by Byron Craft
“All systems go,” he said slamming the metal door on the box. He had effectively made a giant Taser. He practically strutted to the other end of the tunnel. The cable was long enough to reach Rinaldi and Dexter, and it played out smoothly behind Mingo without a snag.
The slug-thing was still frozen in the beam of Rinaldi’s flashlight. Mingo thought it looked bigger than when he first saw it. Maybe a couple of inches longer. It didn’t matter. However, it would be burnt toast in a few seconds. Dexter and Rinaldi didn’t say anything. They didn’t need to. You’d have to be a real jar head not to figure out what he was going to do. Squatting down within arm’s reach of the little blob, he jabbed both copper ends of the cable into the thing. They penetrated the jellied flesh with hardly any resistance and went in all the way. The lights in the staging area dimmed briefly. There was no burning. No hiss. No pop. Mingo had expected it to boil like tree sap on a burning log and then burst into flames. Instead, it glowed orange deep inside its translucent body. In the blink of an eye, Mingo watched it instantly double in length and width. It grew to almost a foot long. He tried to jerk the wires free, but they had become stuck fast. He dangled it in the air from the cable end and stared as it doubled in size once more and engulfed his hand. Not only did his hand burn like turpentine in an open wound but he also felt the shock of 220 volts coursing through his body. Mingo wished that he had gone for the diesel fuel instead. He had pulled lousy duty once again.
CHAPTER 9
THE PARTY
Vice Admiral Hawkins didn’t offer suggestions; he gave orders. Eastwater grudgingly felt that he had brought them down with him written on tablets of stone. “Come to my place tonight Clayton,” he had said. “Bring the missus. I’m having a few friends over for drinks and Alice, and I would like the both of you to come.” The invite was a veiled command. He’d known the old salt way too long, and he wasn’t about to refuse. Why did he want me there, he puzzled? Was he trying to keep an eye on me? Did he suspect my deal with the congressman? He doubted it. He had covered his tracks too well. He didn’t try to hide his friendly association with Neville Stream. The congressman and his father-in-law, Carson Stillwell, had been good friends’ for years. Neville Stream had married Stillwell’s sister back in the 1980’s. That made it easy for the both of them to associate openly. Besides, in two weeks it won’t matter anymore. He’ll have everything battened down by then. They’ll have what they need, and he won’t have to wait for his pension.
Clayton Eastwater looked over at his wife in the car seat next to him. Maggie Eastwater stared out the windshield at the winding residential street lined with cottonwoods and fan palms. The stupid broomstick doesn’t even suspect the deal I’m involved in, thought the Captain. A faint smile, sublimely evil, wrinkled up briefly between the corners of his mouth. There was a ten-year difference in their ages. He was thirty. She was forty. Carson Stillwell was an Admiral when he married her five years ago. A good career move, at the time, until the old battlewagon had a double coronary and died. Now he was stuck with this bag of bones that can’t ask for the salt without whining.
Most of his connections were severed with the death of Stillwell, but it could go worse with the top brass if he divorced the daughter of a dead admiral. He was going to have to stick it out a little longer. Play his character by the book. He knew there was a danger. Immense danger, if he was caught. But anything was better than just sitting around, buying cars and houses, going to the movies and just waiting for the end. Sometimes, he thought, the game seemed more important than the money and the opportunity to escape. As it was, he felt that it was just enough to give life a hair-trigger.
Eastwater slowed for a stop sign posted at a richly landscaped intersection. Seeing no cars in the opposite direction, he continued. Admiral Hawkins lived in an upscale neighborhood in the southeast section of Ridgecrest near College Heights. His was a Mediterranean style, two story concrete block and stucco home with a three-car garage. The Eastwaters had a small apartment on the other side of town. Clayton was always finding things he didn’t like about the Admiral’s home. He hated two story houses. “All that traipsing up and down stairs.” He didn’t care for the style of architecture either, “If he likes Mediterranean so much, why the hell doesn’t he move to Italy?”
The admiral’s home was at the end of a brick cul-de-sac. Captain Eastwater followed the sweeping arc of the street and parked alongside the curb. The driveway was filled with several of the admiral’s guests. A poppy-red 1965 Mustang convertible was parked on the right side of the drive. It belonged to Hawkins. He had just spent the last ten years restoring the car. A young woman, the wife of a Lieutenant J. G. under Eastwater’s command, sat behind the wheel admiring the car’s interior. “I guess I’m going to have to make a fuss over the damn thing as well,” he brooded.
Getting out of his car, Eastwater waited at the curb for Maggie to get out and join him. “Ain’t she a beaut?” called out the young woman in the Mustang.
“The best I’ve ever seen,” he hollered back, mustering up a smile. With Maggie at his side, he turned and surveyed the Admiral's front door and welcome mat. Taking a deep breath, he marched ahead.
***
Congressman Stream dropped two ice cubes into a short glass and filled it halfway up with Scotch.
