Fog Bastards 2 Destination

by Bill Robinson

  "PSA 1292, rear cargo compartment." I get it out between laughing. My bag and I are halfway out the door before she speaks.

  "Thanks for the help, Air Force."

  "Anything for you, Officer Perez."

  "Don't do anything stupid. See you Thursday."

  And with that vote of confidence, I head back behind the store to fly out, while she makes the hyperlight jump to her office.

  Chapter 9

  The second adventure of the day has been equally carefully laid out by Perez, down to some language I should use. I give her endless crap for knowing so much about counterfeiters.

  My backpack has clothes in his size in it, the green contacts and wetting solution, money, and pictures of what I want. I get naked, get in the air, and get myself south to Columbia. I brought my MP3 player this time strapped to my arm, music and an audio book loaded.

  Perez knows everything, including where in Bogota to find the best counterfeit ID's. It's still dark when I land behind one of the major hotels, get dressed in the clothes I brought, and head into the restroom to put in the contacts. I buy breakfast in the hotel café, then down the street and hang out in an outdoor café until the market opens for business.

  Kiana's directions to a side street are perfect. There are three sleazy men to chose from, and I pick one whose work seems remarkably good to me. It takes him 15 minutes to put a picture of him on a California driver's license with the name Robert Omar Bradley on it, another 15 to produce an Ecuadorian passport for Jesus Bolivar, same picture, and a half hour to copy the military ID I photographed clipped to Colonel O'Connor's shirt and produce one for Colonel Robert Omar Bradley. All for $300.

  The artist suggests that I take the alley to get back to the main street, since the police often check foreigners wandering back from this particular neighborhood. Forgetting not to be stupid, I thank him for helping me and head off as he suggests.

  I'm halfway down the alley when three teenagers come running up from behind, two stopping in front of me, their friend on my rear. Fuck me. I don't want to hurt anyone. No guns, but a knife in one hand, and another hand on top of a knife still in its sheath.

  They ask for my money. I tell them I spent it all. They point out that they saw I had many Benjamin Franklins that I did not need. They are willing to let me keep my purchases if I will pay them for safe transit, perhaps $700? I suggest that they should leave now, or they might not be able to walk normally in the future. Not what they taught me to say in Patrol Procedure and Community Relations.

  The young man at my back is the largest of the group, and he comes up from behind attempting to pin my arms at my sides. I raise a fist and drop him to the ground. His friends are less friendly than they were a second ago. Both knives are pointed at me. I laugh. The light laughs. They hear me, but not it.

  The quiet one strikes first, I grab his wrist and squeeze a little too hard. It's broken, and the knife falls to the ground. I backhand him in the jaw, and he joins it. The last man jabs, I step aside and hit him. He falls to earth, silent. They are all still breathing, and I have everything I came into the alley with except my calm.

  I walk back to the hotel where I started, grab some lunch, read, and wait until dark. Then I slip out of the hotel, undress, put everything into my backpack except my MP3 player, strap it on, and punch molecules to take me home.

  Halloween is happy to see me, then pissed when I leave 15 minutes later so I can get in to work early, visit Taylor at dispatch with my flight plan. I open my bag and show her my latest acquisition, my FAA weapons permit and my SIG Sauer. Not really sure why I needed the permit, but I got it anyway, and since it was in my mailbox when I got home, I thought I would try it out. She's not impressed by the weapon, but she thinks it's cute that I wanted to impress her. I walk out to catch the shuttle to the terminal with a movie date for Saturday night.

  Captain Amos and I have an uneventful flight to Kona, then he and I take the flight attendants up to Waikaloa to play golf and eat near the ocean. Eventually, we are back at our hotel, and I sneak out to the coast in my underwear, change into my golf outfit, say the magic word "golf" which definitely has intention, and fly off at mach speed for Korea.

  I burn for the golf course at the resort outside of town I found the other day, land hidden in the forest surrounding it, make sure I'm properly dressed, and walk to the pro shop. Fake driver's license in hand, I rent a driver, a five iron, and two buckets of balls.

  Then it's the best time I have ever had on a golf course, yes, maybe even better than playing with Taylor (both in the golf and non-golf sense). My first drive goes 375 yards, which is the furthest marker on the range. Then it's about 500 yards each for the rest of the bucket.

  The five iron is good for 375 yards without stress too. I try hitting it harder, and it probably does go 500 yards, but no where near straight. It ends up in the forest. I drive some of the balls in that last bucket 700 or 800 yards (a half mile roughly), but they too end up with wicked hooks and slices.

  I do this being careful not to show off, just hitting smoothly, no where near my real strength. Then I'm down to my last ball. I have no idea where it lands, but its well into town. Aside from my buddy Alan Shepard on the moon, that is a world record that will never be broken. Unfortunately, no one will ever know.

  I return my clubs, retrieve my fake ID, walk back into the woods, turn molecules into kimchi, and rocket back to Hawai'i, arriving maybe an hour before sunrise, and landing on the roof of the hotel.

