It was probably the oldest house standing in the city, aside from the two preserved landmarks downtown. The realtor had listed it as "antebellum" -- in this case, built before World War I. Older folks called it a "shot-gun house." That is, you could open the front and back doors, fire a shotgun through either one, and no pellets would hit any part of the interior before exiting the other door. There were no interior walls between them, just a straight hallway through the middle. However, sometime after Word War II, the owners had added a room on the back, then a screened-in porch. While the abstract at city hall showed a permit for building the room, the lean-to porch was simply acknowledged and taxed accordingly. This add-on meant the front and rear doors no longer aligned.
This was an important detail to the SWAT Team. A covert survey of the back porch from the alleyway indicated the newer back door opened outward. So while the front assault team would carry a steel ram, the rear entry team would use a crowbar. Both doors were relatively new, had deadbolts and no windows. All exterior windows had been kept covered by cheap roll-up blinds. Interior lights had always been dim, and below the window level. They believed there were only two terrorists. The wet clothing they found a half-mile away indicated one was rather large, and the other fairly small. It was unlikely they had heavy weapons, but there may have been grenades in their possession. Still, they could not take anything for granted. Thus, they planned to mobilize the entire SWAT Team in full gear, with Level III body armor, helmets and goggles. They had rehearsed this kind of thing so often, two hours of planning time between warning order and execution was plenty.
There would be eight men in the front, the primary assault team. The other six would serve as backup from the rear. As soon as dynamic entry had been achieved, the rear team would wait to catch anyone trying to flee out the back. The sides of the house were a mere eighteen inches from the high steel panel fences on each side. These narrow zones would be watched by uniformed officers from the street and alleyway using vehicle-mounted spotlights; no need for them to expose themselves to unnecessary risk in getting too close to the house. If there was no resistance from inside, one of the front entry team would open the back door within 20 seconds. If there were signs of resistance, or it took longer than 20 seconds, the rear team was to enter using the crowbar.
The entire task force included the SWAT van carrying the front assault team, their extra SUV for the rear team, six marked patrol vehicles, and the Chief's pickup. A block away there would be two ambulances and a small firetruck. After some debate, they decided not to alert any residents. With steel fences to separate them, and moving in at 3AM, there was little to gain and too much to loose by making the whole operation anything less than a complete surprise. If they captured the terrorists, they could call in the local TV and newspaper reporters. Each had kept people on standby just for stuff like this. If they turned up empty handed, there was no point advertising the attempt. Their targets would know the house was compromised, but not before investigators had a chance to go over the place thoroughly. Thus, the vehicles approached silently from different directions. The rest held back until the rear security team signaled they were two houses away in the alleyway.
The van driver shut off his lights and engine at the corner, and rolled silently to a quick stop just past the corner of the house lot. Even before the vehicle stopped rolling, the rear doors swung open, and caught on latches covered in thick foam padding. The men came streaming out, slightly staggered, in two lines. The two men leading carried the ram between them, weapons holstered. The actual first entry pair were right behind them, running at port arms with their shotguns. The other four, including the driver who was only a few yards behind, carried MP-5s or handguns and various tools. Had you been standing across the street with your back turned, by the time you heard anything and could turn around, the ram was already drawn back for the first blow.
The door was much more solid than they feared, but began to give immediately. Seeing this, the entry pair jumped from either side of the doorway and grabbed the extra handles with a free hand and gave it more momentum to break the door down with the second strike. It almost worked, as the door buckled inward, yet somehow still stuck in the frame. However, with all the adrenaline and focused effort, they had not heard the wooden "thunk" of a frame dropping down from the ceiling 20 feet from the door inside the house. In this wooden frame was cradled a modified LAW rocket launcher, rigged to fire as soon as it dropped. The timing was perfect, for when the ram struck the second time, the missile hit the door on the opposite side at the same instant.
They could not have known about the legal-pad sized, quarter-inch steel plate attached to the door on the inside face. Its purpose was not to bolster the door, but to enhance the shrapnel yield from the shaped-charge warhead on the old anti-tank missile. The plate had been deeply scored in one-inch squares. The force of the blast drove the ram back into the four men who had made the mistake of clustering behind those swinging it. The force of the blast, the fragments of the plate, and the molten jet of metal produced by the warhead were mostly absorbed by the four men swinging the ram. Standard tactical body armor was no match for such weaponry, nor the large, heavy steel ram flying fast as a bullet. The ram spun across the lawn and embedded in the door of a cruiser on the street. For a short time, a few of the SWAT Team were semi-conscious, wondering what had happened, as they lay bleeding in a pile of splinters from what had been the front door.
The security team outside the back porch heard what sounded like a double explosion. The old LAW rockets had solid propellant motors which ignited in such a way as to burn almost completely at launch, sounding like a fairly loud explosion itself. The warhead detonation was muffled somewhat by being inside the house, and also by being aimed out the front door. Still, the force of the blast broke out the windows in the front, and they took it for a concussion grenade, a sign of resistance inside.
Charging onto the back porch, the forgot all the rules and clustered almost too close to the man wielding the crowbar. He planted his right foot on the back step below the door, reared back with the crowbar over his left shoulder, and slammed it into the crack between the door and frame level with the lock. Switching his grip while in motion, he swung is body around the other side of the door, brushing against two of his partners in the cramped space on the back porch. His body slammed to a stop as arms strained against the leverage. It held just an instant, the suddenly the door burst open.
It's not likely any of them saw the claymore mine mounted at waist level on the inside face of the door. Stopped suddenly by the wall behind it, the door caught on a latch just as the mine exploded. Even the steel fence outside the porch was perforated by some of the steel ball-bearings projected by the claymore. Later on, it required some careful DNA testing to determine what lump belonged to whom, scattered between the door, through the gaping hole in the porch wall, all the way to the fence.
To the neighbors on both sides, the whole thing sounded like three quick explosions, the first two in rapid succession, all entirely too close. It was followed by sirens clearly audible through now-cracked windows on the side facing the little old house. But that was not the worst of it, for there were a series of smaller muffled explosions, followed by choking fumes from burning plastic. There was another loud explosion, later determined to be from gas leaking under the house. Within minutes they were being evacuated, as the old wood structure was totally involved in flames. The black smoke and heat made it clear parts of the interior had been coated with a highly flammable spray-on foam. It looked as if the stuff had been applied in long, thick patches from ceiling to floor, about a foot wide. Each patch was a column of blazing heat which could not be easily extinguished. Also, there were continuing small explosions from inside the home. This kept the firemen at a distance, and all they could do was keep the fire from spreading by hosing down drifting sparks. They considered it good fortune the temperature had not yet dropped to freezing.
As the sun rose, all that was left was a low smoking heap. Parts of the roof survived from the sheer volume of water, but little of it had run down inside. Much of the spray directed from a safe distance at the open windows was evaporated by the intensity of the heat. Even the steel panel fences had buckled some from it. Residents on the entire block and the one opposite had been hustled out, some violently. A few had carried luggage, wisely reading the situation and packing for an enforced vacation. News crews were kept back. The remains of the rear security team were a little easier to find, because the back porch had been mostly saved from the flames. The entry team was covered by a portion of the roof, as the house had collapsed forward into the front yard. What was found was badly charred.
The chief was still sweating in spite of the cold morning air. He was also covered in smoke and small cuts from the explosions, even though he had been standing on the far side of the street during the assault. There were gashes in his palms and a tear in one pants leg from helping pull splintered wood off the bodies of his crew. To one of his captains he said, "The Feds will be here, I'm sure. They can have it. Give them what they demand, if you can, and stay out of their way." He stood up from the tailgate of his pickup. As he walked around to get in the driver's door, he turned and spoke back over his shoulder. "We're going to have all we can do with the City. They're gonna want our heads. Fourteen of the highest paid, best trained tactical officers in the state ... gone in one operation, along with nearly all their equipment. Five million dollars in matching federal grants and we might have enough left to put in three caskets." With a choking laugh, he said, "Wonder what the City will tell the Feds." The tears in his eyes mixed with the sweat, cooling his face as he drove away in the crisp winter morning.
The Feds did, indeed, come. It was an assortment of FBI, BATFE, Homeland Security Officers and who knew what else. They arrived to find the municipal crime scene investigators had just finished locating and marking, but not removing, any of the human remains. Having been warned, the local police simply surrendered everything and tried to get out of the way. All the notes, cameras with pictures, drawings, etc., were seized. Some had quickly made copies, and already hidden them. It might now be a federal investigation, but it was their friends and comrades who had died. They had learned from the law enforcement grapevine if they complied with federal demands in an obvious way, no one would search them for copies of things, as long as no evidence was removed from the site.
In keeping with the new federal mandates, the city and county supplied the heavy equipment as "federalized assets" until further notification. The city government was too busy to argue much, trying to calm the residents after telling them the Feds would not allow them back into their homes until the scene was cleared. Everyone with a municipal paycheck who could be spared was assigned to help these new refugees keep their lives under control, and liased with the Feds to evacuate pets, turn off appliances, and retrieve wallets and purses. Nothing else was allowed out of the secured zone. This meant giving bus passes, loaning bicycles from the unclaimed property lot, opening retired unused buildings as shelters -- the City did a lot better job than most. The churches pitched in with various kinds of help. The big Charismatic church opened their recreation building for emergency housing, and mobilized their Sunday School bus fleet. The mayor made it a point to ensure the news crews knew about it all, too. He was up for re-election soon.
By sunset the first day, the Feds had finished removing the human remains, and made requisitions of heavy equipment for the next morning. It started with backhoes and trucks, breaking up and hauling away the roof and charred scraps of wood. By mid-day, they discovered the old house had a half-basement, made of poured concrete. It was several inches deep in water from the fire hoses, and had to be pumped out. They also discovered there was a manhole cover in the lowest part, where one might normally expect a drain. Once it was cleared, the heavy equipment was idled. This cast iron cover had been welded in place, as it were, by what appeared to be molten lead. Given the age of the house, they decided the fire had melted whatever original lead pipe plumbing remained in the house, and it pooled in the lowest part, sealing the manhole cover in place. Tracks of molten lead across the floor seemed to bear this out.
They called for a cutting torch, then visited a retired plumber who would know how to remove it. When he balked because of arthritis, they threatened to jail him and promised he'd have even more physical discomfort from an "accident" on the way to prison. Gone were the days of offering more money. With burly security officers breathing down his neck, he managed to clear the lead and lever up the edge of the plate just as the sun was setting. The officers drug him out of the way as others swarmed over the plate, lifting it quickly off the opening.
What they found was what appeared to be a vertical shaft filled with sand. Ordering in flood lights, they called in City Water Department crewman and demanded they remove the sand, making sure to put it in buckets to be sifted for evidence later. Bailing and shoveling the fine grit, they found a second iron plate at the bottom of a four foot cast iron shaft. There were two climbing rungs on one side. They couldn't climb out fast enough to avoid some rough treatment from the Feds, and the rest was cleared with a shop vacuum. They were ordered to stand by, then released conditionally when it was discovered this second manhole cover was welded in place by the more typical method.
They waited impatiently for daylight before the FBI Special Agent in Charge (SAC) could get hold of a bottled gas supplier to provide fresh tanks for the cutting torch. This would require an industrial gas, since the weld appeared to have been done quite professionally with heavy welding equipment. For the hundredth time, the SAC wondered how all this could be done without anyone seeing the equipment coming and going. Even with severe threats, the neighbors around the house remained truculent when questioned about the activity of the two men who had rented the place for the past month. Depending on how things turned out, the SAC would see the most resentful neighbors arrested and questioned as terrorist sympathizers. Citizens had to learn not to question their government.
