Louder Than Words

by Brett Baker

  Since he ordered me killed after I asked questions about 342 and the warehouse, I knew I was on the right track. If I was right, then I all I had to do was wait, and I’d gain first-hand knowledge of the activities at the warehouse. I didn’t know how long I’d have to wait, which is why I brought provisions to last a number of days. I didn’t know how long it would take before Oswalt made use of the warehouse, but I intended to wait at least a week before reemerging from my self-imposed exile.

  I only had to wait two days.

  I slept for a few hours before a late-morning thunderstorm woke me. My tablecloth setup collected water just as I intended, and I gathered the water using the cups I had brought along. The storm was the highlight of my first day, as most of the day consisted of leaning against a tree and waiting for something to happen. I dozed early in the evening, expecting the warehouse to become a hive of activity after the sun went down. But when nothing happened, I ended up with one of the most restful nights of sleep I’d had in months.

  The second day duplicated the first, except the rain came early in the morning rather than late. I hadn’t drunk much of the water I’d collected the day before, and with the consistency of Florida rain I didn’t worry too much about running out of water, but still I collected more water from the tablecloth. Again, for most of the day I leaned against a tree. Not often did I have nothing to do. Most missions for The Summit were non-stop, but I’d given myself no choice but to remain out of sight, and alone while I waited for something to happen. Despite the potential intensity of events at the warehouse, I spent two of my most relaxing days in recent memory just waiting for something to happen.

  The low-key forest vacation came to an abrupt end just after sunset on the second day. I’d just eaten two energy bars, a banana, and an apple, and was washing it down with a cup of vinyl-flavored water when I heard the drone of tires in the distance. I raced to the edge of the woods, and stood still, giving my ears a minute to adjust. The woods provided a buffer against the consistent sound of traffic on highway 19, so as I stood on the access road leading toward the warehouse, I had no doubt that a vehicle traveling down the straightaway of highway 19 caused the commotion. I retreated back to my outpost, and waited. The rumble became more thunderous by the second, until it began to lose steam. They slowed to make the turn on to the access road.

  I stood behind a tree to make sure no one could see me from the road, even though trees blocked most of my view of the access road. I looked the left and saw a large dump truck with an orange sign on the door that read “Dixie County” creep along the access road, pulling behind it a portable industrial light. I tried to see inside the cab as though the drive might look familiar, but I couldn’t see anything. The truck continued toward the warehouse, stopping inches away from the large bifold door at the end of the road. A tall, wiry guy that reminded me of Gumby, but dressed in filthy blue jeans and a bright orange safety vest opened the passenger side door and jumped out of the truck.

  “Just back it up.” The driver yelled something, but I couldn’t make out what he said. “No, back and to the left. Get it close to those trees and then we’ll have to unhook it and turn it around. If we leave it facing this direction it’s going to be the wrong way. They’re going to want it facing toward the building.”

  Gumby ran around the back of the track, behind the trailer, and to the other side of the street. “Turn the wheel to the right, and then ease off of the gas.” He waved his hand as if to tell the driver how far to go, and when the portable light moved too far to the left he shouted, “Stop!” and put up both hands. “You can’t turn the wheel that fast. Haven’t you ever driven one of these damn things before?”

  Again, I couldn’t hear the driver’s response, but he pulled straight forward, this time tapping the bifold door before coming to a stop. “Watch what you’re doing. Do you need me to drive?” I wondered why he didn’t drive to begin with, as the person behind the wheel seemed to have a tough time.

  He started backward again, this time much more slowly. “Give it some gas,” Gumby said, and started waving his hand. “More. More.” The driver did as told, until Gumby threw up his hands and shouted for him to stop. He then disconnected the trailer, and told the driver to pull up farther. The driver pulled back toward the bifold door, this time stopping well before making contact with it. Gumby got back in the truck, and I watched as the truck began backing up. It went straight back for a dozen feet or so, before turning sharply to the right, driving over the gravel section of the lot, stopping, reversing, and driving again in order to get back on the access road going forward rather than in reverse.

  I watched as it drove off and disappeared behind the trees.

  I considered walking over to the light and checking it out, but I had no idea what I would look for. With no electricity in the warehouse it made sense that they’d need a portable light. However, I was surprised to see a Dixie County truck deliver the light. I became concerned that perhaps I’d jumped to the wrong conclusion about the warehouse. What if it just turned out to be a storage building for the road department? Nothing indicated that the building belonged to Dirk Oswalt, other than it sat on land that I suspected he owned. But governments have buildings adjacent to private lands all the time.

  I’d just begun to worry that I’d somehow misinterpreted the purpose of the warehouse, when I heard a distant rumble once again. I felt a rush of excitement, like a child hearing the familiar jingle of an ice cream truck and anticipating its arrival. Again, the constant rumble of tires continued until they slowed, and the diesel engine of the truck strained as it pulled another trailer through the winding access road.

  The driver of this truck seemed more experienced. He pulled all the way up to the bifold door just as the driver before him had. Behind his truck he pulled another trailer, this one with a large forklift held in place by chains. The driver loosened the chains, lowered the heavy metal ramps attached to the back of the trailer, and drove the forklift backward, off the trailer, and then around the side of the truck, parking it on the small driveway that led from the road to the smaller overhead door next to the large bifold doors.

