by Dave Edlund
As the sedan drew close to the red arrow point, it began to move. “They’re leaving; we’ll follow at a safe distance. Our instructions are only to follow the target and record where it goes and not intercept.”
The driver remained silent and allowed the target car to keep far enough ahead so the sedan wouldn’t be noticed. He had a full tank of gas and focused on not attracting attention, particularly from the police. Incompetence, he knew, would be dealt with very severely.
Skinny knew little about the target, and the driver knew even less. All Skinny really knew was that the target vehicle carried two, maybe three, men. He also thought they must be rather important for his employer to use two separate surveillance teams.
The first team had followed the target vehicle to the university campus in Corvallis. Once the vehicle stopped and the occupants left it, the first surveillance team planted a GPS transmitter on it. A simple magnetic attachment pad held the transmitter securely on top of one of the frame rails near the rear bumper—solid steel and still easy to reach.
After leaving Professor Savage’s office, Jim and Peter walked back to the H3T, neither saying much. Peter’s father said he was going to the faculty club to have lunch and asked his son and Jim if they wanted to join him. Jim politely declined, saying he needed to get back to Bend; he still had a lot to do. So they said their goodbyes and went separate directions.
Peter and Jim climbed in the truck and buckled up. Both men were deep in thought.
Peter was trying to digest everything he had heard. Until their meeting, he had known very little about his father’s research. Jim appeared to be taking it in stride.
Eventually Peter broke the silence. “What do you think, Jim? Is Dad really in danger?”
“I can’t be certain. A lot of people have been murdered, and we think there’s a pattern. Look, I’m certainly no science expert, but it seems to me that your father’s work, if successful, could have immense ramifications on civilization. You tell me, is that enough to kill for?”
“That sounds just a bit dramatic, don’t you think?”
“Perhaps… perhaps not.”
Peter clenched his jaw and glanced sideways at Jim, waiting for him to continue.
Jim shifted in his seat. “You know, oil—petroleum—is the life blood of every developed country. When you think about it, it’s truly an amazing societal and technological evolution that has occurred over the span of, quite literally, three—maybe four—generations. Within the last 100 years, the world has transformed from universal reliance on horses and steam locomotives as the primary means of land transportation to cars, trucks, and airplanes. And with this transformation came our reliance on oil. You could argue that electrical generation plants would have developed to their present state even without oil and gas—hell, a major portion of the electrical generation capacity world-wide is still based on coal. But transportation is unique. We would never have evolved our societies, governments, militaries, and standard of living to their present state without oil.
“Hitler lost the Battle of the Bulge—and with it his last opportunity to win the war—in part because he ran out of fuel for his tanks and aircraft. Our military might is based on a smaller, leaner, rapid-response force. We cannot project military might without oil—there would be no fuel for aircraft, so no air superiority. No fuel for ships, so no battle groups to be moved like chessmen to the regional hot spot of the month.”
“We have nuclear-powered naval ships,” Peter countered.
“That’s true for our aircraft carriers and some submarines, but the high cost of nuclear propulsion precludes using it in most of our naval vessels.
“Of course, the United States is not unique in this respect. All armies, navies, and air forces face the same reality. No oil, no capability to fight—or to defend your homeland through traditional warfare. We have long distance missiles and such, but they have no use in modern conflicts where there is seldom a front line and the enemy refuses to wear a uniform.”
“Sure, I understand your point,” Peter replied. “But if there was no oil, everyone would be in the same boat. Your argument suggests that some countries would be at peril if oil was not made available to them, while other countries would have access to it. But that isn’t realistic—that’s not what we’re dealing with. Petroleum is traded as a global commodity. And Dad’s work isn’t even directly aimed at synthetic oil production.”
“That’s right. But if your father’s work is successful, others will build on his breakthrough. If there is any chance that oil can be synthesized economically, you know a lot of people will try to do it, and they damn well should!”
“Okay. I can’t argue with that.”
“But,” added Jim quickly, “what if not everyone embraces the idea that cheap energy should be available to all?”
“You’re suggesting that there’s a global conspiracy to deprive mankind of the knowledge to make oil. Really?”
“I don’t know yet if it’s global—but sure, it’s not as crazy as you may think. Take nuclear weapons technology. Only a small number of countries have managed to control that knowledge for the past 70 years. And the number would be even smaller if the Chinese hadn’t deliberately leaked nuclear weapons technology in the fifties and early sixties.”
Peter remained silent. He was still struggling to absorb the enormity of the concept. His mind was spinning, and he felt a whopper of a headache coming on. He realized that he was so wrapped up in trying to make sense of all this that he was on autopilot. The road was moving past at 55 miles per hour, and he didn’t have any conscious recollection of being in control of the truck. It’s time to focus on driving.
They were east of Corvallis now, driving through the farm country of the middle Willamette Valley. Peter found it most beautiful in the spring and early fall; it was still very green and often sunny but without the haze that forms in the summer months. The colors of green were almost indescribable—brilliant and vibrant, with so many different hues and shades that Peter thought it impossible nature could offer such a rich palette.
