The tire shop was also under Clay’s supervision and last Monday he had lost one good man to a Workman’s Compensation Injury; a tire machine had rejected the tire for some unknown reason, and the tire flew upward, striking the employee in the face. He suffered facial and neck injuries and was treated in the Emergency Room at Fairbanks Memorial Hospital. He was home now on Workman’s Comp paid leave, while a professional safety company hired by the dealership’s insurance company inspected the tire machine for mechanical problems or to see if it was operator error. Thankfully, they had three other machines, and the work could go on. This was Clay’s first stab at filling out all the paperwork involved with an on-site employee injury, and he hoped it was his last.
Since coming to work, he had finished up one oil change of an F-150 Ford Pick-up, helped with the tune-up of a custom built 8-cylinder Jeep Wrangler and assisted in running down an electrical problem in the body frame of a recently purchased new Camaro. Clay loved the look of the new Camaro, but could already see what the early signs of winter were doing with these sporty cars. They were not built for Alaskan roads or the extreme weather conditions. The new Camaro already had a pitted windshield, and some of the fiberglass was getting pretty scratched up.
The work in the body and paint shop was picking up, causing Clay to move some of the outside workers into those shops to help out. He couldn’t have people sitting around, though at the moment it appeared all of the salespeople seemed to be spending most of their time in their cubicles due to a lack in customers. During the month of October and November, Permanent Dividend Funds were paid out, and for a few short weeks the sales of new and used cars was up, but already the number of customers had dropped off rapidly.
With the snow came the extra work of keeping the vehicles cleaned off and the pathways between the rows clear for the customers and the movement of vehicles. When the temperatures dropped below minus 20 degrees, the batteries went dead, and a special cart had to be brought out with a battery charger, turbo-heater to warm up the engine and a three-man crew to get the vehicle up and running to move into the garage to make it presentable for the customer. But with so few customers, this was only happening a couple times a day.
Then at midday, Clay heard his name being broadcast over the shop’s PA system, “Will Mr. Jefferson please see Mr. Wickersham immediately in his office.” It wasn’t hard to recognize Sally’s voice. She handled all the paging for the boss, while a girl from the part’s department did it for the rest of the dealership. It was proven a female’s higher voice transmitted clearer over the system, which is simply one of the reasons most police and first responder dispatchers were female.
Clay looked down at his coverall, he hated to show up looking so filthy, but the call said immediately. Clay told his assistant he was off to see the boss and not to bother him unless it was extremely important, “Don’t call unless a lift fails, the roof gives way or terrorists are holding the car dealers hostage…second thought, let them have the dealers.” There was a certain amount of attitude between the nicely dressed car dealers who worked up front and the oily shop workers. The dealers worked on a commission bases and drove nice dealer loaners, while shop employees worked on hourly wages and were not allowed to drive any of the dealership vehicles off the lot; the exception being Clay, who was given a loaner for a brief time.
After he brushed off his dark gray coveralls and wiped his gritty hands with a soiled rag, he walked into Silas’s outer office and was surprised to find his inner office door wide open. He walked to the doorway and saw Silas behind his desk, diligently at work on a stack of paperwork. His glasses were stuck perched upon his forehead, and Clay thought he resembled a middle-aged bookkeeper. His left hand held up his chin, with his left elbow braced against the desktop for support. His right hand held a black ink pen, and he appeared to be checking over a report form in front of him. Silas was again wearing his favorite open dark blue sports coat with gold brass buttons and a button-down dress shirt of a soft baby blue color; except this one came with narrow white stripes and had a stiff button down neck. The shirt’s top button was unbuttoned, and his black tie hung loose. He wore gray dress slacks and brown Velcro flap-over soft leather slippers with rubber soles. By the door, Silas kept a pair of tan and brown winter Sorrels for when he went outside. For extreme weather, he kept an aged pair of white “bunny boots” arctic footwear in his office closet. They were referred to as bunny boots because of their appearance; white rubber and enormous in size. Some people had also called them clown shoes, but they kept the foot warm in sub-zero temperatures, and the military had used them in Alaska for a long time.