  A quick scan of the Times web site shows that the MMM boys were busy last night, but apparently got out safely. I go have breakfast at the buffet, and then the captain and I take our aircraft back to California.

  I arrive in Upland about 11, and spend a fruitless four hours searching for the MMM's, finding neither them nor anything else useful to do. Bored, I head back to Starbuck and back home, in plenty of time to get ready for my day with Perez.

  We're back in Terminal 7 which is bustling with travelers, but not in need of us. It means we can talk about whatever, and we do, going from basketball, to the MMM's, to my golf adventure, and back again. She asks me to do the Dallas thing again this week. Last week's haul put the total up at 80 kilos, which has to be a serious financial drain on the cartel.

  I discover she's going to San Francisco to visit her family for the weekend, and won't be at mom's on Sunday. She asks me what I am doing, and I don't tell her about Taylor, just that I might go to the movies with friends. I remind Perez that I work for an airline, and she should let me know when she needs to fly somewhere. Then a thought occurs to me.

  "Don't forget I can take you to Hawai'i with me for free any time I go. You've never been, and it's time you learned to snorkel."

  "I will, Air Force, I will." I'm not sure that she means it, but I do.

  Shift end we meet at her tia's for tacos, such a Thursday night tradition that Ariela had saved a table in the back for us. We're done eating by seven, and Perez suggests we go check the news for the motorcycle men.

  I suggest we drive out to Hesperia and go flying. She stands up, takes my hand, and leads me out the door almost faster than I can get the tip down on the table.

  FreshBurger is closed when we get there, and I am already changed into me and sitting in my underwear. We walk behind the store, I pick her up, and gently lift into the air. I point to the twin circles burned into the roof, explain how they got there, and can barely hold on while she nearly laughs herself to death.

  Then it's off, up, down, around, forth, back, in, out, left, right, slow, fast, and everything else I can think of until she's satiated. We land back behind FreshBurger 90 minutes after we left. She has her hand on my chest as I put her down, exactly as Celeste did, though Perez doesn't slide it downwards. I am surprised that I am disappointed by that.

  "Promise me," she looks me in the eye, "that you won't do that out here with your sportscaster friend." She has yet to catch her breath.

  "I promise you that I won't do that out
here with anyone but you."

  She smiles and hits me on the arm. I think it hurts her hand. We get into her car and head for home, me becoming me again once we're safely on the highway. She drops me back at Starbuck, and says her last words, which are now her usual last words, ‘don't do anything stupid.'

  What qualifies as stupid?

  It's Thursday, the first Thursday after the LA city council banned the rooftop parties downtown. Celeste Nortin might, just might, be standing on one of those roofs. Stupid or not stupid, that is the question. Whether tis nobler to be celibate or have sex while the Army watches? And, to add to my stupidity, I would never have thought about it if Perez hadn't mentioned her.

  I'm going anyway.

  I drive to Upland, change into my underwear, and make a giant circle so that I pass over Colton and approach downtown from the southeast, giving the impression that I started out that way. She is there, on top of the Bof A building. The drone misses me on my way in, but the I'm being watched feeling starts virtually immediately upon my landing.

  She's facing the other way, but hears the pitter patter of my tiny feet as I land. Didn't have to worry about looking cool, because I'm grounded by the time she sees me.

  No words come from her mouth, she takes my hand and leads me to the door, deja vu of Perez not a couple hours ago, except that we're going in this time, not out, the stairwell at the ready. There's a camera in there, high on the ceiling, but not so high that I can't fly up and break it into many little pieces.

  Celeste is naked by the time I get back down, grabs me with passion I have not felt from anyone in weeks, exchanges one long kiss (tongues included), and then makes clear where I need to be. Part of me remains fascinated with the effect I have on her, part of me wishes I hadn't come.

  I give her a half hour or so today before I pull out and carry her over to the stairs. She's so remarkably beautiful, I just prefer her awake. She's unconscious, head on my shoulder, for a good 20 minutes before she stirs.

  "Thanks."

  "You're welcome."

  "I wasn't sure you would come. It's been a month since I've seen you and I'm having withdrawal symptoms."

  I laugh at that one.

  "The General says to tell you good job on your first mission, and not to worry about any of the other ones in that envelope. He says to lay low, and they'll have a new mission for you in two weeks."

  I have no idea what she's talking about . "OK."

  "I won't ask you about that. I don't want the network to know I'm under duress. I tried to walk away, but it's not going to be easy."

  "Don't worry about it," I squeeze her naked body a little, "We'll deal with it together eventually."

  She smiles, I can't see it, but I can feel it through her entire body.

  "What do you think about the Mysterious Motorcycle Men?"

  "I appreciate the help, but they are going to get themselves killed. They should stop."

  "Is that what you told them?"

  "Yep. I don't think they will though."

  "What do you know about them?"

  "Nothing, except what everyone else does, they were pretty tight lipped, and they are pretty hard to find."

