted about all sorts of things, and the man thanked Burk warmly when they parted company in Reno.
From there, it was two day's hiking, including a short cut through the woods, and one long ride with a ranger who knew him, and Burk was "home" at the cafe. He sent word via the hobo grapevine to direct anyone asking for him to Mama's.
The plates had been pushed aside empty, and they were working on the coffee urn. The walkway wasn't heated, but plenty warm for their fellowship.
"I'm really glad now you made me keep that pistol," Burk said.
"Really? Why?"
"When I got here, it was pretty late. Mama was just closing up. She let me in the back door here" -- he pointed to the door in the side of the walkway -- "and I was sitting right at this table. When the ranger dropped me off, he had pulled around the side road and into the drive. With the trees and all, anyone not standing in the back wouldn't know he had let me out. I had seen a pickup at the tire shop, but didn't think anything of it. Turns out, they was waiting for Mama's help to leave. The ladies went out the front door, then she locked it as always, and turned off the lighted sign and the front lights. She counts her till from the light of the kitchen."
From a slumped-back position against the wall, Burk sat up straight. He continued, "They pulled up sideways, real close to the door. One jumped out and slammed a big truck tire spoon into the gap between the door and frame, and then another jumped out behind him with a short sledge hammer. He started beating the bar down, and it broke the lock right off. They rushed in with their tools as weapons, and Mama screamed. So I came running to the front, pulling the gun out of my pocket as I went. I crashed through the little swinging door, and they jumped back. I pointed the gun at the nearest one, and both ran right out the door." He demonstrated with both hands, and was actually holding the pistol.
"Good man!" Michael applauded briefly.
Burk put the pistol back in his pocket. "Michael, I'm not leaving Mama alone any more. I don't have any problem with what we did, but I'm staying here. Mama's husband ran off six years ago, and she's too old to get another one from around these parts. She has no plans to leave, either. She's always kept a standing offer to feed and house me in exchange for doing the heavy lifting." He paused, looking out a window. "The world is getting pretty mean these days."
Michael set his cup down, and poured a fresh half-cup. "Aside from the progression of the police state, I suspect some of it comes from our adventure. Did you know we killed the entire SWAT Team?" Burk shook his head, his face saddened. "No? I know we had no expectation of being that successful -- we weren't even sure any of the booby traps would work. But that's not the thing which matters most. That professor was a family member of the Shadow Government."
Burk raised one eyebrow, and turned back from staring out the window. "So they will be looking very actively for us because of him," a statement, not a question.
Michael took another sip, then poured some coffee in Burk's empty cup. "I don't blame you for staying here to help Mama. This may be the best place you could live for the foreseeable future. Nor do I blame you for begging off future missions. I'm having doubts myself about the whole thing. I'm seeing where quite a few folks are copying our work to some degree, but without the precision. More gunfights with police, attacks on cruisers and police facilities, and a few political assassination plots caught just in time. I feel certain it's something we started."
"It's going to get uglier," Burk murmured. Then looking up suddenly, "I'm betting places like this will go unnoticed until the very last. If the dam breaks because we pricked a hole in it, then it was bound to happen sooner or later. Of course, now I wish I hadn't gone with you. I don't like having that much blood on my hands. I'm not a warrior; I can't pretend I'm Ehud. This place is where God wants me."
Michael stood up. "Well, I need get back down to Stockton before too late." He hesitated. "There might be another incident, soon. I'm planning to help another man with something more ambitious. Not more people getting killed, but a big black eye on the Shadow Government. I'm not sure yet what, but whether this works out or not, there won't be any more for me. I'm pretty sure I know where I belong, too."
Burk showed a vivid interest. "Where?"
"Ciudad Juarez, at a Baptist mission."
Burk laughed large, throwing his head back. "I like it! I like it!"
They embraced one last time, then Michael opened the door of the walkway. He turned, "Give my regards to Mama."
