by C A Bird
Shutters covered the wet bar in the room’s far corner. He pulled them aside and selected an MGD from the under-counter refrigerator. Twisting the top off, he flopped down on the couch to consider the implications of today’s astonishing events.
He sought a reason for Will’s indifference to the job and the only explanation he could come up with caused his stomach to turn. Will didn’t think the projects would ever be completed. He recalled the years Will relied on him to manage the company, essentially without his help, and Mark didn’t recall them fondly. He’d been inexperienced, just out of graduate school with a Bachelor’s degree in aeronautical engineering and a Master’s in business. He was aware that Hargraves wouldn’t have allowed him to embroil the company in any financial or legal trouble and Mark suspected that Miles Bannister was the real man in charge, reporting to Will on a regular basis. Mark had initially found it difficult to work with senior management. They resented his being placed in the CEO position with very little training or experience, but Will had faith in him and he learned quickly, soon gaining the respect of the rest of the management team by relying on them for their expertise.
Will had been distant, preoccupied, and absent for much of the time. He’d been involved in “The Project,” a venture Mark knew very little about.
Hargraves had been a surrogate father to Mark since his own father had died, an alcoholic, over thirty years ago. Mark remembered very little of his dad, being only five years old at the time of his death. His mother Claire, had sold the business to Will shortly after her husband died. Mark’s father, deeply in debt, had been drinking the profits for years and had Brad Teller not died of cirrhosis when he did, he soon would have become bankrupt. Will had been keeping the business afloat for the last few years anyway and Mark’s mother knew selling out was the only way she would realize any profit.
Claire, also an alcoholic, had sent him and his older sister Jill to live with her brother. Mark was unaware, until Chris told him many years later, that Will had supported them after his mother squandered the profit from the business. When Mark was ten, his mother died and he was invited to spend the summer with Will’s family at their home in Laguna. His sister, who was four years older than he, and closer to his aunt and uncle, chose to remain with them, never establishing a relationship with Will and Katherine.
Mark spent the next two summers with the Hargraves, and once he became a teenager lived with them full time. His uncle, a nice enough man, was basically uninvolved with either his own two daughters or with Mark and Jill. Mark was five years older than Chris and Chris followed him around like a puppy. They were best of friends.
Although a rich and powerful man, Will spent considerable time with Mark, functioning as his mentor and Mark had a serious case of hero worship for William Hargraves. Will had felt a great debt of gratitude to Mark’s father for hiring him and giving him a position of responsibility with the company and Will always paid his debts.
Mark attended The University of Southern California, the total cost borne by Hargraves. Mark could have done anything with his life and career, Will had asked nothing in return for his support, but never considered doing anything other than working for Hargraves Aerospace Industries. Over the years as Mark grew older, his hero worship changed into a great respect and friendship, and even though he was almost thirty years younger than Will, he considered him his best friend.
Finishing the beer, Mark got up, went into the bedroom and slipped on a pair of running shorts, a T-shirt and a worn pair of Asics Gels. It was late but he needed to run to unwind from the day’s exhausting events. He left the house, ran through his local streets, and exited the residential area, running at a moderate pace. He turned down Newport Drive toward the ocean, too tired to go all out but needing to push hard enough to clear his body of the stress chemicals that built up during the day. The sun had already sunk into the ocean, and as the evening shadows spread before him he was assailed by a sudden and deep melancholy that his world might not go on forever, as he’d always assumed it would.
TWO
August 20, 6:00 a.m.
Sangre de Cristo Mountains, New Mexico
Pete and Sandi, planning to hit the trail early, left Las Vegas at five o’clock in the morning. They drove north on Interstate twenty-five and turned left onto highway fifty-eight traveling from the plains toward the higher elevations. They drove through rolling hills until they reached, and drove through, the small town of Cimarron thirty minutes later. A faded sign on the outskirts of town announced “Where the Rockies Meet the Plains” and sure enough they began to climb shortly thereafter. Pete rolled down the window, allowing the mountain air to ruffle his hair as he breathed in the sweet taste of freedom, and reveled in the cooler temperatures as they ascended into the mountain range. Several miles later, they came over a hill and spotted a picturesque lake on their left, a small marina visible on the opposite shore.
