In the afternoon light the towering trees crowding the two lane county road through the Hiawatha forest formed a deepening channel of shadow. Autumn leaves drifted and tumbled, tossed by a strengthening west wind. Joined with the hymnal of rustling trees and the lonesome cry of a hawk, the road should have properly coaxed quieter and more eternal thoughts. The two men inside the shiny black suburban were instead thinking of war and revenge. The nature and beauty of the Hiawatha meant nothing to men possessed of such thoughts.
They’d come to help clean up an awful mess. They’d come to put out a fire before it grew into a conflagration. They came because they were told to come, and because the money they were paid made the moral and legal transgressions inherent in their mission easier to rationalize. They came because the company was their tribe now, much more than the nation or the Constitution. Money was their new religion, much more than the God to whom they once pledged their lives in defense of the nation and its lofty ideals.
The driver had been with FIRST THRUST since the NATO action in Albania, and was probably the most senior man in the company (Though not the oldest. Two men were Vietnam-era veterans.), behind the CEO, a Vietnam-era veteran who’d made a fortune training South and Central American militias. John Brower’s head was neatly shaved, shrewd and calculating eyes hidden behind dark round sunglasses, making him almost appear robotic and sinister. Brower was solid, and focused the three dead men, whom he viewed as sons as much as employees. Their deaths cut him deeply, and disappointed him as well. They had been murdered by civilian, he thought, which meant, as professional soldiers, they had become sloppy and unfocused.
Beside Brower was a young Irish kid from the hills of West Virginia named McCullough, his bright red hair trimmed severely. He had come to the attention of Brower during a firefight on a sun-baked Samara street. His Marine platoon ambushed in a narrow alley by insurgents, McCullough expertly turned the tables on the enemy and swept them from the alley without suffering a single casualty. Square-jawed and intense, the green-eyed kid could be cocky and headstrong, but with a temperance that allowed him to maintain supreme self-control where others lost theirs.
They’d driven most of the night, leaving Chicago almost immediately when word that Doug Springer had eluded his tail and disappeared. They were in Green bay when the call came of the deaths of their three comrades. The news only added urgency to the mission, and made it all the more personal. The clock was ticking on the mission, as events began to unfold in Iran. Forty-eight hours was all they had to conclude the mission. Doug Springer would have to be found and eliminated altogether, or their futures and fortunes would be lost. It wasn’t enough anymore to implicate and discredit him in the murder of the Iranian diplomat.
The Suburban crested a low hill and rounded a bend. There was another Suburban was just ahead, parked beside the road near a small brown-painted wooden sign that read: ECHO LAKE. The lake could be seen in glimpses through the trees.
The three remaining contractors stood anxious and wary beside the truck. Their expressions were stark, like men who had just suffered battle and the deaths of close friends, and who longed in their grief for vengeance. Brower fumed. He owned these men. At two hundred thousand tax-free Dollars a year-taxpayer money-they had sold themselves lock stock and barrel, and brower was damned if he wasn’t going to get his money’s worth.
Brower guided the truck off the road and behind the other Suburban. As he slid from the cab onto the soft ground the others came around towards him. In the military they would have snapped quickly to attention. Brower missed that aspect of military life, and wondered if that hadn’t contributed to the other’s death.
“Discipline!” he snapped, catching the men off guard. McCullough was behind Brower, happy to be out of the line of fire. “God damn if I don’t say it again and again. Let up on your training and discipline and this is what happens!”
“Sir,” said one of the men, “I don’t think they figured Springer would…”
“Bullshit!” he exploded. “This SOB eluded you, surveilled you and ambushed you. You got punk-ed by a Journalist, by a civilian because you were sloppy! You put the entire mission at risk”
“Sir…”
Brower cut him off. “This is what will happen. We will maintain strict discipline at all times. No cowboy shit, and no emotion. Clear?”
“Roger that,” the men said in unison.
“Okay,” he said calmly, with a cleansing breath. “So our guy is no dummy, but he’s alone and cornered, so he’ll need a lot of luck. Where that luck runs dry is where we’ll be waiting.”
They spread a large area map across the hood of the truck. Each man helped to hold it down against the wind. From within the first vehicle a police band radio chattered.
“Been monitoring police and fire all day.” One of the men pointed to the island on the map, running a finger across the channel to the Sand Point Ranger Station. “This is where the house blew. A few hours later a Ranger reported a jeep was stolen.” He tapped a place on the map a little further west, roughly half way between the island and Marquette. “The jeep turned up here about an hour ago.
“What’s there?” asked Brower. McCullough was beside him, intently taking it all in.
“Nothing,” the man replied. “Dense forest, a few squatters and survivalists. Couple of abandoned shacks, but nothing remotely habitable.”
“Somebody he’d likely go to?” asked Brower.
“Doubt it,” said a grizzled Gulf War vet. “Most of these folks pretty militant about being left alone. I think maybe he hot-footed it into the weeds.”
“McCullough shook his head. “With two young daughters, in this weather? No way.”
“How would you know, Junior?” The Gulf War Vet shot back, dismissing McCullough as if he was a young punk. McCullough chafed at the rebuff, but held his temper.