Michael paid in cash at the hobby warehouse; it was Terrell's cash, of course. The boxes filled his camper, and there was one in the seat beside him. They were turning the lights off before the roll-up door had closed. As he hit Interstate 5, he had no doubt Terrell had already secured the temporary storage unit. Terrell was meticulous, and seemed to be ready for everything, including another tank of gas. Michael decided to wait until he was back in town to refuel.
Arriving at a large storage rental facility, he wondered if he could get in this late. The storage unit was indeed ready, and the night man didn't seem the least bit perturbed to let him in. That's when he realized there were a half-dozen cars and trucks moving household goods into two units, right next to his. He went around to approach from the other end. There was a bit of tension as he had to wait a before one car was moved out of his way. The driver didn't seem happy about it. Michael decided it wasn't his problem, and drove into the unit. After a moment thinking, he simply closed the door behind him and locked it. There was ample room to stack the boxes on one wall. By the time he was finished, it was 2 AM, and the neighbors were still moving stuff around with occasional cursing. Fine. He climbed into the camper and went to bed, fully dressed.
He was awakened by the sound of the door sliding up. Prepared for a chewing out by the attendant, he was surprised to see Terrell. He glanced at his watch -- 8 AM. "Shouldn't you be at work right now?" he asked.
"I was on standby at the office last night for a couple of pending stories, which I was told had to be ready for this morning. The events concerned didn't take place, and I'm officially having breakfast." The man never looked tired. Terrell began opening a box. He pulled out a rather simple, yet graceful pair of wings. He held them a few inches apart, indicating the wing-span was well beyond the reach of his arms. The way he held them indicated they weighed almost nothing. He put them down and pulled out a fuselage, in two halves. He held the halves together, and smiled at the apparent capacity. "I'll test the load capacity Saturday."
Michael had been watching, slumped against the back wall of his camper. "I don't suppose you brought that breakfast with you, by the way?"
"Sorry." Terrell dismissed the question, then turned. "You broke yet?"
"Getting close. You've made me afraid to touch an ATM."
"With good reason." He placed the parts back into the open box, without bothering to repack neatly or close the box. "Two guys showed up that night and flashed badges. Since people working for 'The Families' can be just about anything they have to be, I didn't bother checking what sort of badges." He crossed his left arm over his stomach, gripped the left elbow, and held his chin loosely in the right hand. "They were thorough. After thanking me for the folder of your notes, they disappeared into your office. An hour later, they came back out and demanded more. I invited them to search the entire building, if they wished, and held up that fat ring of keys I have to keep. Must have been convincing; they went away." His right hand swung out, palm up to emphasize the point.
"Obviously that was not all," Michael said.
"Obviously. They had taken your laptop and the hard drive from the desktop system. The next morning, they woke me up at home. In essence, they told me I couldn't discuss this with anyone. Then they mentioned some items from my Marine service to emphasize they knew I knew what could happen. Then they told me to notify them the instant I hear of, or from, you again."
"And you rigged a recording to call me as soon as my phone registered in the cell network," Michael stated, almost a question.
"More or less. Don't ask how. Best I can tell, they are still watching me at least part of the time, relying on mostly passive methods -- phones, Internet, probably some spotters here and there. They own the system, so they don't need to resort to melodramatic tailing methods."
"Ah, that chip you found," Michael pushed away from his truck. With his arms crossed in front of him, he walked over to stand near the stack of boxes.
Terrell dropped his hands to his sides, putting them in his pants pockets, and turned slowly to keep his face towards Michael. "I got a chance to field test that hand scanner on your car. It told me there were two chips. I extrapolated from there your apartment was similarly bugged, and of course your accounts are tagged -- they're bankers." Reaching into a jacket pocket, he produced a blue colored plastic card. "Wal-Mart gift card. I got it before all this started, and kept it for emergencies. This qualifies. It should keep you well enough until I'm ready for the next step."
Michael, still facing the wall, reached out and took the card. He studied it a moment, looking up in time to see Terrell's back, hastily walking to his car outside.
