Midnight Sun

by Basil Sands

  Lonnie turned to look out the window and saw Marcus’ F250 rumble east on 6th, heading out of downtown toward the south side of Anchorage. The dent in the tailgate darkened with the shadow cast by the southern sun. As his truck turned the corner, the baby jumped in her womb.

  Chapter 13

  Farrah’s Rented House

  Goldenview Drive

  Tuesday, June 21st

  08:15 a.m.

  The house at the end of the winding driveway would have been called a log cabin by folks who weren’t familiar with real Alaskan log cabins. Real log cabins like the type inhabited by homesteaders and people in remote areas of Alaska and Northern Canada’s Yukon Territory seldom measured more than four or five hundred square feet in size and were made of eight-inch logs, the largest that could be found in mass quantities in the Arctic. They often had dirt floors, sometimes covered with rough-hewn boards or slats laid right on the surface of the ground. Few had electricity or running water, and were typically heated by a single potbellied wood-burning iron stove, or, if the owners couldn't afford that convenience, by a fifty-gallon drum converted into a barrel stove. The barrel stoves were not very pretty, but they definitely could put out some serious heat on a cold winter night.

  This house, on the other hand, was more of a log fortress than a cabin. Constructed of massive sixteen-inch spruce logs imported from British Columbia, it was practically impervious to anything less than armor-piercing artillery shells. At over four thousand square feet, the mini-mansion looked like a rich man’s fantasy of what rustic frontier life should be.

  Steven Farrah jogged up to the house. Sweat soaked through his gray cotton running clothes, forming dark triangular patches on his chest and back and seeping in a pattern beneath his armpits. He slowed and, breathing heavily, walked over to the Audi parked in the large open area in front of the standalone garage built of the same logs as the house. The two buildings were connected by a ten-foot-long breezeway. He reached into his pocket and pressed a button on the key fob to unlock the vehicle, reached in and clicked the garage door opener attached to the sun visor, then closed and locked the car.

  The panels of the two-car-wide door rose slowly like the eyelid of a giant Cyclops. Blinded by the bright summer sun, he barely caught the man-shaped shadow inside the garage as he drew near. His heart lurched and he instinctively reached into his waistband for the Sig Sauer P232 he always kept there. The shadow moved toward him from deep within the dark room. The scuff of a shoe on the cement floor hastened his draw. Just as he pulled the weapon to full height, a voice called out.

  “Mr. Farrah. You should be less paranoid and more cautious.”

  “Wha…?” Farrah started. He gritted his teeth and squeezed his lips into a snarl. Recognizing the voice he lowered the pistol.

  “Really,” said the figure emerging from the shadowy space, “one never knows who one’s friends are, does one.”

  Farrah slid the Sig back into a fitted holster set in a wide, flesh-colored elastic belt wrapped about his midsection. The setup held the small, flat weapon firm against his body, rendering it invisible beneath most clothing.

  “You very nearly ceased to be my or anyone’s friend.”

  Kharzai stepped into the blazing daylight, shielding his eyes with his hand. The dog from the attempted robbery trotted beside him, tail wagging, then sat on his haunches beside Kharzai, sweeping a shallow cloud of dust up behind itself with every motion of its tail. It opened its mouth and let its tongue droop as the bright, hot sun almost instantly heated its furry body.

  “Who would ever have thought that Alaska could possibly get this hot?” Kharzai wiped tiny beads of sweat from his forehead. “It feels almost like Sevastopol.”

  Farrah squinted up at the blue sky, then dropped his eyes toward the tall mountains that seemed to be immediately behind the house. The house itself actually stood partway up the base of the mountain range, the peaks of which were indeed only a few miles to the east. From the second story of the house, one could see the northern limits of the Pacific Ocean lazily reflecting the summer sun.

  “It looks more like Yalta,” he said

  “I didn’t say looks,” Kharzai replied. “I said feels.”

  The two walked into the garage. The dog followed them, staying close to his new friend Kharzai. Farrah stopped at the door leading toward the house. “That beast is not coming inside.”