“Grew up in country like this, Pops,” he said coolly. “Takes preparation. Weather changes in a heartbeat. I don’t think he’d be that reckless.”
“Why is that?”
“He hasn’t so far,” said McCullough.
The grizzled Vet frowned and shook his head. Brower nodded. “I think McCullough is dead on. Leaves two options. He’s running, or he’s still close by.”
“So where is he?” asked another.
“Our boy made a call to a Federal Agent,” the man beside him said. “We monitored the number on his call. Real quick, then hung up.”
“Signal?” Asked Brower.
The guy shrugged. “The agent checked into a motel out on Highway Twenty-eight, not far from where the jeep was abandoned. Coincidence?”
“Okay,” Brower rubbed his brow. He needed a cup of coffee badly. “You guys get on that agent. If they haven’t made contact yet, they will. McCullough I will run down some other leads and check out the motel. We’ll hook up later tonight.”
“And if we find Springer and the agent together?” asked the Grizzled Vet.
Brower thought, looking through the trees to a moment of sunlight glittering upon the lake. He was thinking of the dead men, the company and the mission. “I want this concluded. Whatever you do make it clean and untraceable.”
The Grizzled Vet slapped McCullough on the back causing the kid to stumble, a cruel grin creasing his face. “Try and keep up, kid!”
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
The Big Blue Sky: Forty-one
“Lufthansa Six-oh-one just diverted to KWI,” the deputy NSA through the door, using the airline three letter designation for Kuwait International Airport. There was an urgency to his tone that thoroughly annoyed George Osborne.
Osborne drew the round spectacles from his face and rubbed his tired eyes. He had a deafening headache, driven in no small part by absolute exhaustion. He’d hardly slept or eaten a thing since the crisis began. He’d held up well at first, thanks to his military training but it was all piling up on him now. Prone to terrible migraines, it was all he could do not to curl himself into a corner and suffer its full fury and storm. He felt nauseous and dizzy and badly needed sleep. He could hear his wife admonishing him for being a pig-headed fool at not taking better care of himself. He took a deep, measured breath and looked up at the excitable young man, Osborne’s eyes noticeably blood shot.
“Stop the presses,” he replied flippantly.
He was still trying to sort out the magnitude of damage and danger the unexpected leak of some ninety thousand pages of documents relating to the Afghan War on some European website He’d never heard of before. The Press would focus on Pakistan’s assistance to the Taliban, a supposed betrayal of their would-be alliance with the United States. That was hardly a revelation, as a whole range of transgressions by the Pakistanis had been “accepted” rather than have the nuclear-armed country dissolve a fractious civil war. What concerned Osborne most was that previously unreported incidents of civilian deaths that would be exploited for propaganda throughout the Mideast and the rest of the world, threatening local alliances. Here at home, the item was a distraction from the Ian issue, the economy and the Gulf oil leak.
“Who in God’s name is Wikileak?” he asked, frustrated.
“A European anti-war site, sir,” the deputy replied, clearly distracted from the original purpose of his visit. “They did the Sarah Palin emails too.”
“What can we do to this guy, just for being a little piss?”
“Maybe the CIA could plant a bomb in his dog’s ass, and the next time the pooch takes a shit…ka-blew-ee!”
“How about I just fly over there and kick him in the nuts real hard? I like dogs. Its people that bother me.” Osborne groaned against the pounding waves of pain in his head. “What do you got?”
“Turkish Airlines, Austrian Air 872, Aeroflot out of Moscow, and Azal out of Baku, all turned around.”
“No mood for games,” grumbled. If you’ve got…”
The whole international bank into IKA, Tehran Airport. They’ve closed their airspace,” said the deputy. “Something’s happening. I called the State department. They’ve been working through the Turkish Consulate as an intermediary. They were meeting with the head of the Iranian national security Services when he received a message.”
“Do we know what that message was?” asked Osborne.
“NSA’s working on it, but nothing so far. In fact, everything in Tehran suddenly got very quiet. Spooky quiet.”
Osborne pushed himself away from the desk and stood. He felt unsteady on his feet, not unlike being a little drunk. The difference was that brutal pounding in the front of his brain, accompanied by a sickly-warm throbbing that drove his head down in a steady rhythm. All at once the room began to spin. Osborne groaned and caught himself at the edge of the desk. The deputy rushed forward to support him. George Osborne looked up at him, momentarily confused, more so as the room spun wildly around him.
“Sir, can I…” the deputy began. Osborne didn’t hear the end of that sentence. The world faded to black and he crumbled to the floor.
Osborne drew the round spectacles from his face and rubbed his tired eyes. He had a deafening headache, driven in no small part by absolute exhaustion. He’d hardly slept or eaten a thing since the crisis began. He’d held up well at first, thanks to his military training but it was all piling up on him now. Prone to terrible migraines, it was all he could do not to curl himself into a corner and suffer its full fury and storm. He felt nauseous and dizzy and badly needed sleep. He could hear his wife admonishing him for being a pig-headed fool at not taking better care of himself. He took a deep, measured breath and looked up at the excitable young man, Osborne’s eyes noticeably blood shot.
“Stop the presses,” he replied flippantly.
