Deadline Man

by Jon Talton

  Somehow this time it doesn’t bother me, even as we encounter the up- and down-drafts crossing the mountains. Bud’s not a talker. By late afternoon, I have checked back into my favorite hotel and given them my credit-card for “incidentals.”

  ***

  Government documents are waiting in my Gmail account, some sent by Amber, a declassified Pentagon inspector general report sent by Fitz. Both mention a Homeland Security program from 2003 called “Project 10/11.” It would have awarded no-bid contracts for private paramilitary forces to “assist” the military and law enforcement in the event of a new 9/11.

  All the biggies were there: KBR, Blackwater, and one that never received publicity, Praetorian. The program was canceled after criticism over no-bid security contracts in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina.

  So maybe that’s what eleven/eleven is, just a new way to make money. People get killed over money all the time. But the contractors are getting squeezed now, by the recession, by the current White House. All my instincts tell me eleven/eleven is a D-Day for Praetorian, maybe for an entire shadow government.

  A month ago I wouldn’t even have replied to an emailer who stated such a scenario.

  ***

  I check Olympic’s stock price again. It ended the week at a dull, steady $35.25.

  ***

  Now the risk becomes overgathering. It’s something that can afflict everybody from a cub reporter to a veteran—even a has-been columnist relearning the reporting trade. Overgathering sounds like the opposite of the one-source story, but it can result in the reporter being overwhelmed and producing a murky, overly long story.

  It’s time to write, do it with authority and command of the material. I’m a columnist, and in an ideal world I would turn my notes over to the crack I-Team at the Free Press and be happy with a co-byline. There’s no time, and the team may not even be on the payroll any longer. It’s up to me.

  ***

  I have enough now for the story, if not for the story—the killer series that will answer all questions.

  What I have will shake trees, cause more things to fall out, bring phone calls and emails with new angles and information. This will be a news story, not an opinion column. It will do more. It will rock Olympic International’s fraudulent and murderous world. It will not be what journalists call a “thumbsucker” on the issue of privatizing national security. Those have been done, and done well. Nobody seemed to notice. No, I will write what one of my editors used to call a “hard news, put-‘em-in-jail’ story”—and I hope somebody will notice and care.

  I think of a lede and start writing. No newspapers now. No books to distract myself. No Web news sites. I so love to read that I’ll read the Kleenex box if that’s all that’s in a bathroom. I will read nutritional labels in the kitchen. But for now I will allow myself no distractions.

  ***

  I do not have Megan Nyberg. I do not know what eleven/eleven means. The Praetorian thugs who chained me down didn’t seem to give a damn about Olympic Defense Systems. They wanted to know where Megan was.

  They would have asked about my knowledge of ODS eventually. After all, they slit open the wrists of James Mandir before he could tell me more. But it wasn’t their priority. They wanted to know where Megan was. And I told them she was safe.

  Megan can hurt them.

  ***

  I plan the structure of the story and write more. Every fact is multiple-sourced. When the business center gets busy, I go to an Internet café or a Kinko’s. I try not to spend too much time worrying about where the hell I will get it published.

  The Free Press is out. “We’ve dealt with your publisher,” Heidi Benson had said with a chilling authority. Indeed, Olympic has powerful connections with business leaders and politicians; it will do everything it can to stop this story.

  Everybody I knew back east has retired or been laid off. I send queries to Huffington Post and Talking Points Memo, realizing I am not enough of a celebrity to get the attention of the former, not an Ivy graduate to merit consideration by the latter. A quarter century in the working press means nothing. To get the attention of the news aggregator blogs, I will probably have to be published in a real newspaper first.

  I can set up my own blog, or have Amber restart Conspiracy Grrl, but we would attract maybe a hundred readers. I focus on writing. My right hand aches from typing and stress. I am horny as hell.

  ***

  I call Heidi Benson in the afternoon. Having a list of sources’ home and cell numbers is a wonderful thing. She’s so taken aback by hearing my voice that she falls into a momentary fugue state of candor, admitting that Praetorian is a unit of Olympic Defense Systems.

  She quickly recovers, refusing to comment, making threats of lawsuits, saying I am “the worst journalist in Seattle” and “it’s too fucking bad you turned up alive.” I want to ask: From the ferry, or from your company’s death squad?

  I say, “Praetorian waterboards innocent people.”

  The pause is so long that I think she has hung up. Then, “Nobody will publish your pathetic lies,” and the line goes dead.

  ***

  I have a working draft by Sunday night. It is datelined CORTEZ PEAK, ARIZ., and opens with an anecdotal lede, describing the fake prison. The nut graf says that Olympic International, far from being a boring natural resources company, is really a shell for as much as $20 billion in black-ops private defense dollars. And it’s most controversial secret subsidiary is a paramilitary unit called Praetorian that is prepared to respond to emergencies in the United States, including the sealing off of cities because of civil unrest or terrorist attack.

  One military intelligence source says Praetorian has been hired and trained for this event because some policymakers question the reliability of American troops to carry out such orders.

  ***

  I have an email exchange with a reliable, long-time source. He works for a government agency. When we’ve talked on the phone, I kid him that he’s really a spook. He laughs.