  “Ah, c'mon, Steven. I've gotten rather attached to the little guy.” Kharzai leaned down and scratched the dog behind the ears. “Haven't I, Deano?”

  “Deano?” Farrah said. “What on earth prompted that name?”

  “It was on his tag,” Kharzai replied, “and he seems to answer to it, so Deano must be his name.”

  “Named or not,” Farrah said, “he's not allowed in the house. I don't want dog hair on everything.”

  “Whatever you say,” Kharzai said resignedly. “You're the boss on this one.”

  He walked Deano to the space in front of the garage and picked up a gnarled dry stick one end of which was pocked with teeth marks suggesting the dog had probably dragged it out of the woods to chew on. Deano jumped and spun excitedly upon seeing the stick in his new master's hand.

  “Ready, boy? Ready?” Kharzai taunted. Deano went wild with enthusiastic yipping. Kharzai leaned back, stretched his arm, and flung the stick like a missile launched from a trebuchet. It flew long and high, and Deano fired off after it with such speed that he must have thought his life depended upon him returning with that stick. Kharzai watched the dog sprint across the dusty driveway, kicking spouts of dust beneath his paws with every bounding step. He smiled, pleasure seeping through his expression. The momentary peace was abruptly split apart by the sound of Farrah's voice.

  “Are you coming in or what?”

  “Huh? Oh, yes, yes, of course.”

  He turned and crossed into the garage. Farrah hit the remote control button by the door to the house and the motor on the ceiling lowered the large bay door with a whirring hum. They moved inside and crossed through the breezeway and into the house itself.

  “What about it feels like Sevastopol?” Farrah asked.

  The moment of happiness with Deano had evaporated, and Kharzai was back in character.

  “The fact that you nearly blew the whole operation by getting exposed,” he said.

  Kharzai stopped in the middle of the stone-tiled mudroom entry and gave Farrah an accusing stare. Farrah spun back toward him, his face scrunched at the accusation and his lips tightened into thin-stretched lines.

  “What are you talking about?” he hissed.

  “Did you know you were followed last night?”

  “Oh, really?” Farrah’s expression changed to a look of indignation. “By whom, the local police? The Albanian Mafia? The CIA?”

  “Nope, nope, and nope.” Kharzai wagged a finger at him. “It was the FBI.”

  “How could they be on to us?” Farrah waved his hand dismissively.

  “Because you got your pretty little face on TV at that accident.” He framed his own face with his fingers in a square like the outline of a television screen. “And that pregnant trooper remembered every detail about you and the cousins. You have exposed yourself, Your Highness.”

  “How much do they know?” Farrah's expression became thoughtful, concerned.

  “Enough to get the hounds sniffing,” Kharzai said. “And I just happen to know at least a couple of the hounds involved—they are very good sniffers.”

  “What do you mean, you know these hounds,” Farrah queried.

  “A couple of Marines I worked with when the CIA thought I was on their side,” Kharzai said.

  Farrah let out a sharp sigh. “How did you find all this out?”

  “Because prego lady and a hot-looking redhead dropped off the two retired commandos who traipsed through the woods and followed you into the port. As the women waited in the train yard for their heroes to return, those goons the cousins hired to watch your ass got bored an
d decided they were going to show the girls a good time. Only those girls both had guns and the commandos returned during the standoff and kicked their collective buttockses.”

  “Two men beat eight?” Farrah said disbelievingly.

  “You get what you pay for,” Kharzai said. “So, yes. Two highly trained professional killers beat the living daylights out of half a dozen high-school dropout, drooling-idiot street thugs and sent them running for their barely sentient lives.”

  “And you watched all of it without stepping in.” Farrah sounded displeased.

  “Of course,” Kharzai replied. “I know better than to blow my cover by stepping into the light when someone else can take care of things for me.”

  “Except they didn’t take care of things.”

  “If you're referring to our little band of jerkoffs, no,” Kharzai said. “Now thanks to the Hansel and Gretel hiring agency bringing in the least-evolved thugs they could find, the G-Men are coming your way.”

  “Do you think we have enough time to complete the mission?” Farrah was now truly concerned. He'd never been caught before, never even been cornered. He had no intention of failing now.

