Fog Bastards 2 Destination

by Bill Robinson

  No intention of breaking the surface until well after dark, I move dirt from in front of me to behind me, sliding along a foot or two at a time. There's an occasional rumble in the direction of the tunnels, probably secondary collapses, but nothing that affects my progress.

  At one point, bored out of my mind, I try spinning as fast as I can and pushing into the dirt. The light is laughing at me. I get about three feet forward before I am so dizzy I have to stop for 10 minutes before I can start digging normally again. So much for comic book solutions.

  I do my best to pack the soil behind me to avert any obvious collapse of the ground above. I am not a geologist, so I have no idea how likely it is that my digging 1,500 feet down will do something noticeable on the surface, though the tunnel I am creating and re-filling is only a foot high at best. It's a good thing I'm not claustrophobic. My lungs are still getting dirt in them, even though I am obviously not breathing air, and my eyes keep getting dust in them as well. Miserable.

  When I think I am at least two miles away, I start to angle my tunneling upward, and get a nasty surprise. The dirt that had been relatively easy to move becomes rock. I turn back downward into the dirt layer and dig. In one sense, it makes me happy, because that rock is likely to shield anything I do this deep from the surface. On the other hand, it's going to make getting out of here messy.

  Another hour or so and the ground starts to become noticeably wetter, suggesting that I have reached my goal, the largest river in China. If I keep the dirt and rock behind me compacted, I think I should be able to break into the river from below without being noticed, and without doing any real damage to the channel. After all, it's not the river's fault its government is stupid.

  When I get to the bedrock layer, I try a few experiments. In the end, I conclude that using my finger as a knife and cutting large chunks of rock works best. Perez is right. She is always right. Why didn't I think about what I wanted? Heat vision would have been perfect here.

  So I stick my finger (I use my middle finger to make a political commentary no one but me will ever get) into the rock, run it around, slice it through, remove some rock, and move it to my feet, where I tamp in down into place. Finally, my finger hits water, and I simply push upward, water splashing down on me, light following. I am in the river, and it's still daylight.

  Happily, I use the surrounding rock and mud to seal my escape route, then I let the river take me away, cleaning the dust off my skin, and out of my eyes. It, I know, is flowing to the sea, so I can trust it to give me directional assistance. Once I figure out which way to go, I use some water molecules to up the tempo, and go looking for ocean.

  It's dark before I reach the Pacific, I keep my eyes open for a time when there are no boats visible, then pop to the surface, sticking my head up as a periscope on the USS Naked Dumbass. It's a wide river, I'm in the middle of it, and though there are people on shore, I decide to risk leaving. Molecules carry me into the air and upward to a thousand feet or so, then due east toward home.

  Cruising at a couple thousand miles per hour, the coast of California is in sight about 10. Another issue. Naked. Ten in the fucking morning. Car in Colton. Brain God knows where.

  I go for altitude, at 10,000 feet I should not be easy to spot with the naked eye. Colton is not hard to find, nor is the spot where a happy Starbuck waits, clothing in her backseat.

  Hoping the light is right and no one is looking, I drop quickly behind the restaurant next to the hotel where she is parked. My underwear is gone, stolen. At the far end of the restaurant there are two dumpsters. I run over toward them, grab the first two bags on top. Nothing useful in them. Repeat with two more bags. Nothing. Repeat a third time. Nothing.

  Then a crazy homeless person idea comes into my head. I choose the least disgusting of the six black plastic trash bags, dump its contents into the dumpster and rip two holes in the bottom of it. Viola! Underwear that no one will copy. I put my legs through the two holes, and hide the salami.

  I spend the next 45 minutes waiting for the parking lot to be empty. It never is. Finally, I grab the light, squeeze it, and turned back into me, grab my key from its hiding place, and run like the crazy person I am. I slip into the driver's seat with a huge sigh of relief.

  Without changing clothes, I start the engine and head on my way, praying no one who saw me called the cops until I can ditch the plastic bag I'm wearing. The smelly, gross, slimy full of something that didn't come from me plastic bag.

  Just in case, I take the 91 over to the 57 and head north, away from where I will eventually end up. Then onto the 60 east bound after it dawns on me that I am starving. I exit at Central, and pull into the parking lot in front of the pharmacy, stopping in a spot away from everyone else. Reaching into the back seat, I grab my spare clothes, quickly ditch the plastic bag and replace it with clean underwear that isn't as soon as I put it on, plus jeans and a tee.

  Then it occurs to me that I need to make sure Perez knows I'm ok, so I text her with my real phone, "U free for dinner?" It takes about a minute and a half before I get back a "Thank God. My Tia's. 6." "See u," goes back.

  I twist the key, put Starbuck into first, and drive down Central to The Hat, where I eat too much pastrami. After a half hour of eating, and convinced that I am home free, Starbuck and I go south to the 10, and head home for a much needed shower.