He was still trying to sort out the magnitude of damage and danger the unexpected leak of some ninety thousand pages of documents relating to the Afghan War on some European website He’d never heard of before. The Press would focus on Pakistan’s assistance to the Taliban, a supposed betrayal of their would-be alliance with the United States. That was hardly a revelation, as a whole range of transgressions by the Pakistanis had been “accepted” rather than have the nuclear-armed country dissolve a fractious civil war. What concerned Osborne most was that previously unreported incidents of civilian deaths that would be exploited for propaganda throughout the Mideast and the rest of the world, threatening local alliances. Here at home, the item was a distraction from the Ian issue, the economy and the Gulf oil leak.
“Who in God’s name is Wikileak?” he asked, frustrated.
“A European anti-war site, sir,” the deputy replied, clearly distracted from the original purpose of his visit. “They did the Sarah Palin emails too.”
“What can we do to this guy, just for being a little piss?”
“Maybe the CIA could plant a bomb in his dog’s ass, and the next time the pooch takes a shit…ka-blew-ee!”
“How about I just fly over there and kick him in the nuts real hard? I like dogs. Its people that bother me.” Osborne groaned against the pounding waves of pain in his head. “What do you got?”
“Turkish Airlines, Austrian Air 872, Aeroflot out of Moscow, and Azal out of Baku, all turned around.”
“No mood for games,” grumbled. If you’ve got…”
The whole international bank into IKA, Tehran Airport. They’ve closed their airspace,” said the deputy. “Something’s happening. I called the State department. They’ve been working through the Turkish Consulate as an intermediary. They were meeting with the head of the Iranian national security Services when he received a message.”
“Do we know what that message was?” asked Osborne.
“NSA’s working on it, but nothing so far. In fact, everything in Tehran suddenly got very quiet. Spooky quiet.”
Osborne pushed himself away from the desk and stood. He felt unsteady on his feet, not unlike being a little drunk. The difference was that brutal pounding in the front of his brain, accompanied by a sickly-warm throbbing that drove his head down in a steady rhythm. All at once the room began to spin. Osborne groaned and caught himself at the edge of the desk. The deputy rushed forward to support him. George Osborne looked up at him, momentarily confused, more so as the room spun wildly around him.
“Sir, can I…” the deputy began. Osborne didn’t hear the end of that sentence. The world faded to black and he crumbled to the floor.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
The Big Blue Sky: Forty
Good friends ran a quaint little roadside motel about a dozen miles or so down the road. The “SEA COAST INN stood beneath sheltering pine, which made the place feel comfortably serene and protected from the outside world. The unassuming sign stood out front, beside the highway, in front of a simple long gray building with white trim and shutters. Doug and Jane had spent a fair number of romantic escapes locked away in the comfortable rooms within that deceptively simple building. The owners, a kindly, deeply spiritual couple named Geoff and Carol, lived in a comfortable home out back. There was a garage beside the house. The woods deepened at the back of the property, the afternoon sunlight falling in patches through the thickening trees and brush.
Doug pulled around behind the motel, leaving the girls in the truck. Across the road waves thundered against the shore. Carol was just coming around the garage, relying on a cane for a bit of support. A small woman, with pewter hair, Carol wore an ankle length denim dress and orthopedic shoes. She caught Doug half way to the office, hooking her hand in his arm, as much for support as for their long and close friendship.
“Douglas,” she said sympathetically, “so terribly sorry to hear about Jane. Geoff and I were just devastated.”
He touched her hand and stroked it softly. “I know.”
“We were just sick that we couldn’t be at the funeral.”
“Thank you for the flowers. You remembered that red Geraniums were her favorite.”
Doug reached for the door and opened it for her. Carol paused and gave him a serious look, then nodded knowingly. She knew everything. Doug could see that she knew everything that had happened, and he returned the look. He understood the risks for involving her in any of this, but could see no other way.
The office was small and cluttered. A simple reception desk was situated between the stairs leading up to their home, and the door down to the basement. Beside the door was a plate of pastries, small cheeses and some fruit left over from their usual breakfast offerings for guests. Doug hadn’t eaten a thing since the night before and felt the twist of hunger in his gut. There were racks of postcards, area tourist maps, and locally made candles. Beside the desk was a coffee grinder. Geoff selected and sold his own exquisite coffee blend that Doug long to taste at that moment.
On the countertop the guest ledger was open. Doug saw that Molly’s was written next to one of the room numbers, and wondered if it was for his phone call. It gave him a rush of cautious hope. It was too much to expect that she would help him, but it was enough to hope. What else remained to him, and to the girls? At the end of all hope is desperation, and a desperate man is a dangerous man, but as much to himself as anyone. Doug was becoming desperate.
Carol’s husband came through the door at that moment. He was cradling an arm full of bed linens from one of the rooms. Geoff was tall and slender, with patchwork curly silver and white hair. His smile was hospitable, and his eyes endlessly considerate. Geoff slouched a bit, in a humbling sort of way, as if never wishing to put anyone ill at ease. He didn’t seem at all surprised to see Doug, which was likely more a product of a soul that tended to take life as it came. Geoff adjusted the bundle in his arms and gave Doug’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze.
“Just sick about your beautiful Jane.”
“Appreciate that, Geoff.”
“Want you to know, we don’t put much faith into what we hear on the news.”
