The Rogue (Planets Shaken Book 1)

by Lee Brainard

  His thoughts turned to his own circumstances. He knew that his days were numbered—did he have days or weeks?—and he felt irked at himself. He had sensed trouble brewing for over a year and hadn’t devised a plan. This was definitely not the right way to operate when you are in a situation that might demand an escape and evade operation with little or no notice. Jack’s advice mocked him, “Have a plan ready at all times, Woody. Otherwise, when it comes time to flee, you’ll be flying by the seat of your pants.” Well, now he was flying by the seat of his pants.

  One thing was certain. Whatever he came up with for a plan had to meet three conditions. First of all, it had to fall within his normal patterns of summer activity so he wouldn’t tip anyone off that he was up to something. Secondly, it had to give him an edge. He needed to create a situation where the advantage was on his side, not his pursuers. Thirdly, it had to give him a head start. He figured he would need at least a twelve-hour jump if he was going to evade those who would be pursuing him.

  After weighing various ideas, he decided that a hike in the wilderness was the only one that met all three conditions. It met the normal-pattern condition. Everyone knew that he loved the Sierras and made two week-long trips into the high country every summer—pursuing trout bliss with his fly rod. Nobody would suspect him of unusual activity were he to plan and execute a June trip—something he had done for many years. This idea also offered him an edge. He had been hiking in the region for twenty years—he would know the terrain better than his pursuers. And it gave him a head start. If he got up in the middle of the night and left camp, those tracking him would think that he had gotten up early in the morning to wet a line in another lake or stream. If this played out the way he hoped, he might actually get the twelve-hour head start that he desired.

  But where should he go in the mountains? Obviously, it had to be somewhere that was only a one-day hike from the transportation he was going to use to get to Montana. But what kind of conveyance would be best? Public options like buses, passenger trains, and flying were out of the question. They were far too dangerous—he would certainly get caught. Ditto for renting a car. Taking a cab or using Uber were a little safer, but still dodgy. Hitchhiking was also problematic. That left him one option—hopping a freight train. As he considered the idea, an inspiration flashed into his mind. I could hop the train at the hairpin curve near Donner Pass . . . then ride the rails east and north . . . actually sounds kind of fun . . . used to dream about being a hobo when I was a kid.

  But he needed several things to transform this rough idea into a plan—namely, an entrance point, a route, and logistics. Galvanized, he sprang out of bed, slipped into his Woolrich robe and moosehide slippers, and hastened to his study. He yanked his backpacking file drawer open and pawed through his maps till he found one that covered Donner Pass and the wilderness areas south of it. He spread the map out on his table and surveyed it carefully. After a few minutes weighing his options, he determined that he would be better off hiking into the Desolation Wilderness than the Granite Chief Wilderness. It was so far away from the railroad tracks that nobody would suspect, when he went missing, that he might have been headed in their direction.

  This brought up a logistics issue. No matter where he made his trailhead in the Desolation, it would take at least a week to hike all the way to the tracks on foot—far too long. If law enforcement was keeping close tabs on him—and he figured there was a strong probability that they would tail him into the woods—then his escape margin was going to be slim. He figured, assuming a stealthy departure in the middle of the night, that he might have twenty hours before they figured out that he wasn’t coming back to camp—maybe thirty hours before the entire area would be crawling with law enforcement. He had one day . . . that’s it . . . so he needed a plan that would get him to the tracks in one day . . . whether on the train or holed up waiting for it . . . a plan that had him far outside the search area when the sun went down.

  Roads. That was his only option. He was going to have to use the forest roads. He scrutinized the map—a plan came together. His jump-off point would be the trailhead at Echo Lake. From there he would hike to Susie Lake and set up his base camp. In the middle of the night, he would set out on a grueling hike across the wilderness to the point where Forest Road 36 crosses Tells Creek. There he would rendezvous with pre-arranged transportation that would take him—via forest roads—to a jump off point south of Donner near the hairpin curve. Then he would hike cross-country to the curve and hop the train.

