Station Breaker

by Andrew Mayne

  40

  CONVENIENCE

  EVERYBODY HAS to know that I've managed to crash land the plane. But how many steps ahead of the US authorities am I?

  The first thing they'll do is send a reconnaissance plane to do a flyover. If there's a helicopter within range they'll send that out as well. Most likely it'll be Border Patrol on both counts.

  Will my Mexican friends stick around and wait inside the border? Or will they pull back? I have no idea how those kinds of jurisdictional things work.

  I suspect that since they were responding to a plane crash, crossing the border to provide "help" is probably okay to do.

  That means they'll tell Border Patrol to be on the lookout for a stolen Humvee with the Mexican flag painted on the side. So maybe I should ditch this thing first chance I get...

  I see a straight patch of unpaved road and turn onto it. The desert is criss-crossed with these kinds of paths. My hope is that this one will take me to one covered in asphalt with helpful signs telling me which way to go.

  Thirty minutes later my wish is granted. I pull onto the blacktop and feel like I just time-travelled to the present.

  A sign marker says "Ranch Road 92." Whatever that means. I just keep going north.

  Odds are, if I head south I'll run into a border town that might have what I need, but that will also be the first place they look. I'm sure all the sheriffs around here have already been warned that I might be nearby.

  Lock your doors, folks.

  I drive for another half hour, constantly on the lookout for circling Black Hawk helicopters or highway patrol hiding behind cacti. I don't see any, but civilization slowly creeps up on me.

  First it's metal cattle guards lining the road. Then it's aluminum sheds and the signs of ranches. When I start to see green fields and irrigation, I know I have to be close to some kind of town.

  Agriculture means produce. Produce means trucks. Trucks mean truck stops. All of that hopefully indicates a farm community of some kind.

  I pass a small collection of double-wide trailers and a faded billboard that says "Historic Hotel El Monte Restaurant and Bar 1.9 miles."

  I love that they shaved off that one tenth of mile in case that was a deal breaker for some starving weary traveler.

  At some point I pass the historic hotel because I'm not watching my odometer, being more focused on the town of Van Clark.

  It's tiny, filled with box-shaped buildings that look half abandoned. But there are also signs of life as pickup trucks pass me on the street. I even drive past a school bus and get a few stares from kids in baseball uniforms.

  For a moment I think about the children in Rio that helped me out – the ones I left sitting by the concrete soccer court.

  I feel a twinge of guilt. They were sweet kids that only wanted to help their strange friend. Dirty, poor children that were only going to keep being victimized by life. And I left them there.

  Hell, what was I supposed to do? Adopt them and take them on the run with me?

  Focus, David. Maybe you can do something for them later. You have to get to later, first.

  Wow. All the crazy shit I've done in the last twenty-four hours and that's what I feel the most guilty about?

  There's a deserted RV park up ahead.

  I assume it's deserted because it's missing the "V" and there are no actual RVs parked there.

  I pull into the lot because it's got a line of trees at the back that look like a great place to hide a Humvee you stole from the Mexican army.

  After making sure I can't be seen from the road, I do a search for anything that might be useful.

  Inside the center console I find a pistol. No thanks. I also find a wallet belonging to a Sergio Flores. The grim-faced man on the driver's license vaguely resembles one of the soldiers I unleashed the whoopee cushion of doom upon.

  I also recognize several US presidents and a few people from Mexican history printed on the bills. I shove them and the credit cards into my pocket – promising that I'll pay him back later.

  Unlike the jerk who threw the rock at me in Rio, Senor Flores was just doing his job. I think.

  I take the keys and lock up my stolen Humvee in the event I need to come back to it. Hopefully, I'll get ahold of Capricorn and he can pull me out of this mess.

  Not sure if there is a center of town, I walk away from the deserted part and head towards the highest concentration of buildings that look like they haven't had a coat of paint since the Zimmerman Telegram.