Clay cleared his throat to announce himself, which only prompted a casual wave from Silas to bring him into the office. He then pointed to the nearest chair, but Clay objected, “Colonel, I’m filthy with grease.”
Silas looked up for the first time and noticed Clay’s condition, “I’ll either clean it or have it replaced, now sit down and give me just a moment to finish up here.”
Unable to accept those terms, Clay went into the outer office and picked up two car magazines. He brought them back inside and used them to line the chair as best he could to protect it. He then sat down, but he didn’t relax.
It took only a moment longer for Silas to jot down a few more numbers and sign a couple of documents. He then hit a button, which summoned Sally, who entered through a side door. She said hello to Clay, removed the documents from Silas’s hand, and returned to her office to leave these gentlemen in privacy. “Clay, would you close my door please and lock it… throw the deadbolt, too. I’d like some privacy for our chat.” Silas always liked to use the word “chat” instead of having a talk and Clay wondered if it was something he had picked up while working with the Australians in Viet Nam. But he carried out his orders and then returned to his chair.
“I hate working the books. I leave most of it for the accountants, but I’ve been burned before by bookkeepers. In fact, one of them is down at Spring Creek Maximum Security Prison in Seward serving out a 9-year sentence for embezzling my dealership out of $250,000 over a three-year period. Now I check over everything, and this time of year it usually gives me a stomach ache. Wendy Sue is worried I have an ulcer, but I told her I’m too old for those childish things.”
“What’s the problem, Colonel? The shop is working around the clock, and I could probably hand out more overtime if you authorized it.”
“The problem isn’t the shops, Clay, it’s the sales floor. Comes every winter and lasts from late November through late March and sometimes early April. People simply do not come out in such in-climate weather to buy cars. They’ll call for a tow, or want their vehicle fixed and even have them repaired following accidents, but no buyers. It’s a problem all dealerships deal with up here in Alaska, especially in Fairbanks and it means layoffs. I cannot afford to keep so many people on over the winter. As it stands, I’ll have to place most of the dealers on salary for the winter, or they’ll starve, and I can’t afford to lose my good dealers. One or two of the slackers will have to go, but they were leaving anyway. Not everyone can sell cars, and these guys need to find another occupation. Maybe write a best seller or become a book agent. People are always writing when they’re cooped up for the winter.”
Clay shifted around in his chair uncomfortably and then asked, “Colonel, are you trying to tell me I need to go job hunting tomorrow… I can probably get my old cab contract back.”
Silas glared at Clay with a blank expression on his face, and then he burst into a grin, “I forgot for a moment you came from the military and not another executive position. But no, Clay, you’re management here and would only have to go if you and I had a major disagreement over something and we were unable to work it out. No, it means three of your mechanics have to go. I’ve got to let loose some other people, but those three people are your concern. We have a ‘last to come-first to go’ policy here, and these are the names.” Silas handed the paper with the three names to Cl
ay. “I’ll provide letters of reference for each of them, and if they haven’t found employment by spring, they’re to come see us in early April for a re-hire date. They can collect unemployment right away since they’re being terminated by no fault of their own and if they have any questions, have them see Sally to make an appointment. Also, Sally will provide you with the letters of reference to give them by the end of the day.”
“Will they finish out the month, Colonel…it’s only a few days.”
He thought about it for a moment and remembered how each of those men was in his Militia, he replied, “Yes, they can finish out the month.”
“All right, Colonel, was there anything else?” Clay stood up and waited. He was concerned with how pale the Colonel looked today and hoped it was only due to the cold.
“Yes, I am having a late lunch with Peterson and Johnson. I’d like you to join us at 2 p.m.” Silas stood up and walked Clay to the door, unbolted the deadlock and opened it.
“That would be fine, Colonel. I can turn things over to the chief mechanic for a couple of hours. Where shall I meet you?”