  He wanted to go farther with his planning, but the next step involved computer research on his route and logistics, and he didn’t dare do that on his home computer. If he was under suspicion, and he suspected that he was, then his home network was probably bugged. He would have to pursue this tomorrow, maybe at the Sierra Coffee Company after work. That was just as well. His eyes were heavy and a few hours of sleep sounded good. Might even be able to fall asleep now that I have a workable plan.

  As he walked back to his bedroom, one thought did give him a little discomfort—though not enough to rob him of his sleep. His wilderness trip plan was doable, but it was going to kick his butt. He started to wish he had kept himself in shape as Jack had, but stopped himself. He was glad he hadn’t. Jack’s path was . . . well . . . too much exercise and not enough ice cream. He tried to flatter himself that he had struck a healthy balance, but he knew that wasn’t true. He just wasn’t a fitness buff and never had been, not even in the Special Forces. He was, as he liked to conceive it, an above average man in an average body. And he was content to be just that. His body always complained when he abused it in the mountains, but it performed well enough to get the job done. And that was all that mattered.

  54

  Sierra Coffee Company, Glendale, CA

  Wednesday afternoon, June 5, 2019

  On his way home from work, Woody swung by Best Buy and purchased a new android phone—he feared that his phone and laptop were under surveillance. Then he doubled back to the Sierra Coffee Company as planned. After picking up his Cinnamon Griz’, he took a table in the back with his face to the room, retrieved his laptop from his briefcase, and booted it up. Then he opened up several tabs with web pages advertising fly-fishing tours for peacock bass in the Amazon. Too bad this is just cover . . . would love to go down there for real. From time to time he scrolled, changed pages, clicked on pictures, and wrote notes on his legal pad.

  Next, he turned on his new phone and activated a prepaid program under a pseudonym. Then he downloaded Orfox and Orbot. Now he was ready. He logged into the Wi-Fi for the business across the street and searched for things he had never searched for before—macramé, mate, and mascara—leaving tabs open to several of the websites. He wanted to leave obscure footprints that made it difficult to trace this research to himself—if they were somehow able to get around Orbot. Only after he had erected his smokescreen, did he begin his route investigation.

  He tackled the railroad part first. He discovered that the stretch of track he was interested in belonged to the Union Pacific Railroad and that an eastbound freight train traversed the hairpin curve daily between 6:30 and 7:30 a.m. Perfect. Moreover, he could ride the train all the way to Gillette, Wyoming—via Reno and Ogden. At Gillette, he would have to switch to the Burlington Northern, which would take him to Billings, Montana. Once there, he would call Red for transportation to the Compound.

  Next, he sought a solution for the road stretch. It was too far to walk—a good eighty miles. Besides, he couldn’t risk being seen along the road. What he needed was somebody to pick him up where Forest Road 36 crosses Tells Creek and then drop him off at his jump off point. Cabs were not an option. His request would make the company suspicious. They don’t normally pick people up or drop them off at obscure locations in the woods. Arrangements with family or friends were way too risky. They would almost certainly get interrogated, and both parties would both be busted. I need a neutral stranger . . . somebody willing to pick me up i
n the mountains under unusual circumstances and transport me over mountain roads . . . wait a minute . . . a transporter . . . that’s it . . . I need to locate someone who hauls goods and people for a fee, no questions asked . . . like in the movies.

  Craig’s List came to mind. He scrolled through the transport listings for the greater Los Angeles area—there were several dozen. Most were generic shippers or couriers, but he did find several that looked promising. They all said more or less the same thing, “We haul anything that fits in a van (or a truck), half up front, half upon completion. He decided to try Conveyance Unlimited out of East Los Angeles and memorized the phone number.