  I pass a defunct gas station and a few machine shops, then come to a street with more traffic. There's a truck stop with a Subway sandwich shop next door.

  "Morning," says the friendly girl behind the counter with a slight Texas drawl. Red hair and freckles, she's as All-American as you can get – meaning her ancestors are 100% from somewhere else.

  Don't get me wrong; I loved my eight-hour stay in Brazil, without a doubt. And the six seconds I spent skidding across the Mexican desert was a memory I'll cherish for the rest of my life, but to hear someone in English greet me– even the Texas-grilled version of it, is something I can't describe.

  Sure, my flight crew friends spoke my native tongue, but I was pretending around them and afraid to say the wrong thing.

  Here, I'm just a guy walking into a convenience store about to get a cup of coffee.

  "How you doing?" I say with a smile. "You know where I can get wifi?"

  "Smile," she replies.

  "Pardon me?" I say, grinning, but confused.

  "That's the password for here. It'll be the only wireless network."

  Smile. How adorable. "Thanks." I fumble with my stolen phone, getting it online while I pour myself a cup of coffee.

  I pay for it with my stolen cash then have a seat on a bench outside.

  There's still nothing from CapricornZero on Twitter.

  Damn. I need an alternate plan. I was hoping he could get me out of this, but if something happened...I'm screwed.

  I spend the next half hour sipping my coffee and checking the internet. When the battery on the phone goes, I buy a charge pack in the station.

  "You still here?" asks the girl.

  "Yeah. Waiting to hear from a friend."

  She looks past me and waves. On the security monitor over her head I see two sheriff's deputies getting out of their car.

  41

  SANDLOT

  I SET a pack of gum next to the charger and pay, trying to act like Totally-Not-Fugitive-Astronaut-David-Dixon as I watch the deputies enter the station.

  "Thank you," I say as she slides my change across the counter.

  Keep cool, David. The cops walk past me and straight to the coffee machine.

  "How you doing, Renee?" says one of them as he takes two cups from the holder.

  "Same old same old, Frank."

  I head towards the door with a smile on my face, because I'm totally ONE HUNDRED PERCENT CHILL.

  "You hear about that plane crash on the border?" Renee asks the deputies as I step through the door.

  It takes all my will power not to lose control of my limbs and go face first into the glass. I just keep moving, like a carefree man who is oblivious to things like planes crashing in the desert.

  Sure, I'd love to stay and hear what the cops have to say, but the longer I stick around, the more likely I am to get asked inconvenient questions.

  I veer left and pause for a moment, catching my breath. There's the very real possibility I will get picked up at any moment. I'm on foot and an all-points bulletin is about to be sent everywhere.

  If I'm arrested, I need some kind of leverage – especially if I can't trust anyone. I unwrap a piece of gum and start furiously chewing, then stop at a row of newspaper machines on the side of the store and drop a couple quarters into the Texas Journal.

  My stomach does somersaults as I stick the gum to the black square then squish it to the inside corner of the newspaper machine. The cops will be leaving the market at any moment.

&nb
sp; While I don't think they're on to me yet, I can't wait around for that to happen. I have to keep moving.

  I can tell Capricorn where to find his damn square and be done with it.

  I let the door close, then stop it before it slams shut entirely. It would make sense if I had a newspaper. It'll give me something to do when I'm trying not to act like I'm intentionally loitering.

  With the paper tucked under my arm, I head down the main street, where I spot a few other people going about their business. Walking down here seems less conspicuous than overtly avoiding populated areas.

  If I'm walking down a desolate road in an empty part of town, that will just increase my chances of getting stopped.

  Eyes on the ground, I keep heading towards the newer buildings. The sun is already rising in the east and the streets are more crowded with people as they go about their business.

  I pass a Post Office and a row of cafés and coffee shops. It's tempting to step inside one and try to just have a normal moment, but I don't want to invite any more awkward questions.