“That’s a pretty stiff drink you’re making, Neville,” said the red-head woman young enough to be his daughter.
“Not at all my dear. I’ve been cutting back. Why there was a time that I did this with one hundred and fifty proof vodka while attempting to construct a martini. As custom dictated in those days, I would then pass my glass several times beneath a painting of Antonio Carpano.”
“Who is that?” she asked genuinely interested.
“Why the inventor of vermouth, of course.”
The young woman covered her mouth with a dainty hand and giggled politely. She had been a volunteer on his re-election campaign last year, and he could tell immediately upon meeting her that her adoration for him could easily be put to good use. Ever since then she had become his personal secretary and travel companion, except when it was necessary for his wife, Heather, to make public appearances with him. Today, Heather Stillwell-Stream was in Boulder, Colorado, spearheading a health care rally and the following Friday she would be addressing the graduate class at Vassar about “Women in the Workplace.” She was far away, thank God, and he was sure that she shared the same feelings about him. Theirs had been a marriage of convenience. A powerful union. To him, it represented the two greatest elements of power: the welding together of money and politics. He had come a long way since those days as a struggling assistant district attorney. His wife’s money and his contacts did more than to award him a seat in the House of Representatives eventually. He had also become the head of the Ways and Means Committee, and he held that chair position for over ten years, a seat of power that had given him control of over two-fifths of the United States Treasury.
Neville Stream took a healthy sip of his drink. It had been a long day. A faint pink smudge streaked across one side of his nose. His makeup had run. He normally wouldn’t be this careless if the press had been around, but there were no cameras tonight. He always tried to keep the red veins around his nose and below his eyes powdered when he was under the camera lights. Tonight was more sociable than political, and he would let his hair down a little. If anyone said anything about it, he’d laugh it off and say it was stress lines or sunburn. And, if there were any press lurking around, he’d cut their balls off in the job market and make it impossible for them to find work in journalism again. He begrudgingly recalled the crusading journalist in Chicago that nailed him and Congressman Nathan Sells for their little escapade with a waitress after hours in a fashionable eatery. She had entitled her story, “A Waitress Sandwich.” It had taken five-hundred-thousand dollars to cover that one up with several well-placed stories and with well-paid witnesses destroying the credibility of the waitress and the career of the reporterette
.
Congressman Stream turned in time to see Admiral Hawkins’ front door open wide. He smiled when Clayton and Maggie Eastwater walked into the foyer. He felt relieved because up until then he had resolved himself to spend the rest of the evening in the company of fools. He watched the young officer make a few obligatory handshakes around the room. Clayton Eastwater’s wife stood obediently at his side while exchanging polite conversation with Mrs. Hawkins. The Admiral’s wife was a sturdy woman who looked like she spent most of her time in the kitchen baking cookies. Wiping her hands on an apron, she motioned them towards the family room and mentioned something about drinks.
Clayton appeared eager to accept the offer and negotiated his way across the terra cotta floor tiles and up to the bar. Scooping up some ice with a glass, he didn’t pause until he had filled it with scotch and then emptied it of half of its contents.
“Throwing caution to the wind Clayton?” inquired the congressman.
“You know I hate these damn things.”
“I know, that’s why I asked Hawkins to invite you.”
“You! You son-of-a-bitch! What did you hope to gain?”
“Nothing but positive exposure. You are my nephew, after all. It wouldn’t look good if I was in town for a visit and I ignored family.”
“I am not your nephew. I am married to your niece, and that’s as far as it goes.”
“A mere technicality,” Neville Stream sighed, “a mere technicality.” The congressman paused and stared straight ahead. Maggie Eastwater was tangled in Mrs. Hawkins’ apron strings and Buffy, his redheaded traveling companion, had been cornered by a drooling ensign. They were alone at the bar. “Have you got them digging out that rubble?” His voice had become stern.
“I’ve got three crews working around the clock. With any luck we’ll have it uncovered by morning, Eastwater answered, looking over his shoulder to make sure no one was in earshot.”
“Good. And the location of the vault room?”
“That may take some time. I’ve mapped out a ten square mile area with our seismic surveys. We are currently establishing a database.”
“The easiest way to obtain information, Clayton, is to steal it.”
Eastwater downed the other half of his drink and almost choked on the ice. He knew what his uncle-in-law was suggesting. “Those files are top secret,” he managed to blurt out, and he hoped not too loud. “I could spend the rest of my life in prison if I get caught.”
“I am sure you are exaggerating Clayton. Just a few old papers dating back to World War II that should have been declassified years ago. No one will ever miss them.”
Stream could see that his “nephew” was shaken and stopped talking when a navy man in dress whites approached the bar to check on the supply of glasses and ice.
Motioning Eastwater away from the bar, he lowered his voice and asked, “Where is Hawkins?”
“Out on the front lawn showing off that Matchbox car of his.”
“Excellent. Come with me.”
“Where are we going?” he almost whined.
“To the admiral’s study. We can talk privately there.”
“I don’t know. I don’t think this is wise. What if someone sees us going in there?”