  ***

  That evening after dinner at home—take out chicken and coleslaw—he dug a burner phone out of a box of survival supplies that Jack had given him and called Conveyance Unlimited. He got no answer, so he left his burner number and a brief message: “I have a transport job approximately two weeks in the future. It is confidential. No illegal activity or controlled substances are involved. I work indirectly for the federal government under a federally funded program. Call this number tomorrow evening between 7:00 and 9:00 if you are interested. My handle is Tenkara.”

  His project at a hurry-up-and-wait point, he sat down in his recliner with his laptop, hoping to catch up with the world news from his favorite conservative websites. But he was unable to concentrate—he ended up drifting . . . thinking about his cousin. Good thing Jack gave me a half-dozen burners for an emergency . . . gotta hand it to him . . . I honestly thought I would never use them . . . he was right about a lot of things . . . no, he was right about everything.

  Jack was dead serious about preparation and security. He was thorough. He didn’t just think three or four steps ahead. He thought miles ahead. When he and Woody started taking their annual trip to Montana in August 1998 to fly fish and scout options for their Sundown hideout, he had insisted that they use cash and prepaid cards for the entire trip—gas, groceries, and supplies—so that they left no tracks. He also insisted that the Montana portion of their trips remained a secret. When folks asked about their trip, they were regaled with pictures and tales of their adventures in Idaho, Utah, Wyoming, and Colorado—wherever they had fished outside of Montana. But not a whisper of the Big Sky State.

  While Woody had pooh-poohed these steps as excessive precautions, his cousin had defended them tenaciously. If a Sundown event ever forced them to retreat to Montana, he didn’t want the feds to be able to figure out from their past trips that they had probably fled to familiar territory in Montana. Woody, though unconvinced, went along with the inconveniences. There simply was no arguing with Jack if he was convinced that something was important for the security of their Sundown plans. He wouldn’t holler or get mad when Woody disagreed. But neither would he let the point go. He just played a calm but unyielding game of tug-of-war until Woody eventually gave up and let him have his way.

  While he hadn’t appreciated Jack’s plans and adamance in the past, he sure was thankful now that he had had the foresight and the bulldogged determination to secure the best possible odds for them if they ever had to face a Sundown situation. Eating crow had never tasted so good.

  55

  Glendale, California

  Thursday evening, June 6, 2019

  The next evening, a few minutes past 8:00, the contacted transporter called back. “Hi, this is Randy with Conveyance Unlimited returning your call. Sorry . . . I can’t . . . I don’t . . . and I won’t . . . do the kind of work you are inquiring about. You might be telling the truth . . . you might really be on the up and up and not doing anything illegal . . . but I don’t do any kind of confidential or secretive transports. All my transports are above board with manifests and records. I require photo ID, current verifiable address, and phone number. But I do have an acquaintance that does do confidential transports. I’ll give him your number. If he’s interested, he’ll call you. If you don’t hear from him by the end of the weekend, it’s because he’s not interested.

  “By the way, no transport business that posts on Craig’s List does confidential transport. That’s way too risky. One other thing—the fact that you would call a transport business that posts on Craig’s List indicates that you’re a rookie who has never used confidential transport services before. Take a few words of advice. Don’t balk or haggle at their prices. You will offend them and they will walk away. If they ask for cash up front, it is okay to counter with half up front and half upon completion. Act distant and indifferent. Friendly makes them nervous. And do not show desperation or panic. That sets off warning bells. Good luck, rookie.”

  Woody hung up, set his burner down on the end table, and settled back in his recliner. So much for that . . . back to the waiting game, round two . . . either Mr. Real McCoy transporter calls me back or he doesn’t . . . if he doesn’t, it’s back to the drawing board . . . hope that doesn’t happen . . . but not gonna worry about it now . . . just gonna let it play out. He reached for the latest edition of Fly-Fisherman, turned to the article on trout fishing in Mongolia, and day-dreamed about fly fishing for lenok and monster taimen until he couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer.

  56

  Caltech

  Friday, June 7, 2019

  After Ariele had missed two days of work and failed to show up again Friday morning, Woody enquired about her, “Hey Sally . . . I haven’t seen Ariele for a couple days . . . is she sick?”