The H3T passed through Lebanon and Sweet Home and then began the ascent up the west slope of the Cascade Mountains. Jim hadn’t said a word for a while; mostly he was just staring ahead, occasionally looking out the side window. Although Peter only stole an occasional glimpse at Jim, his face reflected a serious concern.
As they passed Green Reservoir Jim’s gaze seemed to linger unnaturally on the side-view mirror.
“What’s up?” Peter said.
“Nothing.”
Peter exchanged a quick glance with Jim, but before he could say anything else Jim spoke up, almost blurting his words. “I could use a bite to eat; how about you?”
“Yeah, I’m a bit hungry now that you mention it. There’s a restaurant just a little farther up the highway at Upper Soda. We can stop there.”
Jim remained deep in thought, looking out the window at the rapidly passing scenery as the road climbed up the western slope of the Cascade Range. It wasn’t long before they arrived at Upper Soda and pulled off the highway, parking in front of the Mountain House restaurant. It was rather chilly at this elevation, and Jim was happy he’d chosen to wear a lightweight jacket. Peter obviously knew the temperature variations well, as he was dressed in a loose-fitting pullover over a long-sleeve T-shirt.
The restaurant itself, clad in cedar boards with a red metal, steeply pitched roof, fit naturally in the forested surroundings. The structure was faced with a deep covered porch set two steps above the gravel parking lot. After locking the truck, the two friends walked in through the weathered wood door. It was about 1:30 in the afternoon, and there were only two other cars parked outside—probably the cook and waitress, since they saw no other customers.
“Take a seat anywhere you like, honey,” invited the waitress. Jim selected a table off to the side and sat facing toward the entrance. Peter sat across from him. The menus were on the table, so each man picked one up and looked it
over; the selection was rather limited, consisting of burgers, soup, chili, and a couple types of sandwiches.
The waitress walked over with two glasses of water, napkins and silverware. Placing them on the table, she asked, “Are you ready to order, honey?”
“Do you know what you want, Jim?”
“Sure. I’ll have a bacon cheeseburger, well done, please.”
“Anything to drink with that?”
“No, water is fine. Thank you.”
“And how about you, sugar?” she asked Peter.
“I’ll have the same, well done, and lemonade. Thank you.”
The waitress turned and walked back to the kitchen with the order. Peter decided he’d had enough talk of conspiracies and world domination, and he tried to start up a different conversation. “So you left the SEALs for military intelligence—a place called The Office? What can you tell me about your current work, at least that which is not bound by secrecy? I mean, do you gather intelligence from the field, or work from The Office analyzing information that comes in from others, or something else?”
Jim laughed lightly. “That’s a lot of questions.”
“Sorry. I’m inquisitive. I guess it’s my nature. It’s just that I’ve never known anyone who worked in the intelligence community, and I’m curious what it’s like.”
“Well, I do some field work—like today. But mostly I work with a dedicated team at The Office, sifting through information that comes in from a range of sources. Some is gathered by computers that constantly scan cell phone calls for key words or phrases—you know, names or combinations of words. Some of the intel comes from field operatives—people who are gathering bits and pieces of information. It’s through these human operatives that we usually learn where the bad guys are. Sometimes we look at satellite imagery, but that’s usually after we have identified a possible target of interest and we need structural information about buildings, roads, bridges, airports, and of course it helps when trying to track down and locate military machinery.”
“How many people are on your team?” Peter asked.
“The total number will expand and contract to suit the mission, but usually there are five or six, including me. All are former combat soldiers—special ops—who showed a talent for figuring out puzzles. And then I have several intel officers—analysts—who do most of the brain work.”
“And you’re stationed out of McClellan?”
“That’s right. The Office is located in a converted hangar near the main runway. Sometime you should come down and I can give you a tour of sorts. As you might guess, we have a lot of computing power.”
“I’d like to do that. Maybe after this mess gets sorted out and Dad is back from Alaska. I heard that McClellan was closed during the base realignment several years ago. What did they do with it?”
“It’s been mostly converted to private office space, but the Federal government retained more than a thousand jobs there. The Coast Guard maintains an air station there, and then there’s the regional headquarters for the Defense Commissary, the DoD microelectronics center, and the Veteran’s Administration medical and dental clinics. The Office is located next door to the microelectronics center, which makes it very convenient for us to test the various little gadgets that they prototype. It’s really pretty cool.”
The waitress walked over with their plates and put them on the table. “Is there anything else I can get for you?”
“Uh, no, I think we’re fine. Thank you,” Peter replied with a smile.
They were both hungry, and looked at their juicy hamburgers with anticipation. Peter put the sliced pickles on his burger, along with some mustard.
“You can have these pickles, too, if you want; I’m not going to eat them.”
“Sure!” Peter reached for them with his fork and added them to his already thick burger, squishing down on the bun to make it thin enough to get his mouth around it.