  “The big guy is supposed to arrive in a couple of days,” Kharzai said. “As long as we keep the pace and don’t do anything else stupid, we should be fine.”

  “Iron Giant left me an email with an updated agenda,” said Farrah. “We should still be on target. But perhaps we should find another residence.”

  “Iron Giant,” Kharzai said with a mocking tone. “Why do they always have to use such masculine code names? The man is selling out his country to the enemy for money. That tells me the bastard is a greedy little coward. His codename should be more like Prissy Prick, or Tepid Turd.” His voice dropped to purely derisive. “Iron Giant…pffft.”

  “A man that high in the government is most likely to see himself with powerful imagery,” Farrah said. “And besides, we don’t know if he is a he at all. He may be a she.”

  “Okay, I will go with a female name then. Hmmm, feline perhaps.” Kharzai put his fingers to his black-bearded chin in contemplation. “Parsimonius Pussy.”

  Farrah shook his head. “Whoever they are, we are getting what we want. And that is all that matters.”

  Chapter 14

  Fuel Pipeline Tunnel

  Under Anchorage’s Park Strip

  11:45 a.m.

  “Okay, this city has entirely too many underground tunnels for its size,” Tonia said. “I feel like we've gone through fifty miles of labyrinth.”

  “Yeah, why couldn't they have golf carts or those Segway things or something down here?” Tomer wiped sweat from his forhead,flicking it from his hand, the droplets splashing against the wall. “Maybe we should get one requisitioned. You think these halls are wide enough? What are they, about eight feet wide, maybe?”

  He made a gesture of measuring the width of the tunnel with outstretched arms.

  “You two need to get in better shape,” Warner said. “In Afghanistan, my company marched thirty miles in one day in hundred-degree heat and then had to fight a battle with the Taliban before we could get any rest.” Sweat ran in rivulets from his forehead falling in heavy drops from his chin and the tip of his nose.

  “You look like you're about to die from this heat down here too, Superman,” Tonia said. “I'm with Tony—a golf cart sounds nice about now. And a nice cold glass of iced tea.”

  “Yeah, a Long Island Iced Tea,” Tomer said.

  “Oh, yeah,” Tonia replied with a wink and nudge of Tomer’s arm. “You think like me, Agent Tomer.”

  “Great minds, ya know.” he replied, cheeks blushing at her physical contact.

  Warner rolled his eyes. Since they gotten into the tunnels, Tonia and Tomer had been complaining and joking around with each other non-stop. Over the course of the past few hours, their behavior had shifted from borderline flirtatious to full eye-contact and playful touching. It weirded Warner out. What either of them saw in each other, he had no idea, but they were getting along just fine—which, according to one of the FBI agents he had met earlier that morning, was not expected. Tomer, he was told, rubbed everyone the wrong way. Within minutes of meeting him, Warner understood what the other agent had meant. He was almost instantly irritated by the man, and knew this was going to be a seriously long day with him in the tunnels.

  Tomer carried himself with the kind of air one usually finds among stereotypical bowling-alley types, the kind who wore their league shirt like it was formal attire, had a toothpick sticking out of their mouth, and whose faces were stuck in an eternal “I’m smarter than you” smirk most of the time. He came into the FBI office, hair slicked back and held in place by too much gel and wearing a suit that was probably from the expensive end of the rack at JC Penney. It would have looked better than it did if it fit him properly. Another downgrade in Warner’s eyes was Tomer’s shiny blue polyester shirt, puffed up as it lay over a thick bush of chest hair. A bright red tie stood in stark contrast to the shirt. Not exactly standard G-Man attire. He looked more like a sleazy strip-club manager. To complete the effect, he wore a big gold ring with a square of black onyx inlaid with a single diamond on the pinky of one hand and a Masonic ring on the ring finger of the other. Black knuckle hairs jutted from beneath the rings.

  What really caught Warner's attention, in a weird sort of way, was Tomer's perfectly manicured fingernails. They were smooth and symmetrical, even shiny. Warner imagined Tomer sitting in a salon waiting patiently while an effeminate Asian man buffed and polished his nails. He simultaneously snickered and cringed at the image.