  "And you're still going to work and being normal?"

  "Every day. I still can't figure out what I can do to make a permanent difference, so I am just going on day by day."

  She kisses me. I kiss her back. She gets up, gets dressed, I put my pants back on, and we exchange another long kiss.

  "See you in two weeks?" Definitely a question, but more than just a request for information.

  "Same time, same roof," is my response.

  Then she walks away down the stairs, and I head back out onto that roof. I briefly entertain the idea of pummeling the drone into dust, but instead I blast straight up way too fast for it to follow, roll over and plummet down into the Inland Empire. Another big circle, and I am safely back at Starbuck and on my way home. I spend the rest of the night contemplating the meaning of my sad existence.

  Friday disappears in a fog of nothing, running, the gym, tacos, people watching, Celeste on the news, and my brain sizzling on the frying pan. I actually go to sleep Friday night, letting my guardian cat protect me. Fog Dude stays away. I think he's learned who's boss, and it's a five and a half pound shorthair.

  Saturday is amazing. Taylor takes me (I pay, she directs) to an Indian restaurant that is spectacular, simple, and authentic all at once, and then we laugh through a well chosen movie. The night ends at her front door, the two of us making out for a good ten minutes. She fits in my arms perfectly, and maybe in my life as well.

  I am happy for half the trip home. As I transition on the 405, it occurs to me that I have 830 days, tops. Two years plus 100 days. Can I honestly enter into a relationship and not tell her that simple fact? Can I bring myself to tell her the truth? Should I? I lucked out with Perez, and I know Jen would have protected my secret, but do I know enough about Taylor? I become him, and stay up all night watching bad movies. A reflection of my life, minus the zombies.

  Date etiquette says you don't call the next day, so I don't. I have a quiet dinner with mom and dad, mostly dad filling me in on all the new pilots they've been hiring, which does technically increase my seniority with the company. Not that it matters, I'm at 841.

  After dark, I take my leave and drive the four miles to my hiding place in Anaheim, where the drone appears to have taken the night off. Feeling happy to be able to follow my old routine, I park Starbuck at the hotel, wander over to alley behind the Chinese restaurant, and launch skyward.

  I find Joshua Barnes' house, and only have to float there an hour before he hits the road, joins up with his partner, and three of us are off toward South Central. This time it's a neighborhood near a major private university named for its location in our state, and a small group of bad people on the corner. Maybe we should just outlaw corners, since that's where the bad guys always seem to be.

  The two men in black roar up, sort of fly onto the sidewalk, take down the two closest men easily, and go after a second pair. From the fifth man, behind the two warriors, a firearm appears. I take that as my cue. Molecules are no more as I move, slower than a bullet actually, but fast enough to take the dude down before he can fire.

  Seconds later there are five unconscious bad guys laying and the three of us standing on the sidewalk. They are looking at me.

  "We had him, man." Not the response I was expecting.

  "Your backs were turned." Not what I was planning on saying, but better under the circumstances.

  They are shaking their heads. "We knew he was there."

  A lightbulb comes on, figuratively speaking. I look around, as far left and right as I can see without moving my feet.

  "You have a spotter around here somewhere. An advance man who comes in and scopes the place. He's in your ears."

  "We told you we know what we're doing."

  The man at my feet stirs a little. I reach down and pick up his gun in my right hand. Showing it to the motorcycle men, I crush it slowly, for effect, then toss the lump of steel at their feet.

  "Won't stop you from getting killed, just delay it a little."

  "We're not stopping. We have to do something."

  I pause a second. Try to look serious.

  "Join the police. Join the Coast Guard. Become school teachers. You don't have to get shot to do something." I pause another second. "These guys are not the power brokers. Taking them out doesn't change anything. And when you've pissed off their suppliers enough, they will not be so easy to deal with."

  All five on the ground are starting to recover. I nod toward the black bikes.

  "Get on your way. Please think about it?"

  They don't say anything, but are quickly gone.

  I head out to Dallas, with a special diversion to Houston, and identify two flights that are packing evil, one headed to LAX, and the other to San Francisco. I let Perez know. Then get home in time to run and shower.

&nbs
p; It's Monday, the day I should call Taylor, but I don't have to because she's working when I get into dispatch to do my pre-flight at seven. We get in a nice 15 minute conversation before Captain Amos appears and drags me off to make sure we're not going to crash. Taylor and I make a tentative Wednesday dinner plan, assuming we don't.

  Perez is in the terminal office when we stop by, Captain Amos coming with me to say hello. I ditch him for a second, and tell her that there are three motorcycle men, not two. I know she'll have found number three before I get back.

  Wednesday is my extra LAPD day, and Perez has indeed identified the watchman, another ex Marine from the same unit, Peter Thomas, who is on the phone with both of the other two in a conference call every time we know the MMM's were on the loose. She has no more idea what to do with them than I do, except she is reaching the point that she thinks we should rat them out.