By mid-morning, the plate had been opened, and the worker chased out of the shaft by an overwhelming foul odor. Just below the plate was an old but still active municipal sewer line, running half full at that moment. Donning a full protective suit and mask, it took the worker another hour to finish removing the plate in sections. Then similarly suited investigators descended to check for any useful evidence. Finding none, they proceeded to put a plastic cover over the hole.
Barely controlling his heaving stomach, the SAC demanded over his cell phone the City send a Works Engineer with drawings. Meanwhile, the backhoes continued more carefully, removing the rest of the debris from the half basement, while avoiding knocking anything onto the opening. The smell had dissipated rather quickly in the cold air by the time the engineer arrived. The SAC scorned bitterly the "amateurs" in City Engineering who had no precise locations of these older sewer lines. Consulting ancient drawings, some of which split in places when unrolled, the engineer and his helpers finally discerned this was indeed an active sewer, still draining a significant number of houses and shops, but no others in this block. There was an old policy requiring new or remodeled homes to connect to the new line under the street. The house had been the last on the block still connected. This older line also carried some overflow, directed by automated pumps which waited for low use times at night to empty holding lagoons a mile away. These pipes had not been empty in the past ten years.
The SAC cursed again, blaming the incompetence of locals for presenting such a puzzling problem. The terrorists had been seen entering the house late in the evening before the SWAT Team raid. Plain-clothes officers watching the house had not seen anyone leave, either by the front or the alleyway out back. The Chief affirmed once again the suspects most certainly had to have been there when the raid took place. Yet no remains had been found except the SWAT Team, and it was not humanly possible they had escaped down into the sewers. That was clearly a diversion, something to keep everyone busy for the past two days. Where did they go, and how had they gotten out?
Suddenly a workman yelled from the back of the concrete pit where the house had stood. He was waving for someone to come see something. The SAC himself walked up just as the workman was tracing with an iron tool on the back wall a jagged seam in the concrete. It appeared to have cracked at one time, then been repaired with some black sealant. Except the sealant was rather fresh. It ran at an angle across the face of the concrete half-height wall in one corner. A small amount had also oozed out of the fold where the floor joined the wall, and where the two walls came together. It looked first as if it had been clumsily dripped there, but now it was apparent it was squeezing out of a closed seam.
The SAC began yelling instructions like a madman, and no human there could move fast enough. Bent over behind the workman who were beating on chisels around the edges of this triangle of black sealant, he was shaking from exhaustion. Still, he watched in the failing light of the winter afternoon, as the triangle turned out to be a sort of door. It fell away and thudded flat on the floor, revealing a very narrow passage, a simple dirt tunnel sloping down toward the alleyway. Screaming for the engineer, he demanded to know if any utility conduits aside from the sewer ran nearby. Without having to check, the engineer said the alleyway had the standard storm drain. Followed close on his heels by uniformed agents, the SAC was dragging a workman by the front of his jacket. He stopped at the edge of the alley, looked both ways, and pointed to a grating in the pavement.
Demanding lights be brought around, he ordered all the gratings in the two blocks both directions be checked for signs of recent opening. Turning to the engineer, he asked how likely the City crews had moved anything recently. The engineer had to call back to the main office and have the work order database queried. It took awhile, but the answer was a clear "no," not since the spring cleaning. Just then, an agent called from one end of the block. A workman was holding up a grating, and the agent held a flashlight down where the concrete wall of the drain casing showed marks -- scuffing from black rubber shoe soles. They were quite fresh, but impossible to judge how recent in terms of hours or days. The lip of the grating socket was free of loose sand which was otherwise all around the grating opening.
Looking up and down the street, the SAC noticed it was just the kind of place where no one would not notice if people had come out of the grating hole at 3AM or so. No emergency vehicles would have come from that direction, because it was a closed pocket. Cursing, he ordered a close examination of the probable route for any clues, then turned and stalked off around the corner, back toward where his SUV was parked. He was already deep in conversation with someone on his cell phone before he got the door open.
Michael decided he liked city busses. Unlike the interstate bus lines, you could carry your luggage right on the bus with you, and it was wholly unlikely anyone who mattered would wonder what you had in it. All the more so if you smelled like a bum and paid with grubby currency. He limped a little from the bruise on his shin where his leg hit the police cruiser. He forgot he couldn't do a low sweeping kick without having a place for the leg to go beyond the target. But the limp added to his disguise as a bum.
Back when he had worked as an investigative journalist, he had needed to wear disguises from time to time, but nothing like this. Michael looked over at his sleeping partner, Burk, and marveled how the boy could snooze under the most difficult times. When Michael had first asked him, Burk had said there really was nothing else he could do. Besides, it fit the profile of wandering bums. Keeping awake would look suspicious, he figured. Michael had to admit he was right, and was at least pretending to sleep, even while his mind, and sometimes his heart, raced with tension. Michael was still trying to learn how to let things go, not to over-analyze what they accomplished. Intellectually, he knew once they had committed themselves, most of their choices were already made. Get it done, get out, and hope you don't get caught.
Of course, Burk really was a former "bum" -- actually a hobo. His childhood started in the rural South, but he moved with his mother to a city at the start of his teen years. Burk's father, a mystery he never discussed much, had disappeared from the young man's life, and mom was trying to keep the two of them alive. She chose Salem, Oregon, very far from their southern home. They arrived in the summer, and stayed in a motel. She just missed being hired at the poultry processing plant, and started waiting tables in some hippy restaurant downtown. Pretending an interest in the Green politics of the manger, things were tolerable. Burk occupied himself wandering the fairgrounds, exploring downtown, then began spending some time in the city library. It became his hangout. Mom usually found him there when she got off in the evenings.
One warm August evening, she was late. He figured she was negotiating with her boss for a loan to pay the motel bill. The motel manager had been bothering his mom because they got behind, pressuring her for sex or money. The former made her skin crawl, she said. When it was dark, he decided to walk toward the cafe. Two blocks away, he started running, because he saw a police car with flashing lights out front of the building where the cafe was located. That last half block, he slowed from simple caution, and joined the crowd of onlookers. Standing on tiptoe, he saw a couple of paramedics wheeling out a folding gurney, with the person on it completely covered, head to toe. For a few moments, the light from the cafe door and big glass windows showed them clearly. Just as he caught the discussion about an armed robbery, he also caught a glimpse of his mother's dress peeking out from under the blanket.
He turned away in shock, then vomited what little was left in his stomach onto the sidewalk. When someone came up behind and touched him, asking if he was alright, he bolted. Running back the way he had come, he finally stopped outside the now empty library. Trying to stop the spinning world, he closed his eyes, sitting with his back to one of the large evergreens along the river bank. It seemed only a moment, but he was startled awake by a heavy vehicle passing on the street nearby. It was early morning. Jumping to his feet, he ran toward the southern edge of town, and simply kept going.
Over the years, he had stayed with various hobo colonies along the West Coast, raised with an education no school could match. While he went hungry often enough to consider it a minor inconvenience, he managed to eat well enough to become rather larger than average, and quite strong. Oddly, the move to Oregon and the death of his mother were about the only parts of his past he seemed willing to tell in any detail. He seemed unsure and unconcerned how old he was, but was quite obviously not yet of legal age to drink alcohol.
When Michael first met Burk, however, the boy was doing just that. Rather than the stumbling drunk, the big kid was just savoring a wine cooler outside an abandoned gas station in Northern California. Michael had been taking the scenic route home after checking out a story in Portland. He got a flat tire, and decided to roll on far enough to make the gas station. It sat in a pocket cut out of the tall trees, so Michael was off the main road before he realized the place was abandoned. Hoping and praying the spare and jack were still in the trunk, he got out to look at the flat tire on the right rear. Opening the trunk, he saw the spare, one of those hard-rubber mini-spares. It was designed to roll well enough even without inflation. There was also a tire iron, but no jack. After ten minutes of fruitless poking in the trunk, he looked up at the building. That's when he saw Burk.
Realizing the well-dressed driver had seen him, Burk stood up and ambled over to the car sitting askew. Burk asked simply, "No jack?" His voice had a soft rasp to it, and was rather high pitched.
Michael realized immediately this large young fellow taking one last swig of a wine cooler could easily hurt him. Even with his karate classes, he wasn't sure he could fend off an attack. The boy was dressed in worn and dirty overalls, and a t-shirt of no distinct color, but approaching orange. His shoulders bulged under the thinning fabric. The boy turned and tossed the empty bottle at a rusted out dumpster overturned beside the building. Falling just short, it shattered into many pieces, all of which appeared to slide and bounce into the opening of the dumpster. With a self-satisfied grin, the boy turned back, still standing at a comfortable distance away.
"Let's make a deal," the boy proposed. "I help you get this tire changed, and you give me a ride. Okay? I realize you are rightly suspicious of whether I might have bad intentions. All I can do is give you my word I'm not interested in hurting people. I just need a ride into the city."
Michael never expected this sort of persuasive and literate speech from someone with such an appearance. Shaggy hair topped a round face, and youthful red cheeks with clear skin, but thinly covered in long, pale whiskers which had never seen a razor. His face said he was an inbred idiot mountain boy. His words and actions said otherwise. "Okay. I'll bite -- how do you plan to help me? You look rather stout, but I wonder if you would be able to just lift the car that far, for that long."
"Maybe, but there's no need. Front wheel drive, right?" Upon Michael's affirmative nod, he walked over behind the dumpster where there was a pile of automotive junk, and retrieved an abandoned wheel rim. Walking back, he placed it near the rear corner behind the flat tire. Then he got down and looked underneath the car. Dragging the steel rim across the pavement, he placed it carefully, and bent to look under the car again. Then, too quickly for his bulk he was on his feet again walking back toward the pile of discarded car parts. He waded around for a moment, then pulled up a long heavy pipe. Looking about, he snatched up another, somewhat thinner pipe of similar length.
Michael judged he could not have lifted either pipe easily using both hands, but the boy carried one in each of his. He dropped them rather noisily on the pavement behind the car, then sauntered yet one more time to the junk pile. He pulled up an old tire, blown out on one side. With a whimsical half-grin, he walked back again. Stooping down, he slid the old tire up under the car, then motioned Michael to hold the outer edge up against the bumper. "This will protect the paint, and keep things from slipping," the boy announced. Then he stood the rim on edge a couple of feet behind the tire, and dragged the larger pipe closer. Lifting the near end, he placed it in the valley atop the rim. Holding the rim in place with one foot, he stretched the other back up the length of the pipe as far as he could. Michael wondered if the overalls would hold up if he went any further.
Lifting the pipe a little, the boy slid the end, which was slightly bent in a short turn, up under the tire. Michael moved his hand just before it was crushed between the pipe and the underside of the old tire. The boy moved it around a bit, making sure the bent end caught like a hook on the frame, then pulled the other end down until the old tire collapsed. Keeping one hand on the far end, the boy slid further back, caught up the second pipe in one hand and slid it part way into the larger. Still keeping the pressure against the old tire pinned to the frame of the car, the young man worked his way out to the end of the second pipe just over his head, and pulled down on it.
By now, Michael realized the intent and grabbed the tire iron. The car shifted upward a few inches. The young man stopped halfway down; "Now, while the flat tire is still on the ground, turn the lug nuts until they're loose." Michael swore the fellow sounded like a science professor he had in college, and applied pressure to the lug nuts. It took him long enough to be embarrassed about it, but once all four were loose, he stood up. The young man then leaned mightily on the pipe and the car lifted off the ground, just far enough to pull off the flat. Michael felt obliged to work quickly, spinning off the lug nuts, losing and chasing two of them under the car, then swapping the flat for the spare. He need not have worried, for he looked up to see the young man sitting on the pipe just inches off the ground.