  My shower lasts in the half hour neighborhood, scrubbing every inch of me at least twice. I get out, dry off, and turn on the news to figure out how dead I am. The answer is pretty dead. The Chinese government holds a news conference, tearfully describing how I saved millions of lives, but died in the process. They are thinking about erecting a statue, no mention of a salami on it, in my honor over the now cold nuclear site. Gently wipe tear away from face. There's a sunken piece of earth under which I must have been, and descriptions of how heavy all that rock and dirt is 1,500 feet down.

  The network replays the Chinese government statement, every interview with Celeste, every bit of footage there is of me, even the fucking President bemoaning my death, and every analyst they can find (even the ones who hated me last week) chiming in on what a huge loss I am over and over again. They should have said loser, as in huge loser, but there's time to get it right.

  I'm beginning to like being dead.

  I get to Perez aunt's restaurant 15 minutes early, and she's already there, leaning up against her black Mustang. She gives me a big hug, and holds it almost too long.

  "You actually thought something happened to me?" It's my best incredulous voice.

  "Fuck you, Air Force."

  I gently hit her on the arm. "Glad you're concerned, but until you get a text from me confirming my death, don't you dare ever believe it." She laughs. I put my hand on her back, and steer her in for some of the world's best fajitas. It must have been a tough day, because I am still hungry despite the pound of pastrami I put away just a few hours ago.

  She makes me go over the whole story twice, the running in my garbage bag across the parking lot part three times. She's laughing so hard I'm afraid she'll choke on her steak.

  "So when does your girlfriend Celeste get the scoop that you survived?" It's her sarcastic voice. It's gotten much better the longer she's hung out with me.

  "She's not my girlfriend, and I should take advantage of being dead for a while, don't you think?"

  "No drones. No idiots driving into barriers. Actually not a bad idea."

  "I am going to investigate that Army man until I know enough to screw with him if he shows back up."

  "He will, Air Force, he will, as soon as he knows you're around."

  It's 11 when Perez' tia shoos us out of the restaurant, an hour after they locked the doors. We are working together all day tomorrow, so it's off to our respective apartments for nine hours until we see each other again. One last big hug before she goes, and a warning never to do something that stupid again without talking to her first.

  The next week is completely uneventful. Perez and
I agreed that I should do nothing that might get him seen, so it's been an uneventful day walking the airport, two quiet trips to Kona, a Sunday with my parents, Monday golfing with my flying buddies, and nights spent reading. Not even a drug bust to liven things up. Both Perez and I agree we should do this more often, which means do nothing more often, if you get my meaning.

  Syria is still bad, but not nearly so bad as it was. Not nearly bad enough that I want to show my face yet. And maybe it's time that somewhere on the planet Earth a politician actually decided to do something for once. I'd say something about holding my breath, but I actually can do that for a really long time.

  So I take another week dead, except for my usual Sunday night trek to Dallas and Houston, this time the informant claims drugs are on a particular Dallas flight, which I am able to confirm, along with not finding anything else.

  I have a week of vacation coming up, part of the airline's plan to make sure I don't have too many hours, and Perez and I have spent my two dead weeks working on a plan to gather intel on the fake General Church. Vacation week will be the time to put the plan into action. Perez is torn between thinking the plan is a little stupidly risky, and thinking that the only time I've been happy in the past six months has been when I've been doing something stupid.

  Monday morning I go to a prop house. In LA, with the movie industry so industrial, there are houses that provide all sorts of stuff to studios and indie movie producers, for rent or sale. Perez helps me find one specializing in military gear. I go as him, not me, with the green contacts in, and the fake glasses on. It seems to work.

  The dude in charge has the buffed out look of a soldier, though I'll bet that an extra in a war movie is as close as he's ever actually gotten. I am looking at a rack of uniforms out front in the shop when he walks over to help. I explain the importance to me of this looking authentic, that I get one shot to get the short film I'm making right.

  He tells me to ignore the crap he has out front, that's for cheap bastards. The good stuff is in back, he gets it from a company that runs base exchanges for the military, and it's absolutely the real thing.

  I walk out of there with my wallet a lot lighter, almost $500 so, but the proud owner of a camo uniform that claims I am Colonel Bradley, a cool beret, and a set of combat boots. The money's not an issue, I don't have a girlfriend to spend it on, and Taylor seems to have drifted away. Despite my attempts, we haven't seen each other except at work and for one lunch since the MFM arguments.

  After relaxing for a while, I pack two suitcases for my trip to Vegas. One with my shit in it, the other with his clothes, contacts, glasses, binoculars, camera, and phone. I'm eating for two these days and it's not easy.

  Starbuck and I cruise on out about ten, leaving time for the traffic to clear before departure. Lunch at the Taco Bell in Barstow, then into Vegas by 2:30, and check in to the new Saville Resort, directly across the street from a certain condo tower.

  I asked for a room as high as possible, and I'm on the 30th floor. From the diagrams on the Internet, I can identify the colonel's condo, 100 feet away and two stories up. I can stand on my balcony and pick out his easily, the sliding glass door closed.