Without any better plan, Michael left his truck in the storage facility. He sometimes slipped in and out when traffic was heavy, or asked to ride out the gate with folks leaving. If the attendants knew he was sleeping inside, they said nothing about it. Wal-Mart was just a mile away, so it wasn't too bad. The card was plenty to live on, and he took advantage of the time and strong signal for his laptop. On the Flagstand site, he and Terrell stayed in touch the four days until Saturday.
For the time being, Terrell was discussing targeting an NSA listening post, and favored the one in Yakima, Washington. He had gone to desert training there with a Marine artillery unit early in his career, and knew the terrain quite well. There were several places to enter the perimeter of the Yakima Training Area with a vehicle, and at least two good places left a short drive to an excellent launch area on the ridge just north of the NSA site.
Terrell had reasoned there were three classes of target desirable for the purpose. That purpose was to extend what Michael and Burk had done, but with a direct attack on the government, not just one of its nefarious activities. So hitting the NSA listening post, while not a crippling blow, was rather low risk, and would serve the purpose. Killing one or more critical figures in the government, people responsible for the unprecedented level of tyranny, was more risky, and also wouldn't stop the process. However, it would bring a new level of fear to the tyrannous elite. Both of these kinds of attack would spawn more of the copycat stuff in evidence from the adventure with the SWAT Team.
However, the ideal attack would be the riskiest of all: Killing more of the Shadow Government and family. Terrell had made it clear just whom he knew them to be. Within the Zionist Movement were a select few steering the whole thing. Most who supported Zionism had no idea what was really going on, but served vigorously to keep the US serving their cause. In one exchange, Michael had a lot of questions about this, so they used an encrypted chat board.
M: I understand Zionism was born in England. Is it not an English-Jewish concept?
T: No. It was the Rothschilds -- i.e., the Bauers of Frankfurt. The head of the family took the German term for "red shield" (rothschild) as his trademark. It became the nickname for his family. They took over the entire UK economy on the heels of the Battle of Waterloo. In England, the trademark name gained its current English pronunciation. From there, the Zionist cause was launched.
M: Okay, so it was the elite Jewish bankers again. Does this have any connection to Christian Dispensationalist ideas? I never really bought into that, BTW.
T: Actually, Dispensationalism started somewhere else entirely, with equally bogus roots, but was hijacked by the Rothschilds. An agent named Untermeyer basically bought some crooked scoundrel, named Scofield, and got him to put that theology in his Bible notes. It was published by Oxford Press, owned by the Rothschilds in England. Then the Scofield Bible was promoted like no other book before it. They succeeded in getting several southern denominations to buy into it. They probably saw it as an excellent tool to keep the dominant religious organizations on their side. Thus, today's "Christian Right" is a cheering squad for modern Israel.
M: What about the neo-cons? Are they connected to the Christian Right?
T: Most of the neo-cons are that or Jewish, by religious affiliation, but I can't see any real religious practice in the central figures. The big shots are simply hard core Zionists. Keep in mind, just as in Modern Israel, the vast majority of the partisans are dupes, and don't really see the big picture.
M: So Israel is just using us, and don't really care about the US.
T: They are most certainly NOT our friends. BTW, it was their agents who first pushed through the forfeiture laws in the so-called Drug War. They wasted no time in getting their first bag, a guy named Scott here in CA. They wanted to confiscate his immense property, so trumped up some false charges about marijuana, got a bogus warrant, and conducted an armed raid. They provoked him to show himself armed, then blew him away. No one was prosecuted because the Shadow crew made sure to hush it up. They have continued using that MO since then.
M: Are there any Jews publicly showing they don't support all this stuff?
A: Of course, and they have an organized presence on the Web -- Neturei, Jews Not Zionists, and others. Zionism does not really represent Judaism. Most Zionists are not observant Jews, and scorn the Orthodox observances of Moses. Even if you accept the idea the Jews must return to the Promised Land and rebuild the Temple, the current Nation of Israel is secularized, almost pagan. They aren't even close to meeting Scriptural obligations.