“Come to my office, and you and I will drive out together. We’re meeting them up on Chena Pump Road.” Silas patted Clay on the back, sent his shop supervisor on his way and returned to his reports. He needed to find a new source for some of his older model parts. People were beginning to associate old clunkers with the words “vintage” and “antique.” Parts had gotten expensive. He liked to keep his customers and maintain their trust because he knew a lot of used car buyers would return at some point to purchase a new automobile, and he wanted them to buy it from him. Silas also had another agenda in mind, and it involved the trust of the people of Fairbanks. He held a secret ambition that only his single benefactor and Wendy Sue knew about; Silas desired to be the first President of Alaska.
For at least half-an-hour Clay spent washing up in the men’s shop locker room. He hoped in vain to get all the grease off his hands and arms and out from underneath his fingernails. At home, it usually took 20-minutes in a hot shower and his small scrub brush, but here he didn’t have the hot shower. That’s one of the things he needed to talk to Silas about; hot showers in the locker rooms. They already had installed eye washing stations for emergencies, so he figured the plumbing was nearly in place. He needed to have a plumber come in and give him some estimates to present to the boss and then talk it over with him.
Clay wanted to appear in some reasonably acceptable form of cleanliness when going out for lunch with the boss. Chena Pump Road was on the western side of Fairbanks, a very long stretch of roadway with multiple subdivisions that bordered the eastern side of the Chena River. With the Chena Pump House closed for the season, Clay suspected they were going to a private home for lunch, but the Colonel hadn’t bothered to say who. So, after climbing into the Suburban with Silas, the two of them headed west on Airport Way. Eventually, they were traveling west on Geist Road, but instead of turning south along the Chena Pump Road Silas continued driving straight ahead and up the hill into the Chena Hillside Subdivision. This was an extremely large rounded hilltop overlooking the Chena River, where dozens of very expensive homes had been built, and others were still under construction. The Chena Volunteer Fire Department was also located on this hillside, much to the delight of the homeowners and their insurance carriers.
“Colonel, are we picking anyone else up?” Clay asked. A hardened combat soldier, he had become a bit antsy by this time and was not one who enjoyed surprises.
In the background, the radio was playing old country hits. The colonel advertised over all the stations in town, but his favorite had always been the country stations, and at this time of day they played the older hits of the 1960’s. “No, Clay, but we’re going up here to Major Peterson’s place for lunch. I didn’t say anything earlier because I’ve noticed how tongue-tied you seem to get around my two majors, but you’ve been invited, so relax.”
He tried, but Clay couldn’t relax, though he was trained well enough to make himself appear he was relaxed and he went into that mode. Yet his mind ran through his options in the event his cover was blown. He couldn’t imagine what other reason the Colonel would’ve lied to him, and the excuse stunk up the truck. He also watched the Colonel, who didn’t appear he was taking Clay somewhere to be tortured for what he knew and then executed. In fact, Silas appeared quite relaxed and was even singing along with the song. Clay actually hated country music, a favorite of his grandpa’s, but he didn’t say anything. I sure hope my security detail isn’t asleep on the job or stopping at McDonalds for lunch. I haven’t seen them yet, but I’m told they’re around, but a lot of good they’re going to do if I get my head blown off in Major Peterson’s house. Hopefully, the CSI people can find my blood on his rug, and it won’t all be in vain.
They climbed the hillside and were now on the backside when Silas pulled left into a long unpaved driveway. The house was two stories high, with red cedar siding and a high pitched roof over the living room and dining room areas. The house had reddish-tinted metal roof panels, and Clay counted two smokestacks that shot up through the roof. The front room had two large picture windows, which allowed the people inside to have a grand view of the Chena River below and the Alaska Mountain Range off in the distance. Clay would later be told how on a very clear day the Petersons could see the majestic Denali; also known as Mt. McKinley. The house was 3500 square feet and came with a two car garage, and though the snow was deep, the driveway was cleared, and Silas had no problem pulling in with his Suburban. Clay also saw a newer model gray Suburban in the driveway with the engine running. There was also a pick-up truck parked inside the garage.