  She replied, “I have no idea. We haven’t heard from her. At this point, her absence is being regarded as unexcused.”

  Woody raised his eyebrows and donned a shocked expression, “Unexcused? . . . that is so unlike her.”

  “I know, I know . . . it sure isn’t like her . . . but it is what it is . . . if you hear anything from her, let us know.”

  “Will do. Did anyone check her apartment?”

  “Her apartment has been checked. Her car is there. Her phone is there. But her bicycle is missing.”

  “I hope she isn’t in trouble. She does live in a rough neighborhood. Did anyone call the police department and report her missing?”

  Sally hesitated for a moment—she looked pained—then recovered herself. “Yes, law enforcement is involved.”

  Woody didn’t miss her emotional misstep, bet she knew Ariele was on the lam the first evening. Nonetheless, he said nothing. Showing too much interest might be detrimental to his own situation. Instead, he shook his head as if he were baffled and brought the conversation to a close, “You seem to have the bases covered.” Then he retreated to get himself a cup of coffee.

  Sitting at his desk, nursing his morning java, Woody brooded over the situation. He was nearly as worried for himself as he was for Ariele. Sterling had never liked him. But ever since she had gone missing, the suck-up seemed to hold him in unusual suspicion—watching me like a hawk. If he was going to extricate himself from this dicey situation . . . he was going to need . . . all his savvy . . . lots of pluck . . . and a bit of luck.

  ***

  Shortly after lunch, Sally summoned him into her office, where he was questioned by two agents. First, they plied him with questions about Ariele’s indiscretion. He replied that she hadn’t shared much with him about it. He did know that she had been doing some general research on NEOs, that she had stumbled upon an interesting lead and followed up on it, that she had taken it hard when she had been rebuffed, and that she had taken it even harder when the FBI had gotten involved. When she had come to him, he had advised her to look at the situation from its bright side and take something positive from it.

  Next, they asked him about her disappearance. He told them that the last time he had seen her was at work and that he had no idea where she was.

  “You have no idea where she went?”

  “No, I don’t. To be honest, I’m more worried about what might have happened to her than where she went. She does live in a pretty bad neighborhood.”

  “We appreciate your concern Mr. Lundstrom, but we are wor
ried about where she went. We have reason to believe that she has fled to avoid prosecution for security breaches that are punishable pursuant to the Homeland Security Act.”

  Woody just shrugged his shoulders, “I’ve got no idea.”

  “Of all of her friends and acquaintances that you know, who would be the most likely to help her out if she was fleeing from law enforcement?”

  “Well . . . come to think of it . . . she did have a chat-room friend by the name of Boondocker who lives somewhere in central Oregon . . . the guy is a bit of a fruitcake . . . a Green-Peace, anti-Big-Brother prepper . . . built himself an off-the-grid, underground home with an attached grow hole. Ariele showed me pictures of the place once. It actually looked like a pretty cool place to visit if you wanted to eat organic vegetables, drink herb tea, and hang out with tree huggers.”

  After the questioning was over and he was back at his desk, he struggled a bit with the answers he had given the agents—fabrications and whitewash apart from the account of Boondocker. But he wasn’t struggling with the propriety of what he had said, for he believed that tactical deception was justified on the battlefield. He simply wondered whether his diversionary efforts were good enough. And he wondered how well he would do if they questioned him again while connected to a polygraph.

  Could he internalize his ploys well enough to pass a polygraph? He doubted it. He tried to rehearse them. I last saw Ariele when I was at work . . . hard at work trying to help her escape . . . I have no idea where Ariele went . . . immediately went . . . don’t ask me where she is ultimately going. But the time invested was probably wasted. While he would likely remember to keep his subtleties in mind while hooked up to the polygraph, he probably would not be able to internalize them enough to affect his emotional response. Pretty much toast if they polygraph me.