Spinning the lug nuts finger tight, he said, "Okay!"
The stranger then shifted his weight, turned and let the car down as fast as he safely could. Michael could only gaze at the scene and say, "Wow!" Upon the boy reminding him to finish snugging the lug nuts down tight, Michael moved quickly to the task. Before he had finished putting everything back in the trunk, the young man had carried or tossed everything back on the junk pile.
He turned to Michael with that self-satisfied grin, put out his hand and said, "My name is Burk." The two shook equally dirty hands, and loaded Burk's bags in the trunk. As he settled himself in the passenger seat, Burk said, "You can find a tire shop about 20 miles ahead, just before the turn off heading into town."
Michael smiled and told Burk his name. It dawned on him the young man didn't smell as bad as he expected, just a whiff of fresh perspiration. "Burk, I'm an investigative reporter. I just came from Portland, Oregon this morning."
Burk asked what he could be investigating there. Michael explained the military recruiting station downtown was facing accusations of bribing prospective recruits for the latest war half-way around the world. It seems they were offering not just cash, but drugs, which never seemed to show up in the urinalysis portion of the entrance physicals.
"I don't suppose you've been in the military yet, Burk?"
"No. I'm sure I'd do just fine, but I don't have anything proving who I am. I don't officially exist." He told the story of moving to Oregon and losing his mother. "After what I've seen of government behavior, I think remaining an official nobody is a pretty good idea."
Michael asked what he meant about government behavior. Adding yet another surprise, Burk discussed a litany of things of which Michael knew from a reporter's angle. The young man described a sampling of things which had annoyed Michael, as well, but from a different viewpoint, as if he had been a victim of it. Burk had an underlying vision of what was behind it all, an apparent plan Michael had always suspected, but was never too clear in his previous investigations.
"I call them the Shadow Government," Burk said. He reeled off facts and figures, bits of history and obscure details not commonly known. "Most of them are Jews, but it's not about Judaism. That's just something which feeds into the bigger picture, which helps to explain some of their apparent motives. Since the seventeenth century, this one bunch, mostly related by blood or marriage, have steadily gained control of every nation's currency. Along the way, they've stirred up various conspiracies, most of which appear to have been a diversion. You can stand in the middle of clear and open facts, but if you focus on the wrong things, you'll miss the obvious."
"Like how to jack up this car with junk?" Michael asked.
Burk grinned, looking out the side window for a moment. Then he turned back and said, "You know about investigating and writing. You know how government works in person, and how bureaucrats think." With a shrug he added, "I know how other things work."
"You seem to know a lot about who's actually governing the world today."
"I read a lot of history," Burk said. "I've hung out in libraries a lot since Mom died. At first, I'd read anything. I'd play a game to occupy myself, and grab a book at random. One day it was a book on European History. It was a bunch of stories about ordinary people during the Middle Ages, and how they lived day to day. I'm not sure why, but it just grabbed me. So I found out it was called 'social history' and I've been reading as much about that as I could ever since. From there, it seemed important to know more about history in general. Then it was geography, and I've just recently started on economics."
"All this without ever going to school?"
"Yep. There's the tire shop," he said, pointing.
Michael pulled in and was met by the lone attendant before he could get out all the way. After showing him the flat, Michael was not surprised to discover it had to be replaced. The attendant turned it over to reveal a blown out bubble on the back sidewall. Michael spotted a cafe across the road, and realized it was lunch time. Leaning back in the open door, he said to Burk, "Let's eat!"
Older, but not yet ancient, she stood at the cash register. She spotted them over the shoulder of the truck driver as she gave him his change. After exchanging pleasantries with him, she tilted her head to one side. "Mutt and Jeff?" No, the difference wasn't great enough. The one was clearly better than six feet, and muscular. The other might be a half-foot shorter, rather slight, with a handsome face. "Certainly an odd couple," she said. The shorter, and obviously older man wore nice clothes: khaki-gray slacks that fit perfectly, a pin-stripped blue and gray short-sleeved shirt with a dark red tie, shod with stylish black loafers. The big one looked like a bumpkin, a regular farm boy. As they came in the door, the lady behind the cash register looked up. Placing her arms akimbo, she demanded, "What are you dragging in here, now?"
Michael was stunned by the familiarity of her tone, and was about to make some stiff reply about Burk, but was cut off by the younger man's surprisingly gruff response. "Don't matter, woman. You jest get us up some grub and be quick about it!" She looked shocked for a mere second, then both she and Burk burst into laughter. She came out from behind the counter and gave Burk a hug.
"It's been a long time, Sonny. Where you been?"
"Lookin' fer my mama," he continued the phony Appalachian accent.
"Honey, I've been right here all along. You're the one who keeps wandering off." She stepped behind the counter and began assembling cups and saucers. As she poured coffee in them, she turned and said, "Sit where you like, boys."
As they took opposite sides of an empty booth, Michael said, "Well, I didn't realize I was in famous company."
Burk grinned. "I try to make friends and treat people right wherever I go. I let them decide if they'd rather be enemies. I don't like to talk about what happens when things get ugly, but I'm here and don't have too many scars."
The woman set their cups of coffee down, then placed a menu in front of Michael. Turning to Burk, she said, "I already know what you want." Burk shook his head once sharply, then grinned. To Michael, "Since you're his friend, I recommend you try the ocean catfish today."
That suited Michael, and he took a sip of coffee. While Burk still held his to his mouth, Michael noted, "Now that's good stuff. I'll have to remember this place, if only for the great coffee."
"Mama knows what she's doing," Burk agreed quietly.
"I have a brown belt in karate," Michael began, "but I haven't had to use it much. I'm glad I didn't need to try it against you. I'm better at asking questions and typing on computers than fighting."
"I wish I had access to computers more often." Burk explained he learned all he knew from library computers and a couple of Internet cafes. "I know just enough to hate Windows."
"I wish I had time and inclination to learn something else. Macs are popular with a lot of news rooms, but I just can't see spending that much money on a Mac notebook, when I'm sure I'll drop it sooner or later. I've lost three that way."
"Ever heard of Linux or BSD?" Burk asked.
"Oh, I'm no hacker. I know my way around the Net really well, and can break into a few systems when it really matters. Still, I can't see myself being a complete computer geek," Michael snorted.
"It's not like that," Burk countered softly. "The main advantage is you can be sure there are no back doors in the system. You know the NSA has keys to every version of Windows so far? Well, researchers have found yet another key in Windows 2000. This was all hushed up before XP came out."
"Well, it's not like there aren't enough security holes anyway. How many active Windows viruses are out there now? A hundred thousand? Then there's spyware, rootkits -- you name it. I'm more paranoid about taking my company laptop online than I am about investigating drug-running street gangs first person."
Burk grinned, shaking his head slowly. He looked up as Mama approached with their plates. "It's about time, woman!"
She winked at Michael. "Oh, hush up and eat. You look so starved, I'll bet your friend could whip you all over the parking lot," the woman answered playfully.
Grabbing her hand, Burk kissed it. "You take such good care of me! How did I live before I met you?" She grinned and walked away, just as a large group entered the cafe.
After a few minutes of stuffing their faces, Michael continued. "So you say those other systems aren't just for geeks?"
Over a mouthful of chicken-fried steak and gravy, Burk managed to say, "No. It's about people determined to be free. Lots of ordinary people use them." He swallowed and took a sip of coffee. "I know a guy in Texas, an old disabled veteran. He writes about the Bible, politics, history, privacy issues -- and he does it all FreeBSD. He's not a guru; he just decided to take the time to learn enough to use it. You'd be surprised how many of those underground patriot militia types run Linux because the government can't easily snoop their systems."
"What about viruses?"
Burk took a moment to chew and swallow. "There aren't very many, and all of them are obsolete. That is, they only work on software nobody runs any more."
"You mean they aren't like Windows users, some whom are still running 95, for goodness sakes?"
"The kind of people who use Linux and BSD are better about paying attention to security updates. It's all free to begin with. You can buy nice boxed sets, but the copyright they all use requires them to offer it free in some form. Nobody owns it; it's just shared among people who believe it's important to keep it free and open. People all over the world, and plenty of them hate governments -- ours especially -- and they'd never knowingly give any secret keys, nor build back doors. There's no way to hide them, since the source code itself is there for anybody to see."
Michael's left hip was beeping out a lilting tune. "Excuse me," he said as he pulled out a cell phone. Looking at the face of it, he formed a silent "uh-oh." With a forced cheery note, he said, "Hello."
He never got to say another word, aside from the occasional "yes" and "mm-hm." Finally, there was a short, "Okay." He slapped the thing shut, and returned it his hip. He stared at the table a moment, with his hands together on the edge, fingers interlaced. The sound of one foot tapping was just audible from under the table.
Burk offered, "I'm not keeping you from your girlfriend, am I?"
Michael looked up with a half-grin. "No such thing. That was work." Lifting his cup, he took a sip while staring out the window.
By now, Burk had cleaned his plate -- literally. During the whole meal, he had kept his fork in his left hand, and his knife in the right. With the latter he cut, and loaded the fork with anything he couldn't simply stab. The entire meal, gravy and all, had been scraped neatly onto is fork and then poked into his mouth. Michael decided he was finished, and slid out of the seat. He dropped a $20-bill on the table and prepared to leave. Burk had already moved to give Mama a parting hug. "Maybe I'll see you again in a couple of days."
"Looking forward to it, big boy."
Michael lavished praise on the food without slowing and went out the door. He could see his car now sitting level across the highway. Turning, he checked to see Burk hurrying behind him. Making sure to get a receipt from the tire man, Michael quickly got in his car and started the motor. Burk figured if he hadn't already been buckled in, he'd have been left there, fifty miles short of his goal.
They rolled through the woods, then descended into the valley with open fields. Michael seemed far away. Then, as they were just entering the edge of town, he turned suddenly and asked Burk to recite some of the family names in the Shadow Government. He listened, and recognized two or three as names of bankers not far from his office.
As they pulled up near the city library, Michael asked, "How would I get hold of you, say, a week from now?"
Burk mulled it over for moment. The thin whiskers attached to his upper chin stood out straight as the boy bit his lower lip a moment. Then he pursed his lips and frowned. "I don't know. I don't even have an email address right now. I lost the last one when I didn't log in for three months."
"Here," Michael said reaching into a briefcase laying on the seat behind him. He pulled out another cell phone, and a cable. "This one is older, but it has a built-in charger. Just plug it in whenever you get close to electricity. Surely you can find a pocket to keep it in. The real advantage is it's got a stronger signal and a better receiver. If you are within five miles of a service area, especially on high ground, it should work fine. If I don't call you by this time next week, you call me. Okay?" He scribbled the number on back of a business card, and passed it over as well.
"Why does it matter so much? These things aren't cheap, I know."
"Burk, I may need your help and expertise. That last call was to cancel the story in Portland. I've decided to pursue another one. I'm going to check on that Shadow Government business in my own town. If I can sell the story, I'll be glad to share the pay with you, or buy you anything you might want or need."
Burk half-grinned. "Okay. That might be useful."
Michael added, "Who knows? I might need you along for some of this later."
Burk looked dubious as he got out of the car. Michael popped the trunk lid from inside. When Burk had gotten his bags and closed it again, Michael knew he had to move right away, or risk getting any more of the police officer's attention, who appeared about ready to turn around as he passed going the other way. Pulling away, Michael wasted no time hitting Interstate 5 and heading south to beat the sundown getting home.