M: So what's the big picture? Do you know?
T: Sorta. Keep Israel safe, destroy every possible enemy, bring home all the Jews there, while destroying the economy of every other nation. Once they are all under pretty much one government, the Zionists will probably assume a more obvious rulership, instead of the background stuff they do now. I believe they'll try to crush all religions, too.
M: I guess the Latino migration driving wages down, the wasted resources on pointless foreign wars and taxation, the wholesale draft and mutilation or death of an entire generation, the harsh crack-down on liberties... it all aims to bring us down so we can't resist.
T: That's about it. Oh, and don't forget all the military bases converted to concentration camps plus hundreds of new ones being built by KBR. We can't stop it by ourselves. We might be able to provoke something. There's nothing to say the Zionists have to succeed, but they probably will up to a point. It's like you said: We just want to raise the price.
Michael was beginning to have doubts.
The test went well. The cheap gliders could carry the five kilograms just fine, even without steering ailerons on the wings. Also, with the weather balloon modules modified to report position directly to a flight computer, the craft could be programmed to climb to a specific altitude, then dive into any chosen location. Terrell explained, "Most every modern structure of any significance, including the NSA listening posts, can be pinned down precisely by coordinates, thanks to Google Earth."
The idea of destroying a bunch of equipment wasn't too bad. Michael was just a bit worried about getting explosives powerful enough to be useful without raising attention. Could even a former Marine pull that off? It was one thing getting pre-made weapons from an arms dealer, but Terrell was talking something more powerful, which could be fitted to the curves of the aircraft bodies.
Terrell asked Michael to spend one more week hiding in the storage center while he arranged for the explosives. Then he said something which made Michael very nervous.
"Once I take delivery, you can be sure we'll have to move very fast. There's no way to get this stuff without drawing attention. The supply chain is too compromised with double agents. The trick is pick it up immediately, and act instantly, before any response can be mobilized. You won't be with me for the final event. I'm pretty sure I can get out of most jams, but I can't take responsibility for you. Just be ready for anything, and don't ask too many questions." Then he said something which showed a side Michael had never seen before. "Please, trust me."
They stayed up very late prepping the aircraft for quick final assembly. All the electronics were installed, batteries tested and installed, and some fitting of parts. Then it was all packed back into the boxes. Terrell then had Michael lay down in the floor of the back seat of his car so he could take Michael to his house. It was a much better ride than some of his rail adventures, but still not the best. Terrell pulled inside the garage, turned and whispered to stay put just a little longer.
Coming back, he announced he found no bugs, and let Michael out. The ostensible purpose was to take a regular bath instead of the wash pan bathing Michael had been doing in the storage unit. Terrell showed Michael what sort of home a knowledgeable paranoid kept. The entire place had a fine mesh Faraday Cage built into the wallpaper, and linked to a similar mesh in the shutters, doors, etc. Closed up tight against a good storm, the house was also protected from EMP weapons and some forms of snooping. Terrell mentioned it had been so closed since September. He showed Michael his only computer, a laptop running OpenBSD -- famous for being un-crackable. He invited Michael to explore the system a bit while offline. The file structure was similar to his own Linux laptop, so he knew his way around. Michael wondered if Terrell's urging to look it over fully was some kind of effort to show there was nothing to hide. Indeed, the whole house was rather sparse, clearly without a woman's touch for many years.
In the wee hours of Sunday morning, the visit was terminated, and Michael was brought back by the same method as he left. So began another week in the storage facility. The boredom was broken only by extended time on the Net. There were tons of real flaky conspiracy bozos. Most of them had a few real facts, but they mixed it with all manner of paranoid junk. With the high variation in literacy, it was all the more difficult to sift out the garbage from the facts. One thing seemed rather clear from the mass of jibberings: There was a high likelihood the government would either manufacture another false flag incident like 9-11 -- only worse -- or would provoke military action from someone like North Korea.