Doug met each of their eyes, finding something deeper than friendship, which he believed was more a quality of these good folks than of his own corrupted heart. Doug had so much he needed to say to them, but then he didn’t have to speak a word. All that was confirmed when Carol laid her hand over his.
“Sorry to involve you guys with this,” he said.
“Where are the girls?” Geoff piled the linens into a basket.
“Out in the truck.” Doug took a deep breath and reach for the five hundred he’d parceled earlier for this, leaving him just enough to get by on. “I need a week.”
He held the bundle of fifties and twenties out, still folded. Geoff frowned sympathetically and waved him away.
“Put that away,” he said. “Don’t worry, the girls’ll be fine. Now you best get moving. ‘Couple of Federal agents in one-oh-four.”
Doug laid the cash on the ledger and patted it quietly. “In case the girls need something.”
He sighed started to leave, laying a hand on Geoff, as if using his strength and decency for much needed momentum. Carol stopped him, pulling a cell phone from her pocket. “You take this. The girls will need to hear from their dad.”
Doug took it, fighting back emotion. “Don’t know I can ever repay…”
“Get,” said Geoff, shooing him out the door. “Get going and take care of this mess.”
The couple followed him out to the truck. The girls climbed down, warmly embraced by their new hosts. Doug paused at the door of the old Ford for one last look.
“If the authorities ask,” he said to Geoff and Carol, “tell them everything you know.”
Geoff managed a smile and nodded, in this sort of Mark Twain-esque sarcasm. “Then it’s a good we don’t know anything!”
Doug pulled around behind the motel, leaving the girls in the truck. Across the road waves thundered against the shore. Carol was just coming around the garage, relying on a cane for a bit of support. A small woman, with pewter hair, Carol wore an ankle length denim dress and orthopedic shoes. She caught Doug half way to the office, hooking her hand in his arm, as much for support as for their long and close friendship.
“Douglas,” she said sympathetically, “so terribly sorry to hear about Jane. Geoff and I were just devastated.”
He touched her hand and stroked it softly. “I know.”
“We were just sick that we couldn’t be at the funeral.”
“Thank you for the flowers. You remembered that red Geraniums were her favorite.”
Doug reached for the door and opened it for her. Carol paused and gave him a serious look, then nodded knowingly. She knew everything. Doug could see that she knew everything that had happened, and he returned the look. He understood the risks for involving her in any of this, but could see no other way.
The office was small and cluttered. A simple reception desk was situated between the stairs leading up to their home, and the door down to the basement. Beside the door was a plate of pastries, small cheeses and some fruit left over from their usual breakfast offerings for guests. Doug hadn’t eaten a thing since the night before and felt the twist of hunger in his gut. There were racks of postcards, area tourist maps, and locally made candles. Beside the desk was a coffee grinder. Geoff selected and sold his own exquisite coffee blend that Doug long to taste at that moment.
On the countertop the guest ledger was open. Doug saw that Molly’s was written next to one of the room numbers, and wondered if it was for his phone call. It gave him a rush of cautious hope. It was too much to expect that she would help him, but it was enough to hope. What else remained to him, and to the girls? At the end of all hope is desperation, and a desperate man is a dangerous man, but as much to himself as anyone. Doug was becoming desperate.
Carol’s husband came through the door at that moment. He was cradling an arm full of bed linens from one of the rooms. Geoff was tall and slender, with patchwork curly silver and white hair. His smile was hospitable, and his eyes endlessly considerate. Geoff slouched a bit, in a humbling sort of way, as if never wishing to put anyone ill at ease. He didn’t seem at all surprised to see Doug, which was likely more a product of a soul that tended to take life as it came. Geoff adjusted the bundle in his arms and gave Doug’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze.
“Just sick about your beautiful Jane.”
“Appreciate that, Geoff.”
“Want you to know, we don’t put much faith into what we hear on the news.”
Doug met each of their eyes, finding something deeper than friendship, which he believed was more a quality of these good folks than of his own corrupted heart. Doug had so much he needed to say to them, but then he didn’t have to speak a word. All that was confirmed when Carol laid her hand over his.
“Sorry to involve you guys with this,” he said.
“Where are the girls?” Geoff piled the linens into a basket.
“Out in the truck.” Doug took a deep breath and reach for the five hundred he’d parceled earlier for this, leaving him just enough to get by on. “I need a week.”
He held the bundle of fifties and twenties out, still folded. Geoff frowned sympathetically and waved him away.
“Put that away,” he said. “Don’t worry, the girls’ll be fine. Now you best get moving. ‘Couple of Federal agents in one-oh-four.”
Doug laid the cash on the ledger and patted it quietly. “In case the girls need something.”
He sighed started to leave, laying a hand on Geoff, as if using his strength and decency for much needed momentum. Carol stopped him, pulling a cell phone from her pocket. “You take this. The girls will need to hear from their dad.”
Doug took it, fighting back emotion. “Don’t know I can ever repay…”
“Get,” said Geoff, shooing him out the door. “Get going and take care of this mess.”
The couple followed him out to the truck. The girls climbed down, warmly embraced by their new hosts. Doug paused at the door of the old Ford for one last look.
“If the authorities ask,” he said to Geoff and Carol, “tell them everything you know.”