As he strode in the door, the librarian smiled at him. Burk's size was imposing, but his round face and fuzzy, never-been-shaved teenager's beard made people underestimate his real strength -- his intellect. As he approached her desk, she pulled out some books she had been saving. He stretched out his hand, all grateful smile, and thanked her profusely for going to so much trouble for him. Patrons like him made her job worthwhile. He retreated to his favorite corner, sliding down into the well-worn soft chair, and lost himself in the first book. It had been translated from French, and went on at length explaining how feudalism contained the seeds of its own destruction.
Having taught himself speed reading, he was nearly finished when the intercom gently notified him the library was closing in ten minutes. Nine o'clock already? Once out in the alley behind, he retrieved his bags from the old lady who kept them for him. They exchanged pleasantries, and he handed her a cling-wrapped stack of homemade cookies Momma had slipped him as he left the cafe. He turned and headed to the reservoir where the hobos camped. She had already devoured one before he left the alleyway.
As the sun was setting out his right window, Michael was praying. Though he hadn't attended a traditional church in quite some time, Michael met with a Bible study group when he was in town. The leader arranged to hold meetings at odd times during the week, and Michael usually made at least one in every seven days. Some sessions were in members' homes, sometimes a private dining area in a restaurant, or wherever they could gather such that quiet singing wouldn't bother anyone else.
He might not quickly claim the label "Christian," since it often came with baggage he didn't own, but Michael considered himself a follower of Jesus. That in itself left more than enough room for debate and study.
"Lord, I was wondering if Burk might be an angel. I realize he's just a human, but I seem to recall Your friend Paul talked about messengers from You who would provoke significant change, and he called them angels. Somehow, I get the feeling I'll need to cling to You like never before in the coming days. Please, help me to see what You value in all this."
To say he was stunned would be an understatement. With his mouth still hanging open, Michael stared at his editor for long moments. Before he could unleash the piercing questions for which he was famous, the editor, a retired Marine sergeant, snatched Michael by the front of his rain jacket. This, too, was completely unexpected. The editor dragged Michael out the door, then a short way down the hall between empty cubicles. In one swift motion he snatched open the door to the janitor's closet and tossed Michael in, spinning him around. Before Michael could focus, the powerful middle-aged man stood with his right index finger in Michael's face. Michael could imagine him wearing a smokey hat.
It was intense, just above a whisper. "Do you have any idea what you have stirred up? Those bankers are not your average businessmen nor bureaucrats. Those people only think they have power; those bankers are power. Not just money, though I assure you any one of them could buy and sell the entire staff as individuals, and the whole publishing company, too. Most people want power to get money. These people already have money, and use it to maintain their power. It's not just a matter of you getting hurt. They can hurt everyone you know, and keep you and them in constant fear and misery over a long course of life!"
Michael swallowed hard, then thought up something he hoped would at least give him more information. "I take it you weren't just a standard combat Marine."
"Hell, no! I'm not telling you anything about my security work in embassies across Europe. I'm not telling you about the things I had to pretend I didn't overhear when people who can put God on hold chatted about the things that worried them. I'm not telling I heard all the same family names you listed in your notes. What I am telling you is you are in way over your head. If you want to fight, pick an enemy in the lower ranks. Find a battle you can afford to lose, and stop putting in jeopardy people you don't even know."
The editor's chest heaved, and the mop closet was getting very close and stuffy. He glanced at his watch. "I have ten minutes to call and tell someone you have cleared the building and aren't coming back. They will be here to check, and will be ransacking your office and our computers. If they find anything that makes them unhappy, I'll be the first to come looking for you. Better I should feel bad about killing you quickly than to face what they can dish out ... to me and every one in this building. Now move it!"
In his mind, Michael had already rehearsed the possibility of being fired. This was just a more expedited version of what he imagined. He had long ago backed up all his files to floppy, and erased them from his desktop computer, as well as the company laptop he used. The latter was sitting open and running on the left side of his desk, while the desktop system sat at an angle on his right. On both systems, he clicked an icon which ran a high security erasure yet one last time on the system folders where he had kept his notes, then removed itself the same way. Every scrap of paper he had not already turned over to the editor was neatly bundled in one manila wallet, with the floppies. He pulled it out of the clip which held it to the bottom of his lowest desk drawer.
He gave just a moment to make sure he had missed nothing. Then he nearly ran to the back stairs, hesitating to listen a moment. Descending as fast as he safely could, he dropped seven floors, all the way to the basement parking garage. The outside entrance was gated, closed to everyone without an employee parking permit. Even with his efforts to stay in shape, he was partly out of breath. He ran to a service door, opened it and stepped into a dusty, darkened room. Feeling his way, he slipped behind the rust-streaked furnaces, just visible in the light of their own fires. Pushing aside an old full-length cabinet door against the wall, he stepped into a narrow stairway behind it, and put the metal panel back into place. Trying to avoid touching the walls, he descended the narrow stairs to another rusting steel service door. He turned the lock, stepped around the door, and reset the lock before closing it firmly.
Standing in an old municipal service corridor, he stopped to catch his breath. He retrieved a line from an old Billy Graham film, whispering, "Pay attention, Jesus!" Then he walked quickly and quietly toward the former city hall, now used for storage. He had learned of the route connecting to his publisher's building when digging into some deal where a councilman was getting kickbacks from new equipment declared surplus. He directed it sold to a single dealer without auction. Finally making his way back to the street level, Michael chuckled to himself.
If even so much as ten percent of what he had learned, and what the editor had told him, were actual fact, there was probably no detail of his life the Shadow Government didn't know -- or couldn't find if they wanted it. Still, he wasn't taking any chances, he decided. Thus, he had already moved a couple of boxes of absolute essentials to the commercial storage facility on the edge of town. An old flame still worked there, and allowed him to leave his compact pickup in one of the units, without fee or contract. It was completely dark by the time the cab dropped him there. He had purposely chosen the one taxi outfit everyone knew he hated. The owner kept his substandard cars in service by payoffs and favors to the city manager, who had direct control over licensing cab companies.
With his pocket flashlight, he checked to make sure everything was in place, the boxes sealed precisely the same way, an odd pattern he memorized. The camping gear was especially important. Throwing his bundle on the front seat, he started the motor and drove to the gate with his lights off. There was a mild nostalgic feeling driving the little truck again, with the five-speed manual shift. He didn't miss the occasional engine stumble while idling, but that was another matter. He parked in the visitor's lot at the apartment, and made quick work of changing clothes, grabbing a couple of bags, and tossing them in his truck. Zig-zagging across town to a truck route which would intersect with Interstate 5 just north of the city, he smiled as he pulled out his cell phone.
Driving north through the darkness, it took several tries dialing. Eventually, an hour before dawn, Burk answered. "Sorry, Michael. I was sound asleep and I'm not used to listening for a cell phone."
"Burk, can you tell me where you are?" The noise from the wind made it tough to hear, but the old truck didn't have air conditioning.
"Well, right now I'm about twenty-five miles northeast of where you dropped me. There's an old abandoned orchard off in the country. Some of the trees are ripe for picking, and we have a sort of festival eating the fruit in various ways. You'd be welcome to join us, especially if you can get us another bag of flour and some sugar so we can make a pot-cobbler. We've got plenty of butter."
"How much flour and sugar? And how do I find you?"
He was glad he had left his old road cup in the pickup the last time he drove it. You could only get a cup of hobo coffee in your own cup. Burk had traded some trinkets he found walking the highways and back-roads for an extra spoon. It was brunch, and the promised pot-cobbler smelled of Heaven, served in recycled number 10 cans. The shade had just shifted over the pickup, and the two sat on the tailgate.
Michael savored the taste, not just the coffee and cobbler, but of the sense of freedom and release. He had often asked himself if he could return to the standard of living when he struggled as a freelance writer, just out of college. While his apartment and year-old car might be waiting when he returned -- if he returned -- along with all the fine haberdashery in his closet, he decided it didn't matter. The Bible studies of late had carried an under-current of searching: Would we let God have everything if He asked, and do without? He knew as he fled the publisher's building the answer was a solid "yes."
The fancy duds were back in the big city. He had brought comfortable work clothing, his old laptop, the pickup, and bit of camping equipment he had gathered over the years. Even now he was deciding how to hang the pup tent over the bed of the truck so he could take a nap. The weight of the excellent cobbler in his stomach was a siren call even this strong hobo coffee couldn't overcome. Still, he needed to hash some things out with Burk.
"I got close enough to the Shadow Government to realize it was more powerful than I'd ever dreamed." He waited to see if Burk would comment.
"Yeah." He chewed some cobbler, then took a sip of coffee. "The only way you can defeat something like that is to live where they can't touch you, outside their sphere of interest."
"Explain."
With a boyish grin, and the wisdom of old men, he said, "You're seeing it right here."
Of course. Who noticed hobos? Only other hobos, and a few who decided to take exception to them. "I'm not quite ready to go that far just yet. Will I be safe enough living on the fringe of this?"
"For awhile, at least."
"Okay, so I keep my truck and stuff, and my driver's license. I know better than to use my bank cards anywhere near a place I plan to rest. However, I don't know any other means to tap my reserves of cash."
Burk looked into his empty can, as if to find words to answer. Finally he looked out across the orchard where the other hobos socialized in clusters. Nodding his head in their direction, "They don't keep much cash."
"No, I'm sure they don't. However, I had one other piece of advice and I intend to take it. I was told to pick a battle on my level, something I could afford to lose myself, without hurting those uninvolved. Not that I should quit fighting, but to choose an enemy I could reach. I'm not content to just leave the world as it is, spiraling down into a nightmare police state. I most certainly cannot stop it, not with my resources and skills. But I can make it clear what's wrong, and make it expensive for evil to grow. I want to do what I can do, with whatever help I can get, and make the process costly."
"Bitterness?"
"No, Burk. I have this vision I can do something to rescue just a few, a handful of innocents, give them hope to hang on. I already know if God wants me alive in the future, He'll make me hard to kill, as long as I'm not foolish. I'm pretty sure He wasn't going to protect me facing the Shadow Government, but they have servants whose hearts are equally dark, even if they don't realize they are pawns. I'm just about the level of a pawn in this game, and I want to disrupt the game-plan. If ordinary people can see that evil costs something, maybe they can hold on and resist, too. Even if it's just in small, subtle ways. A rebellion can spread, and I refuse to surrender to evil." He turned to Burk. "I know I'm just rambling, but does any of it make sense?"
"Sure, sure," Burk nodded, then leaned back against the gear in the truck, locking his fingers behind his head. "You'll probably need someone to watch your back. You might not need me to change a tire without a jack now, but I know a whole lot more things like that. I've done lots of different work. Hobos don't avoid work, but avoid being controlled too much."
Even as his eyes closed in sleep, Michael reached out a hand and grabbed Burk's. "Welcome aboard, partner. It won't necessarily be fun, but it will be very interesting, I promise..." He trailed off into sleep.
The library in this town had a decent parking lot, shaded by huge pines. Michael decided to back into a stall against the trees. Grabbing his laptop bag, he let Burk lead the way. The old man at the help desk smiled as he saw Burk approaching. "Does every librarian in the state know you?" Michael asked.
"Most of them," he said without turning his head. He greeted the elderly man warmly, then asked about some kind of CD.
"Sure," the man said, his face lighting up even more. "This is the latest release, with some new packages."
Burk took the plain white CD envelope, then led Michael to a table with a single terminal and two chairs. "This is the best time to come. With so few users, I don't have to sign up for just a half-hour or anything. I get to use this all morning long. Here, put this in your CD tray." He handed Michael the CD.
"Is this going to install something I can't undo later?"
"No," Burk chuckled as he began typing on the desktop keyboard. "Save your battery and plug into that outlet; just lift the brass plate." He pointed to a shiny square in the carpet under one edge of the table. As Michael was doing this, he went on, "That's called a 'live CD.' The entire operating system loads itself in RAM and runs like the CD is a hard drive. You got plenty of RAM?"