Since it was known the troops would most likely side with the population against the government elite, they had to be kept out of the US, and possibly whittled down by casualties in a senseless quagmire. Once the bulk of troops were absorbed in tasks or disabilities, there would be only police forces. Joining an already huge collection of armed federal officers -- even the EPA had them -- the state and local agencies would be forcibly federalized. The CLEET certification process was loaded with subtle mind-conditioning, and by now most state and local policemen were ineluctably ready to crush any and all citizen resistance to even the most oppressive government demands. Those officers not quite fully adapted to the task were tagged as such. The plans called for compromising them by various leverages, to include threats to family and property, bogus charges filed away for possible future use, and limitations in duty assignment to prevent them getting in the way when the big even went down.
When that day came, the police would round up all those who dared resist, lock them away in camps staffed by the few trusted units of the military, resulting in a nightmare world Stalin would have admired. Seeing this soothed his conscience for one last try at resistance.
Michael was jolted awake Thursday morning by an urgent knocking on the side of his camper. Peeking out, he saw it was just about dawn through the open garage door. Terrell was feverishly loading the boxes into the back of a rental truck. He was wearing a brownish version of military woodland camouflage pants, and a plain brown hunting jacket. The back of the truck was a low-slung moving van box, about 12 feet long. Michael hurried to get dressed and join the fun. Terrell shooed him away. "Get your truck ready to roll. It's going to be towed behind the moving rig."
Sure enough, there was a dolly hitched to the back of the mover. By the time he was ready to start the little pickup, Terrell had already pulled forward a bit and was impatiently waiting to guide him up on the dolly. First, he demanded Michael don a pair of snug fitting jersey gloves, with a warning not to remove them for any reason until he was driving his pickup again. It took only a couple of minutes to lock down the front of the pickup and hustle to the cab of the moving van. Terrell directed Michael to drive. From the passenger seat, he pointed out a map. As soon as they stopped for the first traffic light outside the storage facility, Terrell unbuckled his seat belt and crawled through the opening between the cab and the van box. Michael kept driving, trying to glance back when he could to see what was going on.
"Take it nice and easy for awhile!" Terrell ordered. The glances Michael managed showed Terrell opening a wooden case, lined with lots of padding. Inside were clear plastic bags filled with what appeared red-orange putty. Orange? He dared not ask out loud if this was Semtex, but decided it was. No wonder Terrell made it sound so risky!
They managed to escape most of the morning drive-time traffic as they headed out toward Barstow. The map showed them taking I-15 to Las Vegas, with a spot circled somewhere on the north side of the Mojave. Once they settled into the steady rural highway traffic, Michael was able to get a better look into the back of the van. There were two large wooden cases of the orange putty. As Terrell carefully packed some into each model, connected some wires, and closed the fuselages, he stacked them back in the boxes. All that was left was to mount the wings and launch them. He also saw a large military style backpack and frame in one corner.
As Terrell was finishing one model, Michael asked, "Why Vegas? I thought the target was in Washington."
Terrell's natural voice was a booming baritone. While he could easily tone it down without transition all the way to a whisper, this was not the moment for that. Speaking easily, yet blasting clearly and sharply over the road noise, "Change of plans. The Bilderbergers will be in Vegas."
Michael's soft tenor required yelling almost. "I thought they were meeting up north this summer."
"This is a preliminary, something never published. In fact, it's so hush-hush, they pay a deposit and reserve a chunk of several major hotels around the world for the same time frame. Then, at the last minute they show up at one or the other. They can afford to take the loss, easily." He named one of the tall, towering hotels in Vegas as the place they actually showed up last night, mostly members of the Ghost Families.
Evil people, indeed. Still, Michael was feeling that sense of conviction this was not right. He wondered if there was any way he could back out, but decided it was too late, unless God intervened directly. That might mean the plan failing altogether, so Michael prayed silently to know how to pray.