  I hear the crack of a baseball bat and the cheers of a crowd a few blocks away. It sounds like there's a baseball game going on. Maybe I should hang out there until I know what to do?

  The field is in a small community park where the grass is mostly brown and half the lot is dry earth. A few dozen people are spread out across three bleachers as they root for two teams of middle school-aged kids.

  I take a seat at the furthest bleacher, near a few older couples and some loners like myself.

  This is probably the only thing that's going on at this time of day out here.

  An electronic scoreboard shows the home team, the Rattlers, are up two runs against the visitors, the Mustangs. Let's hear it for the predictability of Texan sports team names.

  A young girl, maybe twelve, but small for her age, goes up to bat for the Mustangs. She's got a ponytail with purple ribbons tied in knots. I notice her shoelaces also match.

  There's a determined look on her face as she gets ready to swing at the ball.

  The pitcher is a serious-faced boy who looks like he has a glandular disorder. He winds up and sends the ball so fast over home plate the sound of it hitting the catcher's mitt makes us all jump back a little.

  I guess out here there aren't enough kids to divide the league into humans and Neanderthals.

  The girl, someone shouts the name Veronica, isn't fazed. She takes the strike and waits for the next pitch.

  Captain Caveman unleashes a leather meteor that's in the batter's box faster than a blink.

  CRACK!!!

  Veronica's bat hits the ball and sends it flying into the air. We all watch as it soars over the outfield and lands in a dusty lot behind the baseball field – which I notice for the first time is a cemetery.

  Everyone is on their feet cheering the little slugger. Even me. I drop my paper and start clapping.

  She runs the bases with a professional determination then bursts into smiles the moment she sets foot in the dugout and gets hugged by her teammates.

  I lose myself in the game until someone speaks to me.

  "Do you have a kid playing?" asks a man wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses sitting next to me.

  I try to think of an answer that doesn't make me sound like a weirdo. "Not here. Back home in Florida. I had an hour to kill before a meeting." I do my best to sound nonchalant. "How about you?"

  "Nope." He doesn't say anything else.

  I return my attention to the game and get ready to leave.

  "Can I borrow your paper?" asks the man.

  I get a glimpse of him out of the corner of my eye. He's in his late thirties, wearing a dark blue polo shirt and khakis.

  "Help yourself." I slide the paper over to him. "I was just heading out."

  "Thanks, David."

  My blood turns to ice in my veins.

  42

  BLACK BOX

  I KEEP MOVING. The man in the sunglasses reaches out and grabs me by the arm. It's not a forceful touch, but meant to get my attention.

  He points to a black SUV parked across the field with a tall whip antenna. There are two others just like it at the other ends of the field.

  I'm surrounded on three sides.

  The man taps the aluminum bench with his hand, telling me to sit down. I look down and notice a bulge on his ankle where he's wearing a gun.

  I get an itchy feeling.

  What does my gut say?

  I bolt down the bleachers, hop the mini-fence and run straight across the field. People yell at me and surly kids curse with their Texas twangs as I sprint over the dry grass.

  I hop the outfield fence and land in the dusty cemetery – praying the SUVs can't reach me here.

  Dodging tombstones and concrete crosses, I go as fast as I can up the gradual incline leading to the stone wall at the opposite end of the graveyard.

  After hopping that barrier, it's a steeper climb as I scramble up the hill.

  I reach the crest and don't look back. Jumping, skidding and sliding, I make my way down, trying not to trip over the clumps of hearty desert brush.

  WHUP WHUP WHUP WHUP

  I know the sound, but I try to ignore it.

  Just keep running.

  WHUP WHUP WHUP WHUP

  Dust flies into the air and I have to cover my face.

  WHUP WHUP WHUP WHUP

  I'm trapped in a whirlwind and start to lose my way.

  The helicopter ascends and the cloud begins to settle.

  The three SUVs are in front of me. The man from the bench climbs out of the one at the end – still holding the newspaper.

  For the first time since I took it from the bin, I can see the headline.