Geoff managed a smile and nodded, in this sort of Mark Twain-esque sarcasm. “Then it’s a good we don’t know anything!”
The Big Blue Sky: Thirty-nine
Doug used the cover of the freighter to cross the harbor to the mainland. He “borrowed” a fiberglass canoe leaning at the back of the old wooden lighthouse. The girls crouched in the front of the boat until they came ashore along a driftwood strewn stretch of deserted beach. It was a short hike up from the beach through the forest to the small Sand Point ranger Station.
The station was a simple two-story white house, with a green shingled roof just beside the coast road leading south to town. It was shielded on two sides by trees. To one side it faced the bay. Doug waited until the lone officer, clad in shorts and a tee-shirt stretched with a yawn and went inside. Doug dodged across the road and crept carefully from vehicle to vehicle. There were three official vehicles parked side by side just past the door. Doug paused and heard the shower begin from one of the upstairs windows.
The last vehicle was a Jeep Wrangler, with its ubiquitous bright white color and forest green letters on the side. The door was unlocked. Doug searched the glove compartment and the visors but came up empty for the key. Under the floor mat beneath the driver’s seat Doug discovered a single key.
The jeep started easily. Doug dropped it into reverse and backed it across to where the girls were waiting, keeping a cautious eye to the house. Doug waved the girls over and they climbed inside. As Doug swung the jeep onto road he said a small prayer. There was a single road all the way to town, and then he’d have to get past a State Police outpost. If the jeep was discovered missing before then he and the girls hardly stood a chance.
“Jane, if you can hear me,” John muttered under his breath, “I need you now more than ever.”
“Dad, are we going to be in trouble?” Dana asked.
“Guys, we’re already in trouble.”
There was no point in hiding the truth. The road narrowed, bounded on one side by steeply wooded hills, and dropped sharply towards the lake on the other. He might have enjoyed once how beautiful and secluded this place was, but now it only felt like a trap.
“What if the police catch us?” Megan asked.
“If that happens,” he said, “you’ll tell the police everything” He looked to the girl’s reflection in the mirror and saw their turmoil. Megan was holding her sister’s hand, clutching it tightly in her lap. The State Police post was just ahead; a small brown building just beside the road. The freighter was already offloading a mountain of coal just across the road.
“We’ll get through this,” Doug said.
“Is it terrible that I’m glad mom isn’t here?” Megan said soberly. Dana looked up at her, her chin quivering with emotion
The words crushed him.
“No, honey.” He found her eyes in the mirror. “But I hope that she’s watching over us right now.”
The passed the post without incident, and passed quickly through town. The two-lane highway more or less followed the lakeshore. In places it climbed to heights offering sweeping views of the lake and forests. Where they came together was akin to two great armies crashing headlong in eternal battle, their meeting marked by ranks of heavy white waves crashing upon timber-strewn beaches.
Always dominating this pristine view was the great expanse of Grand Island. Doug could make out the tattered haze of smoke hovering over the southern end. He’d watch from a distance, safely hidden among the woods as the men approached the house. The man at the back kicked in the door and charged inside. A moment later, with a blinding explosion that knocked Doug backwards, the house disintegrated. There was little doubt as to the fate of the three men. They had come to kill Doug and the girls, and Doug had intended that they would die before they could harm Dana and Megan. Still, those deaths weighed on him. They tore at his heart for the families left behind, for their pain, and for the waste of it all. Wrong or right, those deaths would feel like a stain upon his soul for all time.
This was still a primitive land settled by stalwart souls who carved tentative parcels in some hard scrabble existence between the modern and pioneer worlds. These tentative places dotted the road, seemingly symbiotic with the surrounding wilderness. These folks were oddities to the outside world, and nefarious to out of town visitors unaccustomed to life in these parts. Truth was they were a mix of folks from the poor, anti-government types, loners, and aging hippies to people who just didn’t wish to be found.
Below the road, almost hidden from view among a thick bank of trees was one of those ramshackle little houses. It looked to have been patched together with tar paper and old boards. The small shack leaned slightly to one side, where it was braced hastily with a number of two by fours of varying lengths. Several of the he small windows on the one story structure were missing, replaced with heavy plastic or pieces of plywood. There was an ancient-looking outhouse out back and a clothesline. The yard was crowded with rusting tools, engine parts, and an old plastic lawn chair the front chassis of a 72 Chevy Impala. What caught Doug’s eye was the Sixty-five Ford F-100 pick up for sale in the grass beside the weedy driveway. It was hand painted a dull black and the rear bumper had been replaced with a single wood plant bolted to the frame. Doug swung the Jeep around to the opposite side of the road and got out with the girls. They hurried across the deserted highway and scrambled down the embankment to the shack.
The girls remained beside the old truck as Doug approached the shack. Nearly to door when a hobbling old man came out of the woods with a rifle and a big Canadian goose he shot for supper. Swimming in a dark Navy Pea Coat from an army surplus store, he glared suspiciously from beneath a bright orange hunter’s cap.
“Help you, Mister?” said the man, abruptly. He was leery of the strangers, nothing in particular to do with Doug and the girls, just that the old loner was naturally wary of all strangers.