  I change into my swim trunks and go spend an hour at the pool. They have an adult, clothing optional section, and I briefly entertain taking the salami by to see what happens, but that flies in the face of keeping a low profile.

  The day slips into night, cold in Vegas, in the 40s, but cool to me as soon as I change. I put on my military garb, sans the boots, and put the fake ID into my pocket. Two drops of fluid, two small circles of glass, and my eyes are green. Otherwise, I take nothing that might give them a clue to find me if something happens to him. Just boots and flashlight in backpack.

  Standing on the balcony, I wait until the light tells me it's safe, then pop a few molecules and climb into the night sky. There are no stars in Las Vegas, at least in the sky, because the light from below blots them out. Nothing but flashing lights that give me comfort. No way anyone is going to spot me.

  Fifteen minutes and I am on base, standing on the roof of the building I have seen the colonel enter. I pause to put the boots on, put my beret on, put my glasses on, and put my ID card on. Then as casually as I can, I walk over to the stairwell entrance. The door is not locked. Once again, they create security for the threats they see, not those that should not exist.

  I exit the stairwell on the top floor, figuring that the boss never works on the bottom, and certainly would want a window. If this is where they work the drones, it is a 24/7 operation, which I expect to be busy. It is. I do my best to blend in, walking the corridor looking for some kind of directory. There is none.

  I decide to go to the first floor, and see if there is something at the entrance. A small crowd is gathered at the elevator, which conveniently dings just as I arrive, saving me the possibility of actually having to talk to someone.

  The colonel is on the elevator. He starts to exit, when one of the people in our group asks him a question. He stands outside the car for a few seconds, then joins the man walking back in. I follow. They push the button for the first floor, and I ride down six inches to his right. Everyone parts for him when the car reaches its destination, and I follow him out of the car. He turns right, and passes through a double door at the end of the hall. I catch a glimpse of what looks like a dozen soldiers playing video games. They must be the drone controllers.

  Heading the other way, toward the entrance, I find the directory which shows a room number for the colonel on the third floor. I am standing back at the elevator when the colonel emerges from the video game room, and joins me waiting. Two women, both in uniform, are there as well.

  Everyone lets the colonel get on the elevator first and pick his spot, then we fill the remaining space. All four of us are headed to three. The colonel sprints off as soon as the door opens, one woman racing after him. The other one and I simply stare, standing just in front of the now closing elevator doors.

  I bail for the stairwell. I find a spot on the roof where I can see the parked blue Nissan, settle in, and wait. It takes less than an hour until he exits the building and then the base, while I grab my backpack, wait for the OK from the light, and flip over the roof and down to the window of his office, which opens easily to my touch.

  Once inside, I freeze, moving not a muscle that I can control, trying not to breathe. No alarm sounds, no sound of booted feet running down the corridor, not click of lock opening. There is enough light coming in the open window from outside that I can see the room fairly well. It is what you would expect.

  Dominated by a huge wooden desk that must have taken a crane to get in, the colonel also has a large leather chair for himself. There are solid wood, unpadded chairs facing it, a small conference table, also nice wood, with modern wheeled office chairs around it in the corner, and a credenza with several baskets of paperwork and a computer sitting on it.

  Five locked and seriously strong looking filing cabinets cover the far wall. I start with the computer, which is on, but password protected. I don't even try. My only guess would have been General Church, and, right or wrong, I would surely leave a log entry for typing that. His desk is also locked. The paperwork in the baskets is innocuous, not unexpected because anything secret would be locked up.

  That leaves the filing cabinets, with their built in combination locks and thick metal bars across the front. I could take them with me, though they wouldn't fit in my backpack, but that would tell the colonel that someone was here. The light has another idea. It wants me to try the locks.

  I look at the labels, and slap myself silly for not starting there. One entire cabinet is labeled MFM, written in a black marker, with the words Project Kryptonian underneath written over. I spin the lock to clear it, and then gently turn it to the left.

  How fucking ridiculous are these fog people? I can't see through paper, yet my hands are sensitive enough to feel the tumblers click on the lock? 38. The first number is 38. Then
I spin it gently to the right, going past 38, and feel the second click at 22. Then back to the left to 34. I am going home, going to sleep, and ripping Fog Dude a new one.

  The top drawer is full of files. I risk the flashlight, trying to keep the light inside the drawer only. They are day by day surveillance reports of my ineptitude. Broken windows in six states. The building I unintentionally remodeled. I think he can keep these. A quick survey though confirms: no sightings in Hawai'i.

  The second drawer is more of the same, also clear of Hawai'i. I feel like I should slip a little note in here and see how long it takes him to find it, but my brain ends that idea quickly. The third drawer is science reports. Estimates of my physical strength, endurance, speed, and the like. All, I am quite sure, ridiculously inaccurate.

  The bottom drawer is a gold mine. There are a dozen three ring binders, blue, printed on the front with the title: Project Kryptonian Summary. Discovery to Death. I spend just long enough to determine that they are all identical, stuff one of them in my backpack, close the drawer, spin the dial, confirm the drawers are locked tight, and head for the window.