“I don’t think they would begrudge us talking over some personal family matters, do you?” he answered smiling smugly.
“I see a couple of my men over there. I really should go over and . . .”
The congressman took hold of the Captain’s arm and led him towards the study door. “How many times do I have to tell you, Clayton? Don’t get involved with people who have nothing to lose.
CHAPTER 10
LIGNUM VITAE
“You’re Alan Ward,” the woman said with a big smile. Alan was caught off guard by her greeting. She had answered the door almost immediately after his first knock. She was middle-aged, attractive and with muscular legs. She looked like she was accustomed to backpacking or other similar physical activity. Her blonde hair and high cheekbones completed the picture and made her look Swiss; Alan thought, maybe Bavarian. She picked up his two heavy suitcases as if they were stuffed with feathers and directed Alan to the patio before he could say, “thank you.”
“The professor is through there,” she indicated with a nod of her head. “I’ll take your bags to your room.”
Alan crossed a rustic looking dining area and through a pair of French doors. The patio area was spacious. Alan guessed that a two-bedroom home would have fit nicely within its boundaries. He realized that the front of the house must have been built into a hill because the back of the property sloped away to what must have been true ground level. The floor area was paved with blue and gray slate flagstones except for an area in the center that was interrupted by a raised stone hearth. The circular open pit fireplace was about ten feet in diameter, but no fire stirred amongst its cold ashes. The mass of timbers that were the rafters of the house extended unsheathed over the patio area with hanging plants and wind chimes dangling here and there. The rafters terminated at the far end of the patio where they connected to the rooftop of an old stainless steel Airstream trailer. It was a massive pergola. Through the open spaces between the timbers, he could see the starry night. Alan was alone on the patio. The air was still. A door in the side of the old trailer stood open. A yellow light shone inside. Alan’s footsteps echoed across the flagstones as he approached the open door. Leaning part way in he called, “Hello!” with a raised voice. “Anybody home?”
Stretched out on a green and brown tweed sofa was Professor Thomas Ironwood. He had evidently fallen asleep while reading. A copy of “Rock Drawings of the Coso Range” laid across his lap. Alan smiled. He was familiar with the book. It was published by the Maturango Museum in Ridgecrest, and it dealt with the discovery and study of ancient rock drawings, petroglyphs. The highest concentration of these drawings was found north of China Lake within the confines of the Naval Weapons Center. It amused Alan that the old physicist would take an interest in archeology.
Actually, in truth, Ironwood didn’t look like a man in his fifties. It had been ten years since Alan had seen him last and he hadn’t perceptibly changed. He did appear thinner, but it was hard to be sure. Ironwood wore loose fitting clothes that made it difficult to ascertain his size. His face seemed thinner than he remembered, lean maybe, and his bronze tan added to his youthful appearance. “Anybody home?” he said again.
The Professor’s eyes opened wide. He stared at Alan uncomprehendingly for a second or two and then burst into an apology. “Oh, Alan, I am sorry. Must have dozed off.” Sitting up and rubbing his eyes he looked about the house trailer. “I was exceptionally tired for some reason. How are you? Did you have any trouble finding the place?”
“It was an adventure,” he said recalling his experience in the dark. “But your directions were excellent.” Alan went up two metal stair treads and walked inside. The interior of the trailer was almost as unique as its placement for a structural support to the roof. The inside had been stripped clean of its kitchen cabinets, interior walls, closets, and all traces of plumbing. In their place were bookshelves. Practically every inch of wall space, except where windows intervened, was lined with plywood shelves edged with thin strips of white pine. The shelves were full of books, of course. A gray metal desk the size of a battleship, Navy surplus he’d wager, occupied the center of the room. A couple of old Girsberger office chairs stood vacant next to the desk. The sofa, which Ironwood occupied, sat beneath a picture window with crank-out casements. The awning casements were fully open, but the surrounding curtains were still.
Through the window, he could make out a stretch of desert dotted with sagebrush and in the distance, not more than two hundred feet away, was a tall chain link fence with several strands of barbed wire on top. He could see all of this by the light of a halogen lamp mounted on an electrical pole next to the fence. “What is that fence for?” he said pointing out the window. “Who’d put a fence out in the middle of the
desert?”
“The Navy,” answered Ironwood. “You’re looking at the back of their property. That’s where the million plus acres belonging to the NWC ends. In perspective, it occupies three counties; Kern, San Bernardino, and Inyo.”
“Fantastic,” he said after a low whistle. “I guess I never visualized how much land they occupy.” It had taken Alan over an hour and a half to get to Darwin from Ridgecrest. He had taken Route 178 West out of town to U.S. 395 North, then from there to State Road 190 East all the way to the Darwin cutoff. During all that travel time he had remained within arm’s reach of the government property line circumnavigating the Naval Weapons Center.
Ironwood stood and stretched. “Come on. I’ll help you with your things.”
“That’s been taken care of…” he said with a wolfish grin.