As Peter started to eat, Jim noticed a gray sedan park in front of the restaurant. Two men got out and walked onto the porch. Jim heard their muffled steps pause briefly before they opened the front door and entered. They both had sunglasses on, and neither made a move to remove them. They looked around, made eye contact with Jim, then moved to the counter and took two bar stools.
The guy closest to Jim was slender. The other guy was heavier and shorter, and he wore a denim jacket that was open loosely.
Jim continued to eat while watching the men at the counter. They looked at the menus but didn’t order anything to eat, only coffee. The skinny guy glanced over at Jim and Peter a couple of times. Jim finished his burger, then stood up and told Peter he would be right back. Skinny turned and watched him walk out of the restaurant, then leaned over to his partner and said something.
A couple minutes later Jim walked back in and returned to his chair at the table with Peter. He held out his hand and placed a small black box on the table. Peter looked at it and asked, “What’s that?”
“If I’m not mistaken, it’s a transmitter—a tracking device. And I think those two guys at the counter are following us.”
“Come on… you’re kidding, right?”
Jim shook his head, his brows pinched together and his lips straight.
Peter couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He leaned forward and whispered to Jim, trying not to make a scene. “Does this happen to you everywhere you go, Jim? Because I’ve got to say, this is the first time for me!”
He shrugged and shifted his gaze from Peter to the two guys at the counter. “Let’s test my theory, shall we?”
Jim stood and walked over to the counter, stopping behind the two men. They both felt his stare, and turned around.
“Hello, gentlemen. Nice day for a drive isn’t it?”
Skinny looked at Jim and then said, “Yes, I suppose it is.” His accent was familiar. Jim had grown accustomed to it in Somalia.
“Where are you boys heading?”
Skinny glared at Jim. He didn’t like being questioned by this man. “We are just driving. Like you said, it’s a nice day.”
The heavy guy sensed the irritation in his partner’s voice and turned his body slightly so his back wasn’t facing Jim. With that subtle movement Jim saw it—the black plastic grip of a pistol in a shoulder holster on his left side. With his body in its current position, turned at an angle toward Jim, he could draw his weapon quickly if required.
Jim held out his hand and showed the transmitter. Skinny looked surprised.
“Think you can find your way without this tracker?” Skinny just stared at him.
Jim pulled two twenty dollar bills from his pocket and gave them to the waitress as she walked up to fill the coffee cups on the counter. “Thank you, the food was very good. My friend and I have to be on our way—keep the change.”
Peter had been watching the exchange and had already risen from his chair, ready to leave. He and Jim walked swiftly to the truck. They climbed in and Peter drove out of the parking lot and onto the highway, leaving behind a shower of gravel and dust. Jim looked over his shoulder and saw the dark gray sedan kicking up gravel as it sped from the parking lot and turned left to follow them.
Skinny was on the phone as soon as they had left the restaurant. “They know they are being tailed. They found the tracking device.”
“You idiot! What part of your orders did you not understand?”
“It was not my fault. We stayed back as you instructed—”
“Never mind! It is too late for excuses!” There was a pause, and then the voice continued.
“They will assume we know about the professor’s plans. We cannot count on surprise if the American agent is allowed to report in. Even worse, they might place the professor in protective custody, and then he will be out of our reach.” There was another pause, and Skinny dared not speak.
“Listen to me carefully, and answer honestly, or I will kill you myself. Do you understand?”
“Yes sir.”
“Did you listen
to the meeting as it was recorded?”
“Yes sir.”
“Good. Now, tell me. Is the professor’s field excursion still planned to proceed on schedule?”
“Yes sir.”
“You are certain… they did not agree to delay it?”
Skinny took a moment to think hard before choosing his words. He imagined a gun pressed against his head and then he answered, “No. The professor would not agree to delay the expedition.”
“Very well. I am giving you new orders. You will kill them now. They cannot be allowed to report. It may already be too late. Leave nothing to chance.”
“Yes sir.”
As if to emphasize the point, the voice added in an unmistakably malevolent tone, “And if you fail, the punishment will be most severe.”
Skinny hung up the phone and placed it back in his pocket. Without glancing at the driver, he reported the key message. “General Ramirez is not pleased. Our orders have changed.”
“I’d suggest you put some distance between us and them. The guy behind the wheel is packing iron; I suspect the skinny guy is as well.”
Peter accelerated, and so did the gray sedan. As they were going up the grade, Peter wasn’t sure he could outpace his pursuers. His truck did not have an especially large engine, and the vehicle was heavy, built for off-road running. The highway was two lanes with lots of curves—not much room for another vehicle to pass. Peter figured as long as the sedan remained behind him they were okay. But why were they following him, and why did they need guns? Peter was worried—and it didn’t help that Jim was constantly looking over his shoulder at the car chasing them.
He was doing about 65 miles per hour now, slowing where necessary in the curves. The sedan was following very closely, dropping back on the turns and then catching up again on the straighter sections. Peter’s truck was laboring to maintain speed on the steep uphill grade. He knew they would gain almost 3,000 feet in elevation over the next eleven miles as they drove east toward Tombstone Pass. Suddenly, that name really bothered Peter.