“Interested in the truck,” Doug replied. “She run?”
“Looks like hell, but she’ll get you where you need to go.” He laid the dead goose over a stump, and set the rifle against the crooked house. He reached over and shook Doug’s hand, looking him straight in the eye. It was as much a test as a courtesy. “Got a three fifty-two, V-Eight under the hood, rebuilt carburetor, decent brakes, patched-up radiator. She looks like hell, but she’s solid.”
“I need a…”
“The old timer stopped him quickly. “Don’t much care what you need it for. By the looks of you and your girls, must be some sort of trouble. Want it, or don’t ya?”
“How much?”
The man studied Doug a moment, the girls no doubt weighing into whatever calculation he was making. “Whatever trouble you’re in ain’t none of my business, especially if you don’t make it any of my business.”
“Just need a truck, that’s all.”
“Four hundred. Firm.”
“Five hundred, and throw in the hat and coat.” said Doug.
“Got yourself a deal.”
The station was a simple two-story white house, with a green shingled roof just beside the coast road leading south to town. It was shielded on two sides by trees. To one side it faced the bay. Doug waited until the lone officer, clad in shorts and a tee-shirt stretched with a yawn and went inside. Doug dodged across the road and crept carefully from vehicle to vehicle. There were three official vehicles parked side by side just past the door. Doug paused and heard the shower begin from one of the upstairs windows.
The last vehicle was a Jeep Wrangler, with its ubiquitous bright white color and forest green letters on the side. The door was unlocked. Doug searched the glove compartment and the visors but came up empty for the key. Under the floor mat beneath the driver’s seat Doug discovered a single key.
The jeep started easily. Doug dropped it into reverse and backed it across to where the girls were waiting, keeping a cautious eye to the house. Doug waved the girls over and they climbed inside. As Doug swung the jeep onto road he said a small prayer. There was a single road all the way to town, and then he’d have to get past a State Police outpost. If the jeep was discovered missing before then he and the girls hardly stood a chance.
“Jane, if you can hear me,” John muttered under his breath, “I need you now more than ever.”
“Dad, are we going to be in trouble?” Dana asked.
“Guys, we’re already in trouble.”
There was no point in hiding the truth. The road narrowed, bounded on one side by steeply wooded hills, and dropped sharply towards the lake on the other. He might have enjoyed once how beautiful and secluded this place was, but now it only felt like a trap.
“What if the police catch us?” Megan asked.
“If that happens,” he said, “you’ll tell the police everything” He looked to the girl’s reflection in the mirror and saw their turmoil. Megan was holding her sister’s hand, clutching it tightly in her lap. The State Police post was just ahead; a small brown building just beside the road. The freighter was already offloading a mountain of coal just across the road.
“We’ll get through this,” Doug said.
“Is it terrible that I’m glad mom isn’t here?” Megan said soberly. Dana looked up at her, her chin quivering with emotion
The words crushed him.
“No, honey.” He found her eyes in the mirror. “But I hope that she’s watching over us right now.”
The passed the post without incident, and passed quickly through town. The two-lane highway more or less followed the lakeshore. In places it climbed to heights offering sweeping views of the lake and forests. Where they came together was akin to two great armies crashing headlong in eternal battle, their meeting marked by ranks of heavy white waves crashing upon timber-strewn beaches.
Always dominating this pristine view was the great expanse of Grand Island. Doug could make out the tattered haze of smoke hovering over the southern end. He’d watch from a distance, safely hidden among the woods as the men approached the house. The man at the back kicked in the door and charged inside. A moment later, with a blinding explosion that knocked Doug backwards, the house disintegrated. There was little doubt as to the fate of the three men. They had come to kill Doug and the girls, and Doug had intended that they would die before they could harm Dana and Megan. Still, those deaths weighed on him. They tore at his heart for the families left behind, for their pain, and for the waste of it all. Wrong or right, those deaths would feel like a stain upon his soul for all time.
This was still a primitive land settled by stalwart souls who carved tentative parcels in some hard scrabble existence between the modern and pioneer worlds. These tentative places dotted the road, seemingly symbiotic with the surrounding wilderness. These folks were oddities to the outside world, and nefarious to out of town visitors unaccustomed to life in these parts. Truth was they were a mix of folks from the poor, anti-government types, loners, and aging hippies to people who just didn’t wish to be found.
Below the road, almost hidden from view among a thick bank of trees was one of those ramshackle little houses. It looked to have been patched together with tar paper and old boards. The small shack leaned slightly to one side, where it was braced hastily with a number of two by fours of varying lengths. Several of the he small windows on the one story structure were missing, replaced with heavy plastic or pieces of plywood. There was an ancient-looking outhouse out back and a clothesline. The yard was crowded with rusting tools, engine parts, and an old plastic lawn chair the front chassis of a 72 Chevy Impala. What caught Doug’s eye was the Sixty-five Ford F-100 pick up for sale in the grass beside the weedy driveway. It was hand painted a dull black and the rear bumper had been replaced with a single wood plant bolted to the frame. Doug swung the Jeep around to the opposite side of the road and got out with the girls. They hurried across the deserted highway and scrambled down the embankment to the shack.