With the temperatures so low, Silas would leave the truck running while they had lunch. He and Clay zipped up their parkas and dismounted for the short walk to the front door. The frost from their breath quickly turned the wolf hairs on their parka hoods white, while waiting for someone to come to open the door. Allan welcomed them at the door and Clay saw that Norm was already here. In the absence of Norm’s older big 4x4 Ford F-350, he suspected the other major had come by taxi. With the cost of fuel for that beast, it was probably cheaper to use a cab. He saw that Norm was drinking his soda from a clear glass stuffed with ice and on the coffee table in the living room was a red plastic circular ice chest with assorted sodas and beside it were several glasses full of ice. Mrs. Peterson had played host and prepared a nice meal of assorted sandwiches and fruits. Once everyone was seated, with Clay sharing a couch with Norm and both Silas and Norm in easy chairs; Norm’s was an overstuffed recliner, Silas was using the wife’s well-padded rocker. Mrs. Peterson came in from the kitchen and said her goodbye to everyone, donned her parka, slid on her boots, grabbed up her black leather purse and was gone. Clay realized the running gray Suburban was hers.
Silas, with a sandwich in hand, looked over at Allan and asked, “Are we alone?”
“Completely, Colonel,” Allen replied. He then put his soda down, walked over to his living room closet, opened the door, reached up to the top shelf, and pulled out his own sonic wave scrambler. He brought it down and set it on the coffee table and plugged it in, which activated it. After that, he went over to the front door and deadbolted it. Then before returning to his seat, he went upstairs for a moment and came back down wearing a brown leather shoulder holster harness, with his Smith & Wesson .45 in it. Only then did Clay notice that Norm had pulled a Glock Model 17 from beside him, previously hidden between the cushion and the side of the couch and laid it on the arm of the couch.
Oh Boy! Things are getting’ real sticky now. I might be able to take out one, maybe two, but if the Colonel is armed I’m gonna catch a round for sure. Sure enough, Silas leaned forward and pulled a Smith & Wesson 5-shot Chief’s Special .38 caliber revolver from out of the small of his back. He had carried it in a special holster he had made for him out of moose hide and clipped to the inside of his pants.
“Am I in some kind of trouble here, Colonel? See
ms no one bothered to mention to me I needed to come armed to this luncheon and except for tossing my sandwich in your face, I’m a bit outgunned here.” Do I wait for the fat lady to sing or go for Norm beside me…I think he’s probably the most dangerous and a far better shot than Peterson is. But before Clay makes his move, Norm held up his left hand and said, “Relax, Captain, these aren’t for you. Besides with your background, we’re way too old to handle you. If we had problems to work out, we would’ve brought a couple squads along to hold you down.”
“Then what’s with all the artillery?” Clay asked.
“We always want to be ready, Clay. For what we’re about to tell you, the government for the United States would love to break in that front door without a warrant, citing the Patriot Act and arrest all of us. We’d be hauled away and most likely not even be seen for 90-days, while experts of the FBI, NSA, DSI…you name it, tried to pick our brains apart,” Silas said. He then pointed to the scrambler. “This highly expensive device is to stop directional microphones from picking up and recording our voices. We are hoping it will also work for microwave and satellite surveillance, and as of yet we haven’t been raided or arrested.”
“Well, Colonel, you certainly have my attention, and now that my stomach is unwinding I will attempt to finish my sandwich and listen as to why I am here and what all this is about.” I’m gonna live! Better yet, I’ve reached the inner circle…now maybe I’ll find out what this is all about.
“Clay, what do you know about Alaska’s history and I’m not just speaking about the Athabascan people?”Silas wiped his face with a paper napkin and pulled a small blue spiral notebook from the inside left pocket of his sport coat.
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