  Tonia seemed to have a different opinion of Agent Tomer. She apparently saw something in the man that no one else did, because she jibed and cajoled with him as if they had been best buddies for years. Tonia with her Baltimore/DC inner-city black female personality and Tomer with his white trash bowling-alley/mafia wannabe persona. It had a weird kind of poetic romanticism to it. Very weird poetry indeed.

  Warner had never figured out the male/female relationship thing. It was not logical how some people came together, how they became attracted to one another, and even “fell in love.” He had no clue how it all worked, and never expected it to work for him.

  Regardless of the comical love affair of his cohorts, he tried to stay focused on the work. They were searching for possible ways a terrorist could put a weapon of mass destruction or tool of assassination into the underground labyrinth of tunnels and pipelines that was the foundation of the city of Anchorage. That task was turning into a lot of work.

  Warner and Roberts were both trained in explosives detection, but neither were electronics experts. After hours walking the subterranean maintenance corridors that snaked below the surface of Anchorage’s downtown area, they were exhausted. Plumbing, electrical conduit, fuel lines, telephone and data cables consumed every inch of wall space in the narrow tunnels at the base of which ran two large-diameter pipelines. One carried a constant stream of jet fuel from the Port of Anchorage to Ted Stevens International Airport. The other was full of highly pressurized natural gas flowing to routing systems that distributed it throughout the city.

  Warner tapped a short metal baton against the pipe as they walked the corridor. The thick steel-encased pipe responded with a dull metallic thunk. The jet fuel pipeline was a dual-layer system with an inner pipe made of half-inch-thick steel protected by a layer of insulation and another layer of half-inch steel surrounding the actual fuel-carrying pipe. The design, while seeming like technical overkill, enabled it to withstand every conceivable type of breech from earthquakes to bombs.

  Fifteen miles in length, the pipe consisted of thousands of four-foot segments bolted together at flanged seams. Flow control and pressure-release valves jutted from the pipe at every tenth section, allowing for repair or replacement within the forty-foot-long segment.

  The trio had entered the tunnel from an access port on the park strip and walked half a mile on each side of the area where the
president and his guests would be appearing. From the starting point of their inspection, several blocks north and beneath downtown, Warner had been tapping each four-foot segment of pipe as they passed it. The rhythmic “tink” sounded the same on every pipe the entire length they traveled. As they came to a point under the center of the park strip, Tomer stuck his fingers in his ears and wiggled them irritably.

  “Warner, do you have to keep hitting that pipe every few steps?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact..”

  “Why?” Tonia asked. “You're giving me a headache.”

  She rubbed her temples with her highly manicured fingernails. The nails were not excessively painted, as that was against agency dress code, but they were immaculate. Just like Tomer's.

  “Sorry to interrupt you two love birds, but I am inspecting the pipeline.”

  Tomer flushed. Tonia looked sideways at Warner, then sheepishly looked away.

  “I don't know what you’re talking about,” Tomer sputtered, “but you have hit that pipe at least a thousand times and it’s driving me nuts. It has made the same sound every time you’ve hit it for the past two miles.”

  “Actually, I’ve only hit each segment of pipe once. We have passed six hundred and forty-six segments of pipe, which means I have struck that many times. And yes, every segment has sounded the same so far.”

  “You counted every pipe?” Tonia said, a look of disbelief on her face.

  “Of course,” Warner replied. He pointed to the pipe beside him. It was labeled with a string of numbers and letters. “JPF-3526-b stands for Jet Propulsion Fuel, segment number three thousand five hundred twenty-six. The number is the measurement in yards from the source, which means we are about two point seven miles from that source, assuming that all the segments are four feet. The 'b' indicates it has been replaced at some time in the past, as other, older-looking pipes are all designated 'a'. We started at one thousand eight hundred eighty and have only passed six hundred and forty-six segments, which also means we have only come about half a mile. The fact that every pipe sounded identical up to this point indicates that it is less likely any have been tampered with. I have also taken a cursory look at each of the shutoff valves and pressure-bleed ports along the pipe to see if any had recently been used by maintenance crews.”