The girls remained beside the old truck as Doug approached the shack. Nearly to door when a hobbling old man came out of the woods with a rifle and a big Canadian goose he shot for supper. Swimming in a dark Navy Pea Coat from an army surplus store, he glared suspiciously from beneath a bright orange hunter’s cap.
“Help you, Mister?” said the man, abruptly. He was leery of the strangers, nothing in particular to do with Doug and the girls, just that the old loner was naturally wary of all strangers.
“Interested in the truck,” Doug replied. “She run?”
“Looks like hell, but she’ll get you where you need to go.” He laid the dead goose over a stump, and set the rifle against the crooked house. He reached over and shook Doug’s hand, looking him straight in the eye. It was as much a test as a courtesy. “Got a three fifty-two, V-Eight under the hood, rebuilt carburetor, decent brakes, patched-up radiator. She looks like hell, but she’s solid.”
“I need a…”
“The old timer stopped him quickly. “Don’t much care what you need it for. By the looks of you and your girls, must be some sort of trouble. Want it, or don’t ya?”
“How much?”
The man studied Doug a moment, the girls no doubt weighing into whatever calculation he was making. “Whatever trouble you’re in ain’t none of my business, especially if you don’t make it any of my business.”
“Just need a truck, that’s all.”
“Four hundred. Firm.”
“Five hundred, and throw in the hat and coat.” said Doug.
“Got yourself a deal.”
The Big Blue Sky: Thirty-Eight
Molly bent and looked into the Honda. It had been ransacked thoroughly enough that she doubted there would be anything of use in it any longer. The State Police boat was just unloading the bodies from the island. Each was carried off the boat in heavy black-plastic body bags, and laid along the small metal pier. The house on the island, or what remained of it, still smoldered. The gray-white smoke drifted oblique through trees and out over the bay.
Agent Moon was looking over a file on his Blackberry, a military record for one of the two tentatively identified bodies. The third was so badly burned that positive identification would require a DNA test. Moon squinted into his PDA at the files uploaded from the Milwaukee office. He read parts of it aloud, though Molly was only half listening, as she wondered how Doug had gotten involved in all this.
“…distinguished service, eight years special forces, two tours in Afghanistan. This guy was a friggin’ hero,” said Moon. “Various connections to military contracting firms. Last three years he was a CTM…”
“CTM?” asked Molly.
“Combat Tech Manager, for a company called FIRSTTHRUST. I know that company, real cowboys. They’d go after local bad guys in Iraq, but they’d tear up a neighborhood in the process. No rules of engagement. They’d roll in, do a job, kill a lot of people and undo a year’s worth of work winning hearts and minds.”
“What’s he doing here in Michigan?” Molly asked. She tapped Moon on the arm and motioned towards the small metal pier and three black body bags. They started for the pier.
“Interesting little aside,” said Moon. FIRST THRUST was just bought by this upstart tech firm out of Chicago with connections to an international arms dealer.”
“Umberto Shosa?”
“Great guess,” Moon replied, surprised. “How’d you know?”
“Buying their own army?”
“Probably just like the idea of an unending cash flow courtesy of the American taxpayer.”
“Dead Iranian diplomat, fugitive reporter and three dead mercs,” Molly said thoughtfully. She knelt beside one of the body bags and looked across at the island. “Doug Springer, what did you get yourself into?”
More than a mile away a big coal freighter entered the bay. It’s great dark gray hull slid past the eastern limb of the island, dwarfing a small wooden lighthouse on the shore, and eclipsing the mainland beyond. The rhythmic clunking of the ship’s massive rudders, as it slowed and made a wide arc past the island, echoed from the surrounding hills and island cliffs. The ship turned slowly, picking its way through the deeper channels to bring coal before the winter snows all but cut the town off from the outside world. At three hundred feet the ship was a behemoth in the little harbor. Molly watched the freighter for a moment before reaching for one of the body bag’s zipper. She thought better of that, realizing there was little point in it. She stood and walked to the end of the pier. Moon followed.
“How’d these guys get up here so fast?” Molly turned suddenly as the thought struck her.
“Don’t follow?”
“Think he’s guilty?”
“If your boy is innocent, why hasn’t he turned himself in?”
It was a valid question. Molly watched the ship as it seemed to drift powerless in the bay, framed by the mottled autumn trees beyond. The scene seemed to coax deeper thoughts from her, as if all the world was a river predicted by unseen currents deep beneath the surface.
“Let’s say this was a hit,” she began. “Maybe Doug Springer was supposed to take the rap, but instead he gets away, and now he’s a loose end?”
“I saw that episode of CSI Miami.” He quipped.
“Seriously.”
“To what end?”
“What if we, the country are being steered into a war with Iran?”
“By who?”
“I don’t know. Wealthy industrialists? Arms dealers? Umberto Shosa buys a military contracting firm, and then these guys end up here?” Before us?”
Moon scoffed with a chuckle. “Forgive me, but maybe aliens and Dick Cheney brought down the Twin Towers.”
“Wow,” she shot back. “That’s cynical.”
“Just saying, a bit conspiratorial, don’t you think?”
She thought a moment, feeling that this was one of those critical moments upon which a career or a life changes. Almost a mile away the big freighter sort of slid sideways past the Munising City dock.