  SUSPECTED ASTRONAUT-TERRORIST HIJACKS PLANE

  "Is this you, David?" asks the man as he walks towards me, the wind rustling the pages.

  At first I think he's asking if I'm David Dixon. Then I realize he's asking if this is the real me. Am I what the news is calling me?

  "No," I reply, head low, no place to run.

  "I didn't think so. Let's go somewhere where you tell me everything that happened." He points towards the helicopter landing on a hillside.

  I keep my mouth shut, afraid of saying something that will implicate me.

  "We found the Humvee from the air. That's how we knew where to look. In case you were wondering."

  I was curious, but not about to ask. It's not really important right now.

  Two men in black assault gear holding Heckler & Koch UMPs are standing next to the chopper. Neither one has any identifying patches on the shoulders. Both are wearing sunglasses that make their faces inscrutable.

  I climb inside the Black Hawk and realize that nobody has put handcuffs on me. I'd ask about that, but I'm afraid that it's an oversight that will be quickly corrected.

  "My name is Vaughn," says the man as we buckle ourselves in. "I'm going to help you clear this up. How does that sound?"

  It sounds like a dream come true. But I have to be careful. I know cops like to pretend they're your friends then get you to confess.

  I have no idea what rights I have in an instance like this. If the newspapers are calling me a terrorist, then there's a good chance I don't have any.

  We fly west over wide open desert and brown-colored cattle ranches – away from civilization. I was expecting us to go towards a city; this is in the middle of nowhere.

  Vaughn doesn't ask me any questions. He sits in his seat across from me and works on a laptop. After over an hour of flying, the pilot takes us over a small airstrip with several hangars. One thin road leads from here to a spot on the horizon.

  We come to a landing on the tarmac and I spot a shiny new fuel truck parked in one of the open hangars.

  In another, there's an all black C-130J cargo plane.

  Crap. This is one of those CIA black-ops sites I've heard about. Rumor has it that they do all kinds of legal maneuvering to avoid breaking the law – like deeding land to a
friendly government so it technically counts as a foreign embassy.

  Once we set foot here, I could be under Qatar jurisdiction and have no rights whatsoever.

  It may look like Texas, but my rights came to an abrupt stop once the skids hit the asphalt.

  Vaughn pats me on the knee as the helicopter's engines begin to rev down. "Let's go get a beer and sort this out before all hell breaks loose."

  I follow him into a hangar. Nobody else is escorting us inside. The guards with the submachine guns head to a different hangar.

  Vaughn holds the metal door open for me. I step inside a cavernous interior. Several portable trailers fill up the interior. It's like an RV park set inside a Costco.

  As we walk down a row, I spot people through the windows working at computers, having meetings and standing in front of whiteboards with long acronyms written across the top.

  It's just another business day for them.

  Vaughn climbs up a set of metal stairs and holds the trailer door open for me.

  Inside is a conference table and refrigerator.

  "Have a seat," says Vaughn as he walks over to the fridge and pulls out two beers.

  He pops the top and sets one in front of me then takes the opposite seat and places his sunglasses and phone on the table as a flurry of messages fly across the screen.

  He takes a long sip. "I like helicopters, but there's something about being in one out in the desert for too long."

  I stare at the sweaty bottle in front of me, confused and afraid.

  "Go ahead. Drink up." He sees my hesitation. "Don't worry. If I wanted to drug you I'd have strapped you to a gurney and pumped you full of drugs by now. But I don't need to. You're not in trouble. You're not a bad guy. As soon as we can clear this up, I can get you home."

  I reach out for the bottle and take a small drink. To be honest, I wasn't even thinking about truth serums until he mentioned it. I was just so full of anxiety I don't think I could even handle alcohol at the moment.

  It tastes good. It's relaxing.

  Vaughn keeps treating me like an old pal. "I don't know if you had a chance to see the news, but oh, man, David." He shakes his head. "People can't shut up about you."