“That’s Eagle Nest Lake. I’ve camped there a few times. Caught some delicious Lake Trout and Flathead Cats.” He licked his lips in an exaggerated manner, running his tongue over his lips. “I can’t wait to have trout for dinner.”
“You’re pretty sure of yourself. We’ll probably be eating dehydrated meatloaf.”
“No way! You wait. I’m a good fisherman. Speaking of food, I’m starving and I need to buy a fishing license. We can have breakfast and I’ll just get a five-day license in Eagle Nest. The turnoff to the trailhead is only a couple miles farther up the road.”
He swung his Ford Ranger into a roadside diner’s well-maintained parking lot in the tiny mountain town of Eagle Nest. The diner had a sign out front advertising “home cooked food” and Sandi had to admit it was delicious. She ate sparingly, feeling slightly nauseated by the increasingly mountainous, winding road that had gained two thousand feet in elevation over the last few miles. She prayed her breakfast would at least partially digest before they started hiking. Pete stuffed himself with three eggs, bacon, and hash browns, along with a giant stack of hotcakes.
“I really liked your brother and his family,” Sandi told Pete. “Are you sure he doesn’t mind me borrowing his equipment?”
“Of course not. He just wishes he was going with us.”
Jerry, Barbara and Jeremy had visited the night before, Jerry bringing his camping gear and backpack for Sandi to borrow. Usually shy around strangers, Sandi had, surprisingly, enjoyed their company immensely. She and Barbara, both education majors, found they had many things in common.
They finished breakfast and went next door to a sporting goods/tackle store to purchase Pete’s fishing license. The place was crammed full of a variety of goods stacked clear to the ceiling. Hunting and fishing gear took up the left side of the store including a large display case with rifles attached to the wall behind a counter. Camouflage clothing was mixed in with orange vests on central racks. The entire right side of the store had shelves with toiletries and grocery items. Judging by the number of animal heads mounted on the walls the local taxidermist was a busy man.
They headed north again, this time on highway 38 and soon found the dirt road leading west into the mountains. Pete frowned when he saw the condition of the road. “Uh oh. It looks like they’ve quit maintaining the road and the sign’s missing that used to indicate the trail. Oh well, I know where the trailhead is and the road can’t be too bad.”
“How long has it been since you were here?” she asked.
“Actually, it’s been about three years. I’ve camped several times closer to home, but this area is gorgeous and the trail is flatter. No offense, but I thought it would be easier for you, since you’re a flatlander and a wimp.” He flinched as she punched his arm.
After bouncing along the rutted road for a quarter mile it unexpectedly widened and was graded smooth as it wound through tall, aromatic pines.
“That’s weird. This part of the road’s in excellent shape. Why would they leave the entrance such a mess? There are numerous cabins all through these mounta
ins so you’d think they’d maintain the whole road.”
After a few miles they passed a road leading off to their left, going south, that Pete knew led to a hunting lodge. They wound another mile and the road dead-ended in a huge graded dirt clearing, much larger than Pete remembered, large enough for at least a hundred cars. A sheer rock face, around one hundred fifty feet high loomed on the west side. Trees framed either side of the cliff and several massive boulders littered its base. The trail, barely visible on the cliff’s right edge, lead northwest into the forest. The cliff face presented a barrier to the west and the trail made a huge loop to the north to get around the ridge. To the southeast the topography sloped gently away, creating a magnificent view out over the foothills. Pete parked his truck close to the trailhead, climbed out and took a deep breath inhaling the scent of the pines. The morning sun blazed in the eastern sky and the temperature was still cool but warming fast.
“This is absolutely great! Every time I come back to the wilderness I wonder why I stayed away so long.”
“It really is beautiful. I’m so jazzed we came,” she said.
He retrieved the packs from the truck bed, helped Sandi adjust her straps and held the pack up so she could slip it onto her shoulders. The pack extended above her head with the sleeping pad rolled and tucked under the top flap. Her stuffed mummy bag was strapped to the pack’s bottom.