“Trust me?” she asked, standing and wiping her hands.
“Sure.”
“I think he’s being set up, and I think if we get to him first we should be very cautious about who knows that.”
“Agent,” he said formally, “let me remind you he’s a suspect in a federal case.”
“There’s something else here,” she said, drawing him away from the State cops and the county coroner. “I’m just asking that you give this all as much of a benefit of a doubt as you can.”
“He’d be safer in custody.”
“He’ll be in our custody.”
“I don’t know.”
“I know this man,” said Molly.
Clearly torn, Moon sighed heavily. He looked across at the smoke drifting from the island and shook his head. “I’ll make you this promise. Let’s find your boy. If there’s something there, we’ll see.”
She motioned to the three black body bags lined up along the dock. “Hopefully before their colleagues do.”
“Certain they weren’t alone?”
“The waitress at the diner said 6. I have to believe there are at least three more.”
Agent Moon was looking over a file on his Blackberry, a military record for one of the two tentatively identified bodies. The third was so badly burned that positive identification would require a DNA test. Moon squinted into his PDA at the files uploaded from the Milwaukee office. He read parts of it aloud, though Molly was only half listening, as she wondered how Doug had gotten involved in all this.
“…distinguished service, eight years special forces, two tours in Afghanistan. This guy was a friggin’ hero,” said Moon. “Various connections to military contracting firms. Last three years he was a CTM…”
“CTM?” asked Molly.
“Combat Tech Manager, for a company called FIRSTTHRUST. I know that company, real cowboys. They’d go after local bad guys in Iraq, but they’d tear up a neighborhood in the process. No rules of engagement. They’d roll in, do a job, kill a lot of people and undo a year’s worth of work winning hearts and minds.”
“What’s he doing here in Michigan?” Molly asked. She tapped Moon on the arm and motioned towards the small metal pier and three black body bags. They started for the pier.
“Interesting little aside,” said Moon. FIRST THRUST was just bought by this upstart tech firm out of Chicago with connections to an international arms dealer.”
“Umberto Shosa?”
“Great guess,” Moon replied, surprised. “How’d you know?”
“Buying their own army?”
“Probably just like the idea of an unending cash flow courtesy of the American taxpayer.”
“Dead Iranian diplomat, fugitive reporter and three dead mercs,” Molly said thoughtfully. She knelt beside one of the body bags and looked across at the island. “Doug Springer, what did you get yourself into?”
More than a mile away a big coal freighter entered the bay. It’s great dark gray hull slid past the eastern limb of the island, dwarfing a small wooden lighthouse on the shore, and eclipsing the mainland beyond. The rhythmic clunking of the ship’s massive rudders, as it slowed and made a wide arc past the island, echoed from the surrounding hills and island cliffs. The ship turned slowly, picking its way through the deeper channels to bring coal before the winter snows all but cut the town off from the outside world. At three hundred feet the ship was a behemoth in the little harbor. Molly watched the freighter for a moment before reaching for one of the body bag’s zipper. She thought better of that, realizing there was little point in it. She stood and walked to the end of the pier. Moon followed.
“How’d these guys get up here so fast?” Molly turned suddenly as the thought struck her.
“Don’t follow?”
“Think he’s guilty?”
“If your boy is innocent, why hasn’t he turned himself in?”
It was a valid question. Molly watched the ship as it seemed to drift powerless in the bay, framed by the mottled autumn trees beyond. The scene seemed to coax deeper thoughts from her, as if all the world was a river predicted by unseen currents deep beneath the surface.
“Let’s say this was a hit,” she began. “Maybe Doug Springer was supposed to take the rap, but instead he gets away, and now he’s a loose end?”
“I saw that episode of CSI Miami.” He quipped.
“Seriously.”
“To what end?”
“What if we, the country are being steered into a war with Iran?”
“By who?”
“I don’t know. Wealthy industrialists? Arms dealers? Umberto Shosa buys a military contracting firm, and then these guys end up here?” Before us?”
Moon scoffed with a chuckle. “Forgive me, but maybe aliens and Dick Cheney brought down the Twin Towers.”
“Wow,” she shot back. “That’s cynical.”
“Just saying, a bit conspiratorial, don’t you think?”
She thought a moment, feeling that this was one of those critical moments upon which a career or a life changes. Almost a mile away the big freighter sort of slid sideways past the Munising City dock.
“Trust me?” she asked, standing and wiping her hands.
“Sure.”
“I think he’s being set up, and I think if we get to him first we should be very cautious about who knows that.”
“Agent,” he said formally, “let me remind you he’s a suspect in a federal case.”
“There’s something else here,” she said, drawing him away from the State cops and the county coroner. “I’m just asking that you give this all as much of a benefit of a doubt as you can.”
“He’d be safer in custody.”
“He’ll be in our custody.”
“I don’t know.”
“I know this man,” said Molly.
Clearly torn, Moon sighed heavily. He looked across at the smoke drifting from the island and shook his head. “I’ll make you this promise. Let’s find your boy. If there’s something there, we’ll see.”
She motioned to the three black body bags lined up along the dock. “Hopefully before their colleagues do.”
“Certain they weren’t alone?”
“The waitress at the diner said 6. I have to believe there are at least three more.”
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