"A half-gig. When I bought this it was a high-end machine. I was a hard core gamer in those days."
"That should be plenty. Now watch," he said as Michael hurried to insert the CD while the laptop powered up. "You'll see a screen letting you choose the display resolution and the language." Michael hesitated, so Burk reached over and hit some keys for him. "There, that should work. Now watch the next screen, where the software probes your laptop and automatically loads the drivers."
First, there was a cartoon character of a penguin, sitting in the upper left corner of a black screen. Then multi-colored text scrolled by, too fast for Michael to read clearly. The penguin scrolled off the top of the screen, the whole display flashed once, then froze for a second. Next there was an ugly, fine-grained black and white hatch-crossed display, with a big black X in the middle. It was quickly replaced with an artsy color background. A sound came out of the tiny speakers, announcing in a sexy female voice the system was loading. Then a brightly decorated square opened, with grayed out icons along the bottom and a progress indicator.
"Wow. Somebody really put some work into this."
"That's not even the best part," Burk said, typing and clicking on the desktop machine. "Parts of it will work just like Windows. But underneath, the thing is totally different. They say it's so stable, it doesn't crash until the hardware fails."
The display on the laptop screen was indeed similar to Windows, Michael decided, but there were icons the length of the bar at the bottom. "Kinda cluttered, if you ask me."
Burk had been reading something on the library's computer monitor. "You can adjust that, and remove everything you don't use. You'll have to do it again if you shutdown, but you can save your changes to a floppy, and it will load them the next time."
"And all without writing anything to the hard drive?"
"Only if you want it to. That open window is one of several web browsers, and it shows a copy of their website. Look." Burk pointed to a similar display on the monitor in front of him.
They studied the options and played with the laptop for the next couple of hours. Between the two of them, they managed to get the wireless working. Michael checked his email accounts, scanned a couple of weblogs belonging to friends, and became more comfortable. Then he made some more adjustments, saving them to a blank floppy he fished out of the laptop bag.
"Not only is it pretty much virus-proof and spyware-proof, but if you only run from the CD, even an expert can't crack your system permanently. Just reboot and their work is wiped away; the CD hasn't changed."
"Okay, so we can go war-driving all over the country. And wherever we find an unsecured wireless node, we can logon and do what we like. But, my wireless card has a MAC address and it can be traced. Just like using a bank card at any ATM in the world, anyone trying to track me can see where I've been, like electronic fingerprints you can't wipe away." Michael went on to explain how several child pornographers and terrorists were caught that way.
Burk sat thinking a second. Turning quickly back to the desktop system, he said, "Isn't there a way to change the MAC address? I'm sure I read that somewhere..." After a few moments, "There. It's a package offered by the same folks who made the software on the CD. You can download, and save it to the floppy, since it's pretty small."
Michael went to the same site on his laptop, saved the package to his floppy, then installed it. A small window popped open and asked if he wanted a specific number, or a random choice. He chose random. Almost immediately the window reported his new MAC address, and reminded him he could reload the original, and how. Saving it to his floppy, he closed the application. Now the library's wireless server was asking him to login in again, as if he had just tried to connect for the first time. "This is gonna make things much easier."
Michael decided this hobo campsite wasn't too bad. They had driven quite a ways into the forest preserve, crossing a couple of high passes between mountains, and he wondered why this one was so far from the main roads. Most of the campsites they had seen in the past weeks were surprisingly close to some highway, yet he could never have known where to look if Burk hadn't known they existed.
"There's a major rail line running down along the valley," Burk pointed downslope to the east. "Lots of zig-zagging in the track makes the trains slow down, and provides easy jumping on and off without being seen. I don't much care for hopping freight trains, but I've done it a few times."
They both lay back against an earthen berm, covered thickly with pine needles. The weather was still rather warm in this valley, now early in the fall. "I also don't much care for hurting people, if I can avoid it," Burk finally added to the conversation.
"Nor I." Michael thought for a moment, running through his mind the bits and pieces of philosophy and political theory they had read on numerous oddball websites. The overdone graphics on some gave them an air of idiocy, like screaming madmen on the street warning of black helicopters, dodging non-existent "hidden cameras" which could see through your clothes. It occurred to him, "But somebody is going to die, one way or another. It's never clear and simple, I know, but the way the system is turning... Sometimes it's pretty obvious. If nothing is done to stop the thugs with badges, innocent people will die. Or their lives will be destroyed, at the very least. And it tarnishes the badges worn by folks who aren't thugs."
Burk's sad face turned to a grimace at the memory. "It's not so bad when the city cops hassle me, because I know how to handle it. Hobos have lived with that forever. But I couldn't help it when they roughed up the old ladies and men, or tried to take kids away from parents who just don't want to live the middle-class dream... Yeah, I roughed up a few cops; I admit it. After I learned police forces were created to uphold just one narrow idea of public order, and had nothing to do with real safety or stopping actual crimes, it made me cry."
Musing almost to himself, Michael said quietly, "The gangs in one barrio said the local police were just the government's gang. When there was a big federal official visiting in the city, it pulled all the extra policemen in to provide security. With their presence in the barrio reduced, violent crime actually went down. The major gang in that neighborhood provided order better than the police." Turning to face Burk, he went on in stronger voice, "I never understood it at the time. It wasn't the sort of thing you could easily put in a newspaper article, but the gang there was the de facto government. Residents trusted and supported them, and only a handful of pretenders were involved in the neighborhood council sponsored by the city government."
They mused awhile longer, then Michael sat up. "Burk, we have to be very careful. We can't undo Western history. There will always be some sort of police force, but what are they really supposed to do? What are they for?"
Still laying back with his eyes closed, Burk ventured, "Seems to me I saw on some police cars, 'to protect and to serve.' I suppose that means they are supposed to protect and serve citizens."
"And when they don't?" Michael pressed. "Sometimes they protect and serve only those in power. Like the Shadow Government, they only allow their side of things to be published, so most of the sheeple keep voting for them. But regardless of the party affiliation, it's the same bunch."
"Two uniforms, same team," Burk mumbled.
"Burk, do those tracks down there run back to my city?"
This being the wet season on the West Coast, the three day ride was definitely not fun, Michael decided. Hiding under the piggy-backed trailers while moving was only partial protection from the weather. The three mile hike to the barrio was a welcome relief for cold and cramped muscles.
"I'm going to show you some of the best breakfast burritos this side of the Border," Michael promised as the sun rose behind them.
Not much had changed, just some faces. The little convenience store still made great food. Michael was careful to observe the protocols and approached the young men whose duty was to watch for trouble from rival gangs. Using the rapid and slurred version of Spanish he learned when writing about gangs, he discovered the same man was still in charge. He waited for the guardians to make a couple of calls on cell phones, then went precisely the path they advised. It was not the same abandoned garage where he last met the leader. Now it was a much larger place, probably a former department store of some kind.
The guards near the back door were older, larger than the lookouts. They watched without expression as Michael and Burk went through the freight entrance in the alleyway. Passing a couple more men playing dominoes in the back room, they went into some sort of office suite. Sitting in a recliner, watching a Spanish soap opera on an old TV, was a rather well-dressed Latino. He looked up as they came in, and smiled. Pointing the remote to kill the TV, he stood to greet Michael.
Burk had trouble following the conversation. His knowledge of Spanish was very limited. At least he could understand more of the words now, because it was less of the street dialect he had heard on the way. Obviously the man liked Michael, and there was an air of mutual respect. Motioning for them to sit on the big, overstuffed couch along one wall, the man returned to his recliner, but remained sitting upright.
At one point, Michael asked a question Burk knew involved wireless access. Apparently the answer was yes, because Michael reached into his backpack and pulled out the laptop. This time he booted into Windows from the hard drive. After a moment, he showed the screen to their host. The man got up and grabbed a chair from the side of a table, and placed it next to the couch near Michael, who had turned so they both could see. After much discussion and pointing, during which the man became more animated, they shook hands. The man took out a cellphone from his shirt pocket, returned to his recliner and leaned back to chatter for awhile.
Michael turned to Burk, and spoke rather quietly, "I'm making a deal. I set up a website for him, and help him get the right kind of publicity. I've convinced him he can fight the official neighborhood council this way, too. He's got a niece who can run the site for him; she's been learning about this some. Turns out he had already asked her, but she didn't know about publicity and where to find free hosting. We're going to setup a couple of free blog accounts so they can post on the council's blog. Then he's going to purchase some cheap webspace and create a forum in Spanish. Once it's all set up and running, he plans to start contacting the local Hispanic news organizations."
Michael paused for a moment to answer a question from the man in the recliner, who shouted back into the phone a single word like a slogan, punctuated with his index finger pointing in the air. Then in one motion he snapped the cell phone shut, folded down the leg rest and stood up. He shook hands with Michael, smiled briefly at Burk, then led them out into the back room. There was a rapid exchange in the street dialect, and Burk caught none of it. Then one of the men slapped his dominoes face down and walked out the back door. Michael pulled Burk behind him and waved one last time to their host as he went the same way.
Outside, Michael led Burk in the other direction than their arrival. Once on the street, they turned and headed toward a park where children frolicked on old playground equipment. It had obviously been repaired, and was still functional, though hardly with standard parts. They sat on a shaded concrete bench, which had been taken from some bus stop somewhere. These were the tiny kids, too young to be in school yet. A few mothers with cheap, gaudy strollers, and a couple with modified shopping carts, stood or sat watching. Occasionally one or another would yell something at the kids. One was comforting a crying tot.
They watched for a moment, feeling like visiting tourists in a foreign country. Turning to Burk, Michael asked, "Where do hobos go around here this time of year?"
"I don't know," Burk said, with a rising tone. "You see, hobos are fairly democratic, but they are organized almost along feudal lines. There are established communities, and a few groups floating between them. There's a couple of really crooked gangs, but they're well known. They know better than to mess with the established communities. There's a truce as long as their actions don't present a risk to the community." He paused a moment, then went on. "But the whole thing is still rather territorial. The region I've lived in is sort of a northern, mostly white culture, but nothing of middle class habits. Where we're sitting right now is just beyond the southern end of that region."
"You don't have connections in this area?"
"I don't think there are too many hobos here, not as I know them. Maybe some honorary members of the community who live in the city, and keep a regular life. They keep their membership up by paying dues, so to speak. They supply the community with things that can't be found, made or traded. Sometimes they'll take a bunch to breakfast when we have gatherings." Looking around at the totally urban environment, he said, "These folks here take up the spaces and resources northern hobos would need to use. Hobos can pass through, but they have to be careful. This isn't hobo country."
"It's a shame our government has let this happen. This isn't immigration; it's migration. A whole nation moving in to displace another. On the other hand, our predecessors pushed them out in the first place, a hundred-fifty years ago. The Shadow Government has decreed we shall all be united in a single continental super-state. Borders don't mean anything. This silent invasion isn't something we can fight. Don't you find them in the northern region, too?"
"To some degree, but not like here. For hobos, this is just northern Mexico. Mexico has its own hobos."
"Okay, so it's up to me. I'd rather not stay in the barrio, either. I need to find an ATM for the card I don't use much. I think we'll pass through the local Chinatown for that, then stay in a motel I know. Ready for a long hike?"
They headed west, where a major highway divided the barrio from a pricier beachfront area. Lunch was fast food, served with stares from the well-heeled and hip. The two made a game of holding a conversation which included their backpacks, sitting upright in booth seats next to them, like girlfriends on a double date. Burk offered his some fries. Michael stuffed a packaged pastry in the outer pocket of his, then asked if it was yummy.