Terrell eventually finished, lining the boxes neatly across the tail of the truck. He shoved the wooden crates to the front, making sure the plastic bags were all stuffed back in them. The bags still had some orange residue in them. Clambering back through and into the passenger seat, Michael wondered how such a tall man, not exactly skinny, could move so gracefully in these tight quarters. Terrell pulled a handful of granola bars from somewhere, and two bottles of water. Michael realized he was starving. They ate in silence for a few minutes, then Terrell pointed to an exit, saying, "Take that."
They headed north on a paved road, but soon left it for a winding gravel affair. After a few branches, it was one step above bare rocky desert ground, yet still rather smooth. Finally, they turned up into a draw, in which was nestled a very interesting house. It was three stories, of native stone, built right into the back corner the draw. With crenelated balustrades, it could easily become a castle. Terrell had Michael stop the truck outside a gate an eighth of a mile back from the house. As he jumped out, he told Michael to use the open space in front of him to turn the truck and towed pickup around.
Through the turn-around, Michael watched as Terrell stepped up to the gate and put his hand on something on the other side. Then he climbed over the thing, which was sturdier than it appeared. In a steady jog, he approached the house on one side where there was a pair of garage doors. At this distance, Michael couldn't see much, but he thought a human head poked out of one window near the garage doors. The exchange was brief. Terrell walked over to one of the doors, raised it and stepped inside. A minute later, the nose of a large pickup emerged, followed by a double horse trailer. As the truck rolled up to the gate, it opened automatically. At about the same time, the garage door was closing itself. Motioning to Michael to follow, he lead the way back out. They stopped just before a climb over a ridge.
He waved with his hand for Michael to pull up even on the passenger side. Before Michael could get out, Terrell had the back door slid up, and began moving the boxes to the horse trailer. This was one of those fancy trailers completely closed in, but with panels that could be folded down in warmer weather. Michael began helping move the boxes. The crates stayed in the van. When finished, he looked up at Terrell with an obvious question on his face.
"Vegas is just a ruse. It'll scare 'em to death. Listen carefully." He pulled a fat envelope from a pocket inside his jacket, and handed it to Michael. As he spoke, he retained his grip on it. "Follow me out to the paved road. I'll turn right, you turn left and get back to the Interstate. Drive into Vegas. Just this side of the Strip, you'll see an old, run-down gas station. There'll be a bunch of snowbird rigs out back in a huge parking area this time of year. Pull out to the far side, lock up the van, uncouple your pickup and drive away. I don't care where you go, just go. I recommend you never visit California again. In fact, leave the US." He let go of the envelope. Grabbing the backpack from the van, he slammed the rolltop door down. "Thanks for your help." Tossing the pack into the cab of the truck, he climbed in and began driving away.
Michael hustled to get in the cab of the van and keep up. He was pretty sure he'd get lost in the twisting roads out here. As they parted on the paved route, Michael stared after the accelerating rig with a blank look on his face. Just like that, he's going off to do it alone, keeping Michael out of it. Apparently there was some small risk in driving the van to Vegas, but he decided he could just about handle that.
Finding things as Terrell had described them, he unstrapped the little pickup and drove away. With no better idea what to do, he had left the keys in the ignition of the van. Then he remembered he was still wearing the dark brown jersey gloves, and took them off. Fingerprints, he said to himself. The aircraft and boxes apparently were going to be destroyed. The van would have only Terrell's fingerprints, and the empty explosives containers. With the tank still full after that errand for Terrell two weeks ago, he decided not to stop until he reached Kingman, heading south.
The envelope had two grand in twenties. In Kingman, he stopped at Wal-Mart. Among other things, he grabbed a couple of sandwiches from the deli, and miscellaneous groceries. Between there and the Home Depot, he replaced his carpentry kit. He also purchased a wide collection of items which made the work easier, but were hard to get in Mexico. There was also a collection of work clothes and decent shoes in sizes he guessed at for a certain slender young man, and for the young widow, a simple but lovely dress.