  He got back into his truck, and rather than turn around like the previous driver, he began backing up. I doubted that he could maneuver the trailer and the truck through the turns, but watched with amazement as he did just that. After a few seconds his disappeared from sight, and minutes later I heard the rumble once again, as he reached 342 and accelerated back to highway 19.

  I felt less convinced about the legitimacy of the warehouse after the forklift was dropped off. It made sense that an industrial light would be stored outside, but it seemed quite unlikely that a large forklift, with the keys still in it, would be stored on the driveway leading to a building rather than driven inside the building. I suspected the warehouse remained empty, so space couldn’t have been a problem.

  But drawing any conclusion at that point seemed rather premature, so I had no choice but to sit and wait. If nothing else I could take some pleasure in knowing that my setup beyond the trees provided enough of a buffer to keep me out of sight.

  When no other trucks arrived after an hour, I followed the access road back out to 342. I half-expected to see road crews in the distance, a caravan of trucks ready to start some overnight repaving project. But with no moonlight, and the cover of tall, thick forest surrounding me, I could see no more than a few hundred feet down 342 before everything disappeared into blackness. With no distant lights, and only the faintest hum of traffic driving along highway 19 more than a dozen miles away, I knew I had the place to myself.

  I decided to return to my clearing and wait. With the arrival of the industrial light and the forklift, I expected visitors during the night. I knew the constant, loud roar of heavy equipment tires would wake me well before I had to worry about anyone coming across my hideout, so I made myself comfortable on the forest floor and fell asleep.

  I didn’t have to wait long before 342 and the adjacent war
ehouse came to life in a flurry of activity.

  Chapter 35

  The familiar sound of tires on pavement, and deep grumbling of engines woke me from a sound sleep. It took a few seconds before I remembered where I was. I prided myself on gaining instant recognition of a situation despite sleeping seconds before, but I’d become so comfortable on the forest floor with the cacophony of sounds, that I’d fallen into a deep sleep, from which it took a couple of minutes to shake free. But when I identified the sounds of fast-moving trucks, I jumped to my feet, and scanned the area around me to make sure no one had arrived and escaped my detection. The area around the warehouse remained pitch dark, and I heard no engines idling, so it seemed as if I remained alone.

  Minutes later I saw the first headlights bounce off of the trees as a truck turned from 342 on to the access road. I ducked down as if the lights might come to rest on me and blow my cover. As the first truck passed and its headlights no longer shined in my direction, I noticed that rather than the large county road trucks that had dropped off the equipment earlier, the truck that just arrived was a white cargo van. Two more cargo vans followed it, and then a long, black passenger van. The first two vans parked to the left of the road, on the side of the warehouse, and the third and fourth vans remained on the access road while one of the passengers jumped out, opened the smaller overhead door next to the bifold door, started the forklift, and drove it into the warehouse. The third cargo van parked where the forklift had parked. Five men exited the passenger van, and then the driver steered it around the third cargo van, parking it in the gravel next to the warehouse, out of the way of the other vans and equipment.

  All three of the cargo van drivers exited their vans, along with a passenger in the first van. The four of them stood with the five passengers and driver from the passenger van. Ten men total. One of the first lessons The Summit taught its agents was to maintain an understanding of what they faced. No plans could be created without knowing the obstacle. Although most of my planning took place seconds before I implemented the plan, but always had a quick understanding of the situation.

  However, to react to the current situation I’d have to hang back and watch as things unfolded. Even after one of the men started the generator that powered the industrial light, I couldn’t get a good enough view of the men to see if I recognized them. Without knowing who they were, I couldn’t make a sound judgment about what they might be up to. Given all I knew about Dirk Oswalt, I could make an educated guess that these men were up to no good, but until I saw watched what they did, I’d have to remain an observer.

  Nine of the men gathered around the other man just inside the warehouse. The large bifold door had been opened, revealing the empty warehouse inside. None of them were dressed in the reflective orange vests that Gumby had worn earlier in the evening, so I figured it safe to assume they didn’t work for the road department. I assumed they’d come to do some work, but unless they planned to clear brush, there didn’t appear to be any work to be one.

  I’d just wondered if maybe they’d arrived for some secret meeting when I heard the constant buzz behind me. Still quite a distance away, and somewhat muffled by the natural insulation of the woods, it didn’t take long before I realized that it was approaching our location. At first I thought it might be an animal. Perhaps some sort of Gulf coast bullfrog I hadn’t encountered in my previous two nights in the woods, but before long the noise attracted the attention of the men in the warehouse. I couldn’t hear what they said, but when the man speaking looked up toward the canopy behind me, the other nine men looked, their heads thrown back and tilted to the side as if to get a better vantage point to see the source of the sound.

  I kept an eye on them for a few seconds to make sure that none of them happened to catch a glimpse of me as they perused the tree line, but I was so well-hidden, and it was so dark, and their attention was focused toward the sky that I had little to worry about.