In Chinatown, Burk stood guard while Michael got some cash from the ATM. While the oriental setting was entertaining, and the smells quite exotic, they both agreed it was a tough hike on concrete and asphalt. They could move faster, but it made the feet and legs much more tired than forest paths carpeted with pine needles. They were making almost four miles per hour, but with the sudden rush of school-aged children released from the government's daytime warehousing, they decided to stop and rest at a cafe. The mist blowing in from the ocean was blocked by the building and its generous awning, so they sat at the last table on one end of the sidewalk section. The house tea served hot was just right.
"This should hold us `til dinner time. There's a decent cafe a block from the motel," Michael promised.
"Will it take us that long to walk there?" Burk asked.
"No. But we can sit here for an hour, then catch a city bus. I haven't ridden one in years, but I saw a schedule posted at a stop on our way here, and we can go back and wait there. It'll take us that long to ride there, though."
Putting his cup down, Burk held it in both hands. "I like city busses. You don't feel so out of place dressed like we are. Even with gas pushing four dollars, prissy folks won't ride the bus very much. Real traveling hobos tell me in some areas of the country, you can ride city busses across state lines because of how the routes run."
"Well, I've never liked them much in the past," Michael said. "Maybe I can get used to them. Even if they look clean, it seems they all smell like dirty diapers. But then, I haven't bathed in over a week, so maybe I won't notice." Then he added, "At least the motel will have showers."
When Michael awoke, the sun was in his eyes. He rubbed them, and his eyelids felt like sandpaper. Finally he could finally see clearly, and he noticed by the angle of the sun it was mid-morning.
Burk was sitting in chair, feet on his bed, reading a Gideon's Bible. "I heard a lot of hotels and motels have been bought up by Muslims. They removed the Gideon Bibles, sometimes replacing them with copies of the Quran." He gestured at the open page, "I wanted to find the story of Ehud assassinating the King of Moab. I'm glad they still have Bibles in this one, and the Berkeley Translation at that."
Michael fumbled in his backpack for clean clothes. "Why did you want to know about that? Oh, and sorry about making you skip breakfast."
"I ate your pie from yesterday's lunch," he said absently. Moving to an upright position, he picked up a styrofoam cup from the floor beside him and walked over to the little counter near the bathroom where the "in-room coffee" consisted of a water heating pot and packets of instant coffee. As he dumped a packet of black granules in the cup, he said, "I was looking at the motive." After pouring hot water on top of the granules, he stirred it with a little plastic straw. Turning to sit back down, he continued, "Ehud is called a hero. He rescued his people from oppression. He took advantage of his talents, including being a lefty in a time and place where it was rather unusual. He also took full advantage of the evil king's constant fear and suspicion." He sat down still holding his cup, then slumped and put his feet back up on the edge of his bed, just as Michael had found him upon waking.
Pulling on his hiking boots, Michael asked, "So, how does this carry over into the New Testament, where it's about grace instead of law?"
"I don't know how to answer that, but I'm noticing these ancient Semites took a totally different view of assassination than we in the Post-Modern West. We call it cowardly. They called it heroic."
Standing up again, Michael responded, "Yes, and Jesus was a Semite. However, He was not about fighting political enemies of His nation. His mission was otherwise. Yet again, His cousin John the Baptist never told the penitent Roman soldiers they had get out of military service. Nothing in the Gospels condemns the Roman soldiers for being soldiers. They were condemned for being cruel to Jesus after His arrest, but not for doing their job."
"Are we trying to be some kind of soldiers?"
"Rebels," Michael answered. "Soldiers or not, we'll be fighting a war against our own Moabites. I rather think Ehud's methods will work for us, too."
They walked down to the cafe and enjoyed a large brunch. As if discussing the change in weather from wet to sunny, Michael explained how, in return for the website and so forth, the Latino gang boss was putting them in touch with a munitions supplier from Mexico. "How much stuff do we need?" Burk asked, sipping his milk.
"I think it's more a matter of what kind. My editor back at the paper was a retired Marine. During social occasions, it was sometimes possible to get him talking about tactics and such. Once, he even took me to a private range to fire various weapons. I'm pretty decent with a rifle and scope..."
"I'm pretty good without the scope," Burk interrupted.
Laughing, Michael went on, "Anyway, assassins will probably need at least one good sniper rifle, and surely some explosives. I don't know how much the gang leader will get us, but he promised to see if any of his connections needed something similar to what I offered him. I'm not sure I could actually pay outright for much."
They had frittered the day away reading newspapers and watching TV, while taking turns on the laptop. They had managed to pick up a wireless signal, and ran the Linux CD to tap it. There was a more concrete discussion of identifying suitable targets. At one point, Burk stumbled on a patriot forum. Most of the chatter seemed bluffing, big talk from armchair generals who probably never wore a uniform. However, there was one member who clearly knew what he was talking about. Michael commented he wouldn't be surprised if it were his old editor, but if not, it was surely someone like him. The tone and content was consistent with some of the numerous conversations they'd had. One comment rang a bell with Michael and Burk:
If you're going to do assassinations, you'd better
work a long way from where you plan to hide out.It was late evening, and they were about to retire, when Michael's cell phone rang. The deal was on! The conversation was short. Putting his phone away, Michael opened the laptop and booted into Windows. "Rest if you can, Burk. I've got a couple of websites to build, email to send, and I won't be sleeping until I get it all done." He waited impatiently for the busy cursor to go away, then began clicking and typing feverishly.
Something in the Italian dinner they ate didn't set well on Burk's stomach. He woke from a nightmare about dodging bullets, being chased by rabid dogs with faceless demons holding them on leashes, and other unpleasantries he didn't remember. It must have been well past midnight, but Michael still had his face to the glowing laptop screen.
Coming out of the cramped bathroom, Burk found Michael stumbling around trying to get dressed. He insisted they had no time to waste, and encourage Burk to get dressed and packed. It was just past dawn, but the renewed cloud cover tinged it with red. They stumbled out into a somewhat cool breeze and headed to the nearest bus stop. Even the poorest people had cell phones these days, and Michael wasn't the only one chatting away on the ride back south.
Four changes later, the bus line ran out just a few blocks from the barrio. They had been standing on the last bus, as workers had crowded the seats before they got on. Michael had trouble hearing, and lost the signal twice. He kept checking as they walked into the barrio, in an area bearing little resemblance to where they had been two days before. In front of a dingy convenience store, which bore not a word of English, Michael felt he had a sufficient signal, and dialed. During the conversation in the street patois, he turned suddenly, looking east. He shaded his eyes, not from the sun, which was hidden behind clouds, but from the drifting mist which had just begun. He hesitated a moment, then spoke a couple of words, and began walking down the street as he put the phone away.
Dodging a sign advertising cerveza, Burk caught up. "We have to catch the guy before he leaves," Michael informed him. "He's going to make a resupply run, but has some stuff in stock, which apparently includes the items you and I had discussed. He's going to give us as much as we can carry, and it's up to us keep it out of sight. If we get caught, we're on our own."
"They use that stuff around here?" Burk wondered out loud.
"Oh, no. This is just a transit point. The stock comes into a Chinese freight company, at a terminal they own all to themselves. This is the same company caught supplying gangs a couple of years ago with Chinese arms. To avoid such close inspection in the future, they made a secret deal with the federal government to buy out a run-down port of their own. You might recall the big brouhaha over them trying to get the old Long Beach Naval Base."
"Oh yeah. Some of the veterans in the hobo community were cussing about that."
"Yes, veterans groups made a lot of noise about that. Anyway, this guy works out of his truck. He picks up arms here, drives them down to Nuevo Laredo, and exchanges them for drugs. He makes several drops on the way back, then brings the rest of it here. Several drug gangs are working in a sort of co-op."
Burk frowned at the idea of drug dealing. "I wonder how he avoids searches and stuff."
"Let's ask him! He's right there."
They had rounded a corner. Peeking out of an alleyway was the nose of what turned out to be a bob-tailed refrigeration truck. It appeared just barely safe to drive. A man jumped out of the driver's seat and waited for them. Michael greeted him in the street dialect. As they walked around the truck, Burk was surprised there were no guards, until he spotted dark eyes peering at him out from under a filthy baseball cap on top of the cargo box. The driver was all business. He opened the side door, with just an inch to spare against the wall of the building. Inside, there were just a couple of wooden cases. Both had been opened. From the top one, he produced a bundle wrapped in newspaper covered with tiny oriental printing in columns.
Michael unwrapped it part way, just enough to see what was inside. His eyebrows shot up. He wrapped it back up, and raised his head with a smile on his face. A little more chatter, and the man passed him what had to be a few ammo boxes. These Michael passed to Burk, who shed his backpack. They were followed by an odd looking cartridge magazine. He poked these and the first bundle into his pack, making sure the clothing was against the outside surface.
The driver moved the now empty crate off the top, and removed the loose lid on the bottom one. There was a green bag, with a bundle of wire peeking out of one exterior pocket. There were also three squat, round cannisters with black paper walls and metal lids. These last Michael passed to Burk, whose pack was pretty tightly stuffed once he pushed them in place. Michael shrugged off his pack and pushed the green nylon bag inside, plus a long cylinder with odd-looking ends, a square ridge running down one side and a bulge on top of that at one end. Burk wondered to himself, rocket launcher?
As if he almost forgot, the driver handed over two small automatic pistols. They were used, but still in good condition. He finally handed over a paper sack, about the size of a good lunch, but obviously heavier. Burk found out later it held loaded pistol magazines and ammo boxes. Just before they turned to climb down, Michael asked a long question, followed by a couple of sentences of explanation. The driver burst out laughing. After he got his breath back, he said a few rapid sentences, at one point making a sort of pedaling motion with his hands. At least twice he shrugged broadly and turned his palms face up. Then he finished with a dismissive wave in their direction. Michael half smiled, then shook his head and lead the way out the little side door. The whole thing was so comical, Burk laughed, even without a clue to what was said.
They walked briskly back toward the railroad tracks. From where they collected the weapons, it was about two miles. Moving north along the tracks, they were trying to find the place where they thought it would cross a creek. Sure enough, just a quarter mile up, there was a sturdy wooden rail bridge. While the creek hardly held any water, its bed was nearly fifty yards across. The bridge was narrow, but along one side there as a low railing, with a narrow walking space outside that. Somehow -- he didn't explain -- Burk could tell by the engines and the load when a train was heading back in the direction of the campsite upstate where they left the truck. Burk had been adamant it was safe to leave it there. They let two trains pass overhead while they sat through the middle of the day. It was hard to avoid being nervous about the weapons they had.
Burk took a seat just under the edge of the walkway, high up on the bank. Michael sat down near the edge of the creek. He hauled some foil-wrapped burritos from an outer pocket of his backpack, tossing one to his friend. Burk chewed thoughtfully, then sipped a wine cooler he had produced from somewhere, and said, "So what did the driver say when you asked?"
Michael stared at the bottle in Burk's hand, and couldn't remember when they had bought one. Losing the puzzled look no his face, he looked up and said. "CIA."
"CIA? What about the CIA?"
"He said he was contracted by the CIA to move the drugs from the Rio Grande Valley out to southwestern markets. He carries a regular manifest, accounts for everything he delivers and how much he's paid. He gets here, calls some number from any of a couple dozen pay phones, and tells them where he's parked. Within an hour, some guy comes by on one of those Mexican Ice bicycles, checks the manifest, takes a flat percentage, and rides off. In return, they get even his speeding tickets thrown out on the grounds of national security. He's never had his truck searched in two years."
"Then why all the cloak and dagger?"
"Other gangs not a part of the co-op." Michael stuffed the last of his burrito in his mouth, folded the foil neatly and put it back in the outside pocket of his pack.