“Wow! It’s heavy. How far are we hiking?”
“Don’t worry, it’ll lighten up when you fasten the belt.” He helped her to fasten the waist belt.
“Oh man, how cool is that! What a difference. How does it do that?” She was pleasantly surprised at how the weight diminished once the belt was tightened.
“It lowers the center of gravity, redistributing the weight to your hips and legs. Your water bottle is in the outside pocket. There’s plenty of water up here and I have purification tablets so don’t get dehydrated.”
They started up the seriously overgrown trail, Pete leading the way and trying not to set too fast a pace. Fortunately, sparse undergrowth in the forest made the going easier and Pete checked his topographic map frequently to avoid going in the wrong direction. He was familiar with the area and wasn’t particularly worried about finding their way back, thinking more about the river and the trout they were going to have for dinner.
August 20, 7:00 a.m.
Durango, Colorado
The heavy steel door, clanking loudly, slid back to give access to the malodorous, cramped cell. Arby Clarke, his prominent heavy brows permanently furrowed in a scowl, was shackled securely with his handcuffs fastened to a metal waistband and with fetters that allowed him to only take short steps. A chain, dangling down the front, connected the cuffs and fetters. He wore the grungy, orange coveralls that made prisoners immediately identifiable. Arby’s body filled the doorway as he exited the enclosed cell with its solid walls and solid door, broken only by a barred hole, ten by ten inches square.
An unarmed guard, Fred Harris, jerked Arby forward by the tether attached to his cuffs, eliciting a deadly glare from the giant prisoner. Harris and Arby both knew an inaccessible armed guard had them under surveillance and covered by a mini-14 rifle. Arby, totally silent, stared at him until Harris nervously averted his eyes. Arby had learned quickly that nothing could be done about these assholes, except to get yourself thrown in the hole, but he also knew that someday he would smash this dude’s face in and grind it under his heel like a fat beetle. He didn’t know when, or under what circumstances, but he knew his time would come. He hated these Detention Officers, these cop wanna-be’s.
Other doors scraped open as he passed. Similarly attired, bound prisoners, hooked together by a chain that attached their cuffs at the wrists, joined the queue behind him. The line halted at another solid door. Harris spoke into an intercom and the door slowly drew back revealing a second, lighter hallway. Another armed guard, sitting behind bars in a small cubicle, kept his weapon trained on the men emerging from Death Row.
Prisoners jeered as Arby and the others walked down the narrow hallway between cells on one side and a crumbling brick wall on the other. Word had already spread that Arby Clarke was transferring out of Durango Territorial Prison.
“Hey, Clarke, you lucky bastard! I’ll give you my entire fortune if you’ll take me with you,” a prisoner yelled as they passed, holding his crotch with both hands and thrusting his hips forward.
“Yo dude, I hope I never see your face again, or your dick either,” another called. The inmate reached through the bars attempting to touch the men who, regardless of where they were going, were walking out of this hellhole.
An early morning chill permeated the corridors, creating condensation on the dank walls. The old prison stank of urine and even with new “no smoking” policies, cigarette smoke as well. Brick walls were covered by cracked and peeling plaster, leaving large areas of the brick exposed underneath. Although lighter than “Hell”, the death row area, this section was still only dimly lighted, low-wattage bare bulbs hanging overhead giving off feeble illumination. Each cell contained a two-man bunk and a toilet.
Durango Territorial Prison was the oldest prison in Colorado, built in the late eighteen hundreds and updated very little during the last one hundred and twenty or more years. Exposed wires ran up the walls where intercom, telephone, data and electrical lines had been installed, and cameras, mounted in the corners of the hallway, recorded their passage down the corridor.
Lifers inhabited this portion of the facility. The men behind Arby now numbered fifteen, fifteen of the most dangerous men in the United States, all awaiting execution for murder, and/or repeated sex crimes. Five, including Arby Clarke, were serial killers. Three of the fifteen had been permanently incarcerated at Durango, while the others, brought from prisons throughout the Southwest, had been housed here overnight while awaiting transport this morning to the country’s newest, state-of-the-art federal prison in Denver. There was one last prisoner to pick up from Santa Fe, before the trip’s final leg.