  After I concluded that they couldn’t see me, I turned my attention to the sky—or at least the canopy, because the trees were so tall and dense that I couldn’t see the sky—just in time to hear the buzzing sound pass. It sounded as if it fell closer to the ground as it moved farther away, before the trees muffled the sound so much that I it was barely discernible.

  I looked toward the men, and each of them had spun where they stood so that they were facing away from me. All at once three of them retreated to the driver’s side door of each of the vans, three others each stood behind a van, and the other three stood in the doorway of the large opening at the front of the warehouse.

  They all peered down the access road from 342, so I did the same, while looking back in their direction every few seconds to ensure that I didn’t miss an ambush.

  Minutes later, just when I began to wonder whether I’d witnessed some religious ritual, and that the men saw something that I didn’t see, I heard a choppy humming noise approaching. I looked back at the men and they seemed ready to jump into action, and as I turned my attention back toward 342, I caught my first glimpse of the plane. The sight seemed so unlikely, that I had to blink a few times to convince myself that I was seeing what I thought I saw. Coming through the trees, its wings clearing the tall trunks on either side by just a few feet, was a Cessna 404 Titan Freighter aircraft, painted a dark color, its twin engines whirring as it crept down the access road toward the warehouse. The men inside the warehouse disappeared behind the safety of its walls, as the three men standing guard near each of the vans repositioned themselves with the van between them and the plane to offer a bit of protection.

  The plane crept along the road until it reached the warehouse, entering through the bifold door, the opening of which provided a couple of feet of clearance for each wing. I couldn’t imagine the steadiness required of the pilot to navigate such a tight space, but he did so without hesitation. The plane came to a stop inside the warehouse, at which point the engines shut down.

  All three cargo vans reversed away from the warehouse, and then the van closest to the warehouse did a sharp k-turn to change direction, before backing up within feet of the bifold door opening just behind the rear of the plane. The other two followed suit, so all three vans sat side-by-side. With the vans parked, the three men spotting the vans, and the three men inside the warehouse all began a flurry of activity. One man started the forklift, and although I couldn’t see what he did, a pallet of boxes appeared on the ground behind the cargo van farthest to the right, and then two men began loading the boxes onto the van. The same thing happened at the second and third van. The men looked like worker ants, moving this way and that with such speed that it would have been hard to keep track of them, but their movements seemed choreographed, almost musical.

  After fewer than five minutes, the men closed the back door of each van, the rear of which now sagged closer to the ground than it did before it arrived at the warehouse, and then the vans pulled away one-by-one, leaving behind six men and the lone man in charge. Minutes after the last van disappeared down the access road, the engines of the Cessna started once again. The plane reversed out of the warehouse, pivoted on the small paved driveway near the end of the road, its wing missing the corner of the warehouse by mere inches, and then proceeded back down the access road. The pilot somehow managed to steer a plane down the winding road, despite the dump truck driver from earlier in the evening struggling to do the same thing.

  The seven men who remained began high-fiving each other as the plane disappeared. Minutes later we heard the buzzing of the engines again as the plane headed toward us on the ground before taking flight, surpassing the tops of the trees just as it passed even with us, our vantage of its flight still blocked by the tall forest.

  I marveled at what I’d just seen. The rationale behind 342 never made sense. Why would the county build a road to nowhere? Even if they intended to do so for future development, it didn’t make sense to end the road before it reached the gulf. But its location miles from the nearest town, shiel
ded by hundreds of square miles of forest, and just inland from the gulf made it ideal to act as a covert runway. Its smooth, straight pavement and wide shoulder setback on each side made it suitable for landing small aircraft like the Cessna. The access road to the warehouse seemed less-than-ideal, but a skilled pilot could navigate it, and the twists and turns provided another shielding layer of protection. I hadn’t even noticed the gap in the trees the first time I passed it. I would have never guessed that anyone would use 342 as an airfield, especially with the Cross City airport nearby, but after seeing how it worked, and thinking about the benefits, it made perfect sense.

  Without seeing what the men unloaded from the airplane, I couldn’t be sure, but it seemed a safe bet that they weren’t trafficking in legal goods. The cover of night, the remote location, and the suspect use of public roads all pointed to illegal activity. On top of that, throw in the connection to Dirk Oswalt and his shady business partners, and it didn’t take long for me to realize that I’d discovered an operation with incredible questions of legality surrounding it.

  I’d just begun to consider my next step when I heard another buzzing sound in the distance. As the sound approached, the entire scene from thirty minutes earlier replayed itself. I could hear the noise coming closer and lower as the men near the warehouse looked up at the sky to catch a glimpse of the incoming airplane. We heard it land—this time the screeching of the tires as it made contact with the asphalt—and then it navigated the turn on the way to the warehouse.

  But this time, instead of the vans waiting for the plane, the plane parked inside the warehouse, and ten minutes later another caravan of three vans came into the forest. They all did the same k-turn as the others, and backed up to the airplane.

  As the six men in the warehouse began loading each of the vans, I saw the leader from inside the warehouse come outside near the vans. All three drivers had exited their vans, and stood near each other, two of them smoking a cigarette, all three of them talking.