There was the silent vibration in the bridge indicating another train approaching. Michael looked on hopefully as Burk stood and glanced both ways. He crouched back down, and signaled to be ready. Michael turned and jumped the narrow creek, then sprinted up the slope just under the other end of the bridge. With their packs in their hands, they watched as the engines passed overhead on the bridge. Once they made the turn, Burk popped up, looking back along the line of cars. Motioning with his hand, he hopped up on the bridge, clambered up on the rail, then steadied himself. Michael was up onto the bridge on the far side, waiting. With consummate grace, Burk leaped onto a passing flat car, tossed his pack on the deck, grabbed a tie-down strap and leaned out with one hand. Michael was wearing his pack as he jumped up on the railing just in time to be scooped in Burk's free arm.
Trains had to move quite slowly inside the city limits, or they would never have hopped it so easily. Night fell before they got across the huge metro-plex. Initially, they huddled close to the harvester strapped down on the flat car. Waiting until the city lights faded behind them, they scrambling along the blind side of the next long curve. They chose the third flat car back. There was a huge piece of unidentified machinery there with a large open space facing the rear. This time they managed to stay relatively dry. Over the creaking, singing rails and wind, Burk asked, "So the stuff I read about the CIA running drugs must be true."
Michael stared out into the darkness. "Schizophrenia. With one hand the federal government spends millions of tax dollars on anti-drug education and interdiction. On the other, they run drugs to fund activities they can't hide in the black budgets before Congress."
The guys managed to get some sleep this time.
"So we target the principle, by going after it's chief promoters, or primary users," Michael said as the pickup rumbled down the rutted track.
"Well, we can't really go after any politicians," Burk offered.
"Except for targets of opportunity," Michael added.
Burk's answer was cut off by the jolt from a crater in the forest road. To Michael's questioning look, he repeated, "Of course." As they turned onto a better road, he continued, "The main problem is the increasing gulf between the people and the first line of government presence they deal with: the police. Aside from a few corrupt sheriffs, the county-based law enforcement is the only one fully legitimate under the Constitution. We should try to leave them alone."
Michael carried it further, "We also leave alone most street officers, because we can't turn the clock back. Good cops are good cops, and it appears they dominate for now. Since we can seldom tell them from the bad ones at a distance, we operate under the assumption most patrolmen aren't the real problem, unless we find departments rife with a militarist mindset."
"That leaves SWAT teams and the like. We've seen how their whole purpose in life is to destroy, and make no provision at all for innocent by-standers." Burk's voice had a hint of anger. Softening a bit, "So how do we go after them?"
"We don't," Michael shot back. "We get their attention and let them come to us. As we move East, let's spend some time reading articles which reveal standard tactics, determine the earmarks of what gets cities to call a SWAT raid. I'll dig through policy papers and find out what the federal bureaucrats favor when they agree to fund the equipment and training. In the process, I'm sure I'll identify places where we can find a likely first target."
Having already encountered snow showers on one high ridge coming out of the forest, they decided to take a southerly course cross the Continental Divide down in New Mexico. Gas prices had come down a bit, and they found themselves often in the company of snowbirds, many with Canadian plates. They enjoyed the scenery, taking backroads where possible. Michael was surprised by some of the odd places where the laptop wireless found a signal. At one point, they stopped at an old military rifle range in the desert. It was still in use, clearly, but equally obvious was the civilian nature of the use. There were shards of clay skeet, some empty black powder cannisters, and other odds and ends. It was vacant that afternoon, so they practiced unhindered.
Both were better than they had hoped with the handguns, so saved the ammunition. They spent more time with the rifle, first taking turns assembling and disassembling it as quickly as possible. Then they practiced a few rounds each, with and without the scope. True to his word, Burk was deadly without the scope, and flawless altogether with it. When they realized they were down to one unopened box, they decided they'd have to stop and save the remaining ammo for the real thing. They discovered cleaning weapons was a time-consuming task.
Frequent reading on the subject indicated a perfect first target. There was a college town, almost a suburb of a big Midwestern city. The university there had on the faculty a PhD little known outside his campus, the Beltway and the policy wonks. This man was by far the most influential writer encouraging federal policy for grants and training of police SWAT teams. The underlying theme of his work was to disregard by-stander safety, lest there be an even greater risk to the rest of the population from failure to act quickly and decisively. No surprise then, the small city nearby had one of the largest SWAT teams as a percentage of officers on the force. They had just added two new officers to make fourteen.
Two birds with one stone.
Wiping his face with a wet cloth, Burk came out of the bathroom. "Hey, look at this." Burk came to look over Michael's shoulder at the laptop screen. "See this? The foundation which endowed our boy's chair, I happen to know, is a front for the Shadow Government."
Mumbled Burk, "That explains why he encourages casual disregard for human life. To the Shadow Folk, the bulk of humanity is just an economic resource, completely expendable."
The room heater started knocking again, but they ignored the noise. For all the racket, it barely worked. The gaps around the door and the one window on one side of the room let in the highway noise and the gusty cold wind. It hadn't snowed this far south, but Michael was reminded why he had moved to the West Coast. Did that wind never stop? No, not in the Midwest.
They had been lurking on various forums and chatboards sponsored by the university. Aside from the self-important SGA, and a few specialty groups, most of it was the same airhead chatter. They found a small group of Linux users in the Computer Science Department. Two of the servers were Linux, and one was NetBSD. Still, it looked like the department was owned by Gates and Company. Aside from those three machines, the campus servers they could identify ranged from Win2K and XP to Server 2003. One department was behind some kind of automatic firewall-switch. They could tell there were multiple machines behind it, but nothing more.
From their room in an ancient motel near the truck stop 20 miles out, they had begun searching also for real estate companies in the surrounding three counties bunched together. The list was compared to the BBB, to identify the worst one. Michael explained, "This is the one most likely to take a bribe to break all the rules in our favor."
To their surprise, it was some old woman in the city. After viewing her listings, they chose a first, second and third best guess and made plans to view them. First, Michael wanted to stop at the city library and scan microfilms of old city papers. How long had it been since he visited a library which still used microfilm? With a good sample of stories about her past shenanigans, he felt even better about dealing with her. The first house was too far out, and it was no surprise her ad lied about "convenience." The second house was perfect: ancient, high fences on either side, and an alleyway in back.
The next day, they were traversing some country roads, hoping to find a place to hide the pickup. As they slowed in sight of a large, dilapidated barn, Burk put up his hand, "Wait!"
Michael stepped on the brakes, and the tires came to a crunching stop in the gravel road. Leaving the door open, Burk stepped across a weed-packed ditch, and examined something hanging from the lone strand of rusty barbed wire where a stock fence had been. He got back in quickly and said, "I think we're in luck. Hobos frequent this area. Check the barn first."
Set back a ways from the road, there was a gate over the twin wheel tracks where weeds had been crushed often enough by tires to leave only patchy grass, leading almost straight to the barn. That grass was yellow and brown, both from a dry fall and from temperatures just above freezing during the middle of the day. There were prints left by worn shoes in the sandy places, running both ways. Burk got out and examined the gate where a chain secured it to a pitted iron post. He found the back side was just wired together where the chain had been cut, leaving the lock in front. He stepped around the gate to a place where the wire was gone altogether, pushed the tall, dried weeds apart, and found his way back to the twin tracks. Approaching the barn, he said something unintelligible to Michael, in a loud voice. Directly, someone stepped out to meet Burk. Michael couldn't see more than a fuzzy, matted gray head past Burk's wide shoulders.
In a few moments, Burk came back the same way, and got in the truck. "Drive down to the end, look for another gate like this one. Follow the track over the crest and down into the trees. Should be a safe camp there."
This turned out to be precisely accurate. However, they didn't expect to find a huge, patchwork tree-house attached to a trio of large oaks. Michael steered the truck into what looked to him a likely parking place under this makeshift home. Burk made a sort of yodel, then stepped out of the truck. He quickly climbed a rope ladder, making a few more yodels inside the maze of boards and tarps. A moment later, he was back down. "Nobody here right now. We can leave everything we don't need. It'll be waiting when we get back."
Michael had learned to trust such declarations from Burk. In the low place among the trees, the wind was less cutting. Still, Michael found it tough to change clothes in the cold air. Burk acted as if it were still summer, taking his time. Michael took out some large bills, then hid his wallet deep up inside the bottom of the driver's seat. He shivered in the light jacket. His coat was attached to the outside of his pack. They still had a good five miles to hike back into town, and the coat would make him sweaty. They needed to avoid that if they were going to pass for college kids.
Indeed, they needed to look like conservative and prosperous college boys. Haircuts were the easy part. For Michael, shaving off more than a month's growth of beard was a welcome relief. Convincing Burk to shed his boy fuzz was not so easy. "Look, Burk. You step out of the shower, towel off your face and immediately slap on some baby oil. Rub it in, all over the area where the whiskers grow. Then take a fresh disposable razor, and carefully shave downward, nice and slow. Short, light strokes, repeated until the skin is smooth. Do that on both sides, all the way down to the collar bones. Shave under your nose last." When it was finally done, he didn't look any older, but he did look preppy. That was good enough.
Looking at his watch, Michael announced, "We've got just about enough time to catch the 4PM if we leave now." Burk hurried to grab his backpack. These were matching new packs, which looked more like luggage than real camping equipment. It was five miles of brisk walking into the wind. They stopped in a patch of trees just back from the highway. Across and down to the right was a large gas station and convenience store, which also served as the bus line depot.
They had checked the schedules to see when busses were supposed to stop. The 4PM was early, Michael noted, by some ten minutes. As soon as it passed, they jogged across the road, coming up behind on the driver's side where it nosed in against the front of the building. By the time the driver made it around to open the luggage compartments, they were coming around the backside. Passing through the passengers who got off to smoke, or headed into the store, only the driver and passengers who had been riding would know the boys hadn't just gotten off, too. They entered the store, milled around with the customers, moved into the fast food section on the far end, then eventually out the other front door.
Outside they stood next to the building where they found a city bus marker and schedule. There was also a taxi stand marker. This put them on the northern side, and they waited until they were thoroughly chilled, then switched into their heavier coats, stuffing the light jackets under the top flap on their matching packs. When Michael was about to go back inside to find a pay phone and call the cab company, they saw one turning into the driveway near them. Waving to make sure the driver knew they were waiting, they even held the doors for the Goth girls who got out. They were still chuckling about it when they had settled in, and told the driver the realtor's address.
She must have thought she was cute. Most people wouldn't agree with her, but that didn't seem to matter. Nor was it that the makeup was poorly applied; it simply didn't help. Had she concentrated more on character and personality, she might not have to work for her grandmother. Instead, she had chosen to emulate the woman who was always in court, and sometimes not far from arrest. Her grandmother was fairly well off, and paid her well. However, money could not buy enough cosmetic applications to justify her efforts to play off her looks.
It was not far from closing time, and the mail had come late, as usual. Sorting through the varied envelopes, she pulled out the one with a municipal seal on the cover. It could be very bad news. Upon opening and scanning the cover letter, she smiled with relief.
"Here you go, grandma. The city has granted your demolition permit for that old house you haven't been able to sell."
"Let me see," the old woman said. "They give me 60 days. Good, I can shop it around and get the lowest bid."
She looked up at the sound of car doors out front. It was a taxi, and two young college students, she thought. Nice looking boys, conservative types who probably had lots of daddy's money. She was altogether willing to take some of it. As they came in the door, she smiled sweetly, projecting that cookie-making-granny image that had kept her out of trouble so often. She rested one hand on the four-foot high counter running across the office, separating customers from the two desks behind. "Good afternoon, boys. I'm glad you made it before we closed up today. How can I help you?"