The procession of inmates passed through a final automatic door to a processing area where small windows opened to the outside. The men had been locked in the bowels of the prison and they all squinted in the bright morning sunlight. Guards roughly pushed them onto a wooden bench along one wall and the chains that linked them together jerked the men at the end of the column down onto the bench.
“Keep your fucking hands off me,” growled one of the prisoners, Jaime Ferrar, at Harris, the guard who’d pushed him. Ferrar tried to lunge toward the guard.
He backed off quickly, then grinned at Ferrar, “What you gonna do about it, asshole?” He jumped back as Ferrar aimed a kick in his direction, but the fetters limited Ferrar’s movement and the heavy metal cut into his leg. The guard laughed as the prisoner next to Ferrar was jerked off the bench.
Another officer yelled at the guard, “Leave them alone, Harris. We don’t want no trouble. My vacation starts two minutes after we deliver these ladies to Denver and you ain’t gonna fuck it up for me.” Jake Petersen, the federal Marshall in charge of the transport, wanted nothing more than to get these guys transferred to Denver without any problems, but upon examination of the transfer paperwork he noticed several pieces were missing. As usual, nothing was going according to protocol, and they were going to be stuck here for a while.
“Oh shit, can’t anything go right? It’s going to be one long fucking day.”
Through a barred window, Arby saw the black and white transport bus pull up to the loading dock. He furtively glanced down the line of men seeing that they had noticed it also. No matter how dismal the situation appeared, being outside prison walls caused them to dream of freedom.
August 20, 7:30 a.m.
Long Beach, California
Mark strode down the center aisle of the enormous hangar, the roof over one hundred feet above his head, high enough to accommodate the giant aircraft being assembled there. He waved at familiar workers, some of whom he had known most
of his life. Administrative offices, consisting of an entire two-story building, occupied the back corner of the cavernous space. Company policy dictated he wear a photo I.D. and it was visible on the lapel of his suit jacket, but the guard knew him well, and smiled, nodding as he entered the building. “Morning, Mr. Teller.”
“Good Morning, Phil.” Ignoring the elevator, he bounded up the stairs, taking advantage of every opportunity to exercise. Besides, the stairs were quicker. The building had been completely ripped out of the hangar and rebuilt three years ago in order to upgrade the wiring for the computers and telecommunications equipment. The job was completed using company equipment, supplies, and manpower, saving the corporation a significant amount of money. Will Hargraves hadn’t become one of the country’s wealthiest men by wasting it.
Mark entered his office and took off his coat, hanging it on the coat rack beside the door. As always, the first thing he did was flip a switch turning on a stereo system that played easy listening music. Mark preferred doing most things with music playing. One entire wall of the office, from the waist up, was glass, offering a view of the hangar’s immense interior. The polarized glass could be changed from transparent to opaque at the touch of a button.
This was Mark’s home away from home. The office was large with a mahogany desk on the left, angled to give him a view out the window. The wall behind the desk was lined floor to ceiling with bookshelves, crammed full of rolls of blueprints, bound financial volumes, aircraft magazines and thirty or forty books, including Mark’s prized, original copy of “Stick and Rudder,” by Wolfgang Langeweische. A Nordic Track exercise machine stood in the back left corner facing toward the window. Carpeting covered the entire floor, and on the right, surrounded by four chairs, was a large, round conference table covered with schematics for a project Mark had been working on before the unexpected trip to Washington. Above a row of cabinets extending the width of the right wall were framed photos of vintage aircraft including one of Mark’s favorites, his P-51 Mustang. Additional photos included several of space shuttle landings, including the first, Columbia in 1986, and a pictorial history of aircraft the Hargraves’ plant had manufactured over the years. There was a picture of Mark and Will with Burt Rutan, and another showing Will shaking hands with President Bush. A concealed wet bar was built into the back wall to the right of the door.