It would be dark before he reached the border at Nogales, so he decided to risk one more night in the US, staying at Patagonia Lake Park. He was irritated they had no regular camping spaces, but for a fee would let him park among the self-contained vehicles. In his gear was a tiny chem-stool, so he was fine with that. Most frustrating was his inability to fall asleep quickly. Finally, he pulled out his laptop, and to his surprise found a moderate wireless signal. It took about ten minutes to crack the WEP key, and he read a few sites. He decided to check the Flagstand site, and was surprised to find a message waiting.
Check your weapons.The only weapons Michael knew about were in the secret stash over his head. As soon as the panel was moved, a sheet of paper fell out. He recognized the typeface as coming from the old typewriters still used for some things at the publishing company.
You already knew the plastique would be followed. That every rental truck in the US now has locator chips only guaranteed it, so I made it a point to pick it up in the moving van. With the Ghost Clan already keeping tabs on me, I knew they'd guess I was aiming for their confab in Vegas. A little panic is good for them. Unless you were foolish enough to stop too soon, by the time you see this, the police will be swarming that van.
The horse-mover belongs to an old Marine buddy. He promised to claim it stolen, which would allow me to ditch it when the job is done. We'll see if I can still do winter wilderness survival. I have my Merchant Marine license, though with a different name on it, so I'll try to sign on for a voyage to some place in the Pacific.
You might even hear from me again.
He slept poorly, and woke at first light. Wasting no time, he crossed the border as early as they would allow, and didn't relax until he saw the highway signs for Numero Dos heading east.
The homecoming was spectacular. No, there was no cheering, no singing or dancing. There was a minor feast, hastily arranged, since he arrived late in the afternoon. His friend, Hermanito, was there, and was even more speechless than usual when Michael gave him the bags of gifts. He put on the shoes immediately, and it appeared they were a reasonable fit. Everyone helped him celebrate, and commented he had been working quite hard while Michael was gone.
He didn't wait for Juanita to finish in the kitchen. He called her to the doorway, then handed her the dress, neatly folded. She blushed, and looked at him with a depth in which he was completely lost. Then she turned and went back into the kitchen. Had he been wrong? No, for the next day she wore the new dress, and came to see him before starting her day in the mission's kitchen. His heart was gone, never to return. A proper courtship would take awhile, but he had time -- all the time in the world. She wore the dress proudly that day, and told quite a few people, he was sure. All day long he dealt with smug looks and broad hints about a future marriage. The mission pastor reminded him marrying a citizen made permanent residency much easier.
It was warm that night, and a breeze blew through the open window of his camper. The door was latched open, too. He reminded himself to see if Ernesto could add screens before it got too warm. Maybe an awning, too, strapped to one side. On the glowing laptop screen in front of him, he read numerous different sites. While none of the wire services carried it, he found reports on a couple of Green forums celebrating the fireworks outside Yakima, to the east. There were postings asking if any of the activist cells had done it. In spite of the high security, one had managed to climb a hill and use binoculars to see at least two dishes were completely gone, and smoke still rising from the main building.
There were several mainstream media write-ups on a bomb scare in Las Vegas. The word "terrorist" featured prominently, and some public figures made a lot of noise. The "bomb-making materials" got mention in a few places. Vegas took a major income hit from emergency evacuations, and he could just picture the panicky feds running all over town.
Meanwhile, there was a news item about a raid on a child pornographer's house. There was a photo of FBI agents carrying a desktop computer and boxes of video tapes out of a house. It was Terrell's house -- the house that was sparsely furnished, had no desktop computers, and no video equipment. There had been no videos or photos hidden on Terrell's laptop, which was probably with him, anyway. Michael wondered how many other kiddie porn arrests, and other attention-grabbing allegations, were based on planted evidence, when the real reason for the arrest was totally otherwise. It occurred to him some of them were pure vendetta, with no crime committed at all.
Nothing changed. Tyrants continued in tyranny until they died. He had decided their end was none of his concern. As long as God had a mission for him here on this hill west of Juarez, it was just as well all that stuff stayed north of the border.
[Part Three here.]
By Ed Hurst
30 May 2006
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