The shorter, handsome one spoke with a pleasant sounding voice. "Well, ma'am, I was hoping we could find a nice rental. Perhaps over on the south side, in that quiet old neighborhood. I believe we saw a couple of your ads for that area?"
They would have to be rather bright and industrious, too, wouldn't they? She tried to steer them to a couple of expensive places, but they seemed uninterested. Then the larger one spoke with a soft voice, proving his bumpkin facial features were deceptive. "Madame, I seem to recall a small house in that area. We really don't need much."
This wasn't working as she had hoped. "Well, I do have a place for sale, but I am not prepared to rent it. I'm getting too old to try and maintain older properties like that. And I could hardly afford to pay someone to manage it for me. We're just getting by, here."
As if totally innocent, Michael countered, "Really? According to the papers you've grossed not less than several hundred thousand annually for quite some time. Besides, we know the place is slated for demolition. Surely you'll let us rent for a month or so? If you don't offer us a written agreement by which you could be held liable in court, we'll deny knowing it's been declared unfit for habitation. I believe I have sufficient cash to make you comfortable with that. Even if we annoy the neighbors, you won't hear about it for at least that long. Oh, and don't forget to have the utilities turned on."
Without the slightest change in her demeanor, she stated bluntly a figure. As Michael was counting out large bills on the counter, she reached under the counter, fishing among keys hanging on several hinged panels. She pulled up two matched pairs of shiny new keys, murmuring the locks were fairly new, as were the doors.
The granddaughter was a little angry she never managed to catch the big fellow's eye.
There was no furniture, nor would there be. A few battered dishes and some cooking utensils, an ancient hot plate, and an ice chest were in the kitchen, all found in one or the other of two thrift stores just a block off downtown. There were two unshaded lamps, kept on the floor. They added a used drop-light when they decided the smell emanating from below the house was too much. Burk had done some plumbing, and even managed to produce a pair of coveralls from his odd collection of clothing.
"I need to pull this up anyway, because for a gas floor heater, it's not putting out much at all," Burk explained. They had picked up a selection of used tools with the drop-light, and Burk had turned off the gas outside. Then he removed the fitting connecting a metal line with various shades of green powdery coating. Michael was surprised how light the stove was, and they set it aside. Burk tied a rag over his mouth, turned on the drop-light, and stepped off into the hole. His fall was arrested by a concrete floor, leaving him about chest level with the ragged carpet on the lip of the opening. Ducking down, he disappeared. The metal line wriggled a bit, and Burk announced in a muffled voice he had removed a kink.
Aside from the noise of moving about, he made little sound as he explored the entire basement. Suddenly he popped up, covered with dust and cobwebs, and asked for the section of stiff, tightly coiled wire he called a "snake." Disappearing again, there soon followed an odd sound of metal sliding on metal. He reappeared once more, and asked for the largest kitchen pot filled with water. When Michael returned, Burk ignored his puzzled look and disappeared more slowly, carefully holding the pot to avoid spilling the water. Michael heard him pour it out, then some more shuffling. Finally Burk returned and promptly climbed out.
As they were sliding the heater back down into the floor, Burk explained there was a drain almost in the center of the basement. "Apparently it drops straight into a sewer line. I could hear lots of water flowing. There was a drain trap, so I filled it with the water. What had been in there before must have evaporated. That should close off the smell from the sewer line." Sure enough, over the next two days, their normal movements allowed the fresh air from outside to dissipate the smell. Also, the heater worked much better.
"There's one other thing down there I should tell you," Burk revealed as they lay on their bedrolls the second night in the house. They both were stretched out at odd angles a few feet from the floor heater.
"What's that?"
Burk's soft, raspy voice was almost ghostly in the darkness. "In the back corner, under the kitchen, a section of the basement wall is cracked. The crack runs at an angle up from the floor and into the corner between the walls. It leaves a triangular section which is tipping inward at the top. Probably a root or something pushing on it."
"Does it affect us?" Michael had been considering two rough plans at once. They had to at least credibly threaten the professor, which would probably get the police interested. Then they had to incite a SWAT raid, probably kill or wound them with the explosive weapons, and somehow escape.
"Well, you know there's a storm drain out in the alley. Looks like it's a little lower than the floor of our basement. It would be a ton of work, but that might make a good opening for a crawl tunnel to get out of here unnoticed."
Michael sat bolt upright. "Burk! You are a genius! Did you see any shovels at the thrift stores?"
They decided to simply wander the campus looking like students. If they needed a story, there would a couple of different directions they might go, but they had to stay with it once they chose. Their favorite option was the most obvious one, a writer and his photographer. Carrying an old Pentax 35mm SLR, which looked alright but had a cracked main lens, Burk shadowed Michael as they roamed about the sprawling collection of historic buildings, with the occasional new structure here and there. They need not have bothered, as the huge student population proved the perfect cover. Aside from certain areas, like the Botany lab, there was virtually no place they couldn't go. The greatest danger was from chatty girls trying to get their attention.
At one point, they passed a fenced off area where workmen were preparing a pit for some sort of concrete junction box. Down in the hole, someone was welding, using a fancy new generator. It was mounted on three wheels, and small enough for one man to pull. The motor was incredibly quiet. Atop the concrete box was a cast-in steel tube, rather like an access shaft. Michael stared for awhile, then walked on, completely lost in thought. A couple of times he mumbled the word "diversion."
Suddenly he turned to Burk, "How deep does the drain in the basement drop before it hits the sewer? Do you have some idea?"
"I'd guess four feet or so. Why?"
"I wonder if they lock up that equipment up at night... Burk, could you run that welder?"
"I guess so." He knew better than to demand an immediate explanation of the fragments of thought left floating in the air.
Their month was about gone. Maybe another ten days and they'd have to be out for sure. Burk had ceased carrying the camera. They were tired from many late nights doing heavy physical work. Having slept late this morning, they both wondered if they'd be able to do anything at all. From the second floor of a newer classroom building, they could just see into the professor's office. Watching awhile from the lounge chairs in front of the wall of glass, he was easily visible at his desk in the next building. It was a mere two hundred meters or so. Sadly, neither of them could imagine how to fire without shattering the huge sheet of glass. Worse, the professor's window, while tall, had a flower pot in it. They could just see his head and shoulders.
As they walked outside, Michael was joking about using a baseball bat to knock a grenade up by the window. Suddenly he froze, staring at the backside of the building they had just left. In the parking lot was a tar heater, such as one towed behind trucks. It was smoking, producing a dull roar as the heating unit kept a quarter-ton of tar in a molten liquid state. The men were dispensing tar from a valve into steel five-gallon buckets. Then they placed each on a lightweight lift, with a small cage that shot quickly and smoothly up a track resembling a ladder to the edge of the flat roof. Burk spoke up, "Looks like they just got started on the job. That lift can carry people, too. If you look, there's no ladder; the guys on the roof rode up the lift one at a time. While it's easier work up there this time of year, you have to be really quick with that tar. It hardens in just a few minutes on really cold days. Since we had the warm front move in, I'd guess they have as much as ten minutes once the bucket gets to the top."
He glanced at Michael, and realized this wasn't the look of simple curiosity. Then it hit him. The roofing job would take at least a week, and he doubted the equipment would be moved after dark. Also, this was the start of finals week, and the professor would be in his office late every night.
Posted on several campus bulletin boards there was a short threatening statement. It demanded a certain professor immediately resign his seat on the federal advisory board for grants and policy regarding improvements in municipal police forces. The threat promised if he failed to comply, he would not survive Christmas Break. The post was made from an IP address in Pakistan. There was a sort of manifesto attached:
The people have had enough. It stops now. Back off and leave us alone. Those of you eating our tax dollars: Have you forgotten the term "public servant" means what it says? You serve us, not herd us. The people are supposed to be the government.
That hasn't been true in several generations, at least. The ruling elite are a closed group who only pretend to represent our interests. Instead, they rule only to enrich and further empower themselves, pushing us farther into the dust. The most ubiquitous symbol of this upside down state of affairs is the militarization of the civilian police. In effect, they are being made an occupying army, serving some other nation. In protecting the governing elite alone, they scarcely hesitate to destroy our lives, when they don't kill us outright.
No more. We are striking back. Whoever promotes empowering the police state, whoever promotes the increasing militarization of police forces, and any police officer treating average citizens with contempt, you are our enemy. We are declaring war. You have been warned.
"Won't that make the campus security hang around him a lot?" Burk asked.
"Yep. We want them there."
"Won't that make it risky for me? I'm ready to shoot this guy, but I'm not ready to fight off a bunch of rent-a-cops to get away."
Michael grinned, "You won't have to. We just want them clustered around the professor so we know where they are, and can't surprise us. When the grenade goes off in the parking lot next to his car, they'll come running. If any of them stay, I'll toss another closer to his office. Even if we don't get him, we've accomplished half the objective with the mere threat. His death just extends the message, which is by far the most important thing. You know they've been watching this house lately, and they're bound to see us come home right after all the commotion. This place is ready for major fireworks, and the tunnel finished. Even if they all survive, the message won't be ignored."
They were almost asleep. Suddenly the radio sounded an emergency tone, followed by an urgent broadcast alert. All units, all units. Respond to explosion and gunfire on north college campus. Also, be on the lookout for two male suspects fleeing the scene on foot... The rest was drowned out by the roar of the engine and ear-shattering twitter of the electronic siren.
At the main entrance to the campus, they were directed to turn back out onto the street running down the east side of the campus, and take up a position watching to see if anyone came out of the small forest growing around the lake at the south end of the campus. They stopped where the trees began, backed off the road, and turned so their headlights shone straight down the edge of pavement. They rolled the windows down so they could direct the spotlights while standing outside. They had been told other patrols were swarming the entire campus area. On the radio, they heard about a professor removed by ambulance, pronounced dead at the scene from a gunshot wound. So this was at least a homicide. A few minutes later they were listening intently to a description of the two suspects who had been seen wandering the campus over the past month.
What they did not hear was the squish of wet shoes coming up behind them. They were completely unable to explain later that night, while the paramedics were patching them up, how they had been beaten senseless after being attacked from behind. The muddy footprints matched a pair coming out of the lake. Who would swim a hundred yards across a lake in winter?
Yep, city busses weren't too bad. This one would take them far south of the city to an industrial park. There was a collection of plants turning out various products. The next run would be crowded with workers, but this sunrise shuttle, the first of the day, was only sparsely populated. They would have breakfast at the convenience store deli, then slip out and start their long hike across the fields back to the treehouse in the hollow.
It was necessary to split up for awhile. The descriptions of them were pretty vague, but they were taking no chances. Burk was pretty sure he could pass along through the hobo camps unnoticed. Michael would drive down to Mexico for awhile. Who knows? Maybe he could spot the ratty old bob-tailed truck hauling cocaine back across the Southwest, and follow him home. After Christmas and New Year's, they would both try to meet at the orchard in northern California. Michael was going to look for a small camper to put on the truck. It would make it harder to hide, but easier to live in year-round. By then, they'd know if there were more targets, or if they had already done all they could.
Maybe -- just maybe -- a few policemen would hesitate before humiliating some random citizen minding his own business.
The reader must decide for himself if the setting of this story is current reality, and whether the actions taken by the characters were appropriate. Don't miss the end in Part Two!
[Part Two here.]
By Ed Hurst
25 May 2006
COPYRIGHT NOTICE: People of honor need no copyright laws; they are only too happy to give credit where credit is due. Others will ignore copyright laws whenever they please. If you are of the latter, please note what Moses said about dishonorable behavior -- "be sure your sin will find you out" (Numbers 32:23)