  Now he’s more cynical than the most burned-out newspaperman. “The coup has already taken place. The big banks, the transnational corporations and, sure, the defense contractors own the government. The rich and the powerful get what they want. They can sway public opinion, get around the law. They can operate Praetorian in plain sight. Think what the name means—Praetorian…

  “In my years of experience in developing countries, we are by far THE most corrupt country in the world. Nigeria and Indonesia are nothing compared to DeeCee.”

  ***

  I polish the story. It’s a complicated topic—like life, and exactly the kind of thing newspapers avoid nowadays. So I work, feverish and precise, to use the written word as well as I know how, to explain, to unravel, to cut to the truth. I email copies to Amber and myself.

  Amber said get the story and I did. I just don’t know where to get it published. My money is low. Now I’m nobody in the national media. I’m only known and respected in Seattle, and there I’m rapidly becoming a former somebody, with no column, no newspaper. I’m running out of options. Amber said get the story and I did. Now I can only hope she has her lifeline.

  Then I go down to the bar and have two martinis and dinner. Sunday nights are always the most desolate. Desolation breeds regrets. I fall asleep and dream of working in a newsroom. Then I move into another dream where I am drowning. After I scream myself awake, I pick up the phone and make a call. We talk for three hours.

  Chapter Forty-one

  Monday, November 8th

  It is full dark when the train pulls into Seattle. Every glimpse of the city looks as dear as a long-lost love. The last, slow pull into King Street Station seems as if it takes hours. I shake my right leg and shift the small black duffel bag. I have discarded some of the old clothes to make room for the files I printed out on the trip. Still, my mind is easy. Home is just a short walk from the station and I won’t have to make the walk alone. My su
it looks good and my tie is tightly knotted, all the way she likes it. The train car is full: couples, college kids, techy types, off-season tourists. The train comes to a complete halt by Safeco Field, then in five minutes creeps into a siding at the south end of the station. The platforms look empty.

  The cold snaps at me before I even step off the car. It feels fine, especially after the desert. After a quick scan of the area, I step into the middle of a crowd of maybe a hundred people as we walk along the concrete platform. It smells like rain but the weather is dry. Beyond the platform’s overhang, the sky looks moody with pleated clouds reflecting the city lights. The historic brick station adds to the darkness, except for the warm lights glowing from the large doors that lead inside the waiting room. Rachel stands at the door along with a company of strangers waiting to greet the travelers. Her dark, curly hair falls down to a black sweater and she holds a coat over one arm. I want to fly to her, just like in the movies. But I make myself stay inside the clutch of travelers, checking my surroundings. No Stu, Bill or Laura. My insides relax. I can’t suppress a wide smile.

  For ten seconds.

  Rachel doesn’t wave. She doesn’t smile. She just stands there, almost braced at attention, staring at me, her eyes wide. I am maybe fifteen feet from the door when she silently mouths a single word.

  Run.

  I hesitate for a second, not wanting to believe it. Then I turn against the crowd and walk south quickly, past one railroad car, then another. I thread my way around the maintenance crew talking to the conductor and engineer. When I get to the locomotive it’s idling loudly and I look back. Bobbing above the people leaving the train is the prominent head of Morton “Stu” Farmer, former Marine recon. I curse under my breath. In the next seconds, the platform clears enough that Laura and Bill appear, all in their official dark suits, all headed for me. I’ve played this scene before and I’ll never play it again.

  Now I sprint full out, cross in front of the locomotive and run back toward the station. Stop, look and listen. No—I can’t stop, but I make sure there are no other trains coming. A string of high-level Amtrak cars sit on another track but they’re not moving. I double back and run along the other side of them, wishing I didn’t have the duffel, knowing I can’t lose it. The station now sits on the other side of the railroad cars, to the west. A concrete wall prevents any break to the east; it’s at least twenty-five feet high and supports the edge of Fourth Avenue South. I move north toward the dark.

  Realities confront me. Away from the passenger spurs, the train tracks are built for heavy freight trains. They have thick, rocky ballast and heavy, high rails. They sit on a raised roadbed to ensure easy drainage. It’s great for trains and treacherous for a running man. I find this out the hard way as I trip and nearly go down, catching myself but still losing precious seconds to escape.

  The second problem is that King Street Station sits snug against a sharp rise in Seattle’s topography. Beyond the terminal, downtown rises on a hill. Maybe a hundred yards north of the station, the two main-line tracks disappear into a tunnel that runs under it. Without going back to the station, there’s no other way out. So I run as fast as I can toward the thirty-foot-high half-circle tunnel portal. The train cars that had sheltered me fall behind, but nobody else seems to notice me. The Jackson Street bridge passes high overhead with the sounds of cars and safety. Then another bridge that carries Main Street over the tracks. There’s no time to look back. It’s all I can do to keep from falling. I reach the portal and slip inside, momentarily leaning against the wall.

  Stu appears at the end of the Amtrak cars and stands looking south, toward the stadiums, with his hands on his hips. Laura and Bill join him. I move deeper into the darkness of the tunnel. The wall is concrete: rough, cold, and damp to the touch. There are no cameras or alarms that I can see. The tunnel is more than 100 years old and runs a mile. I don’t want to run that mile. My hand finds the butt of the .357 in its pocket holster. I leave it there as the three look around and confer. Rachel is not with them.

  Then Bill says something but all I can make out is “tunnel,” and he heads my way. Somehow the wind shifts so I can clearly hear his orders: “Go around the other end, to Alaskan Way!” Stu and Laura run back toward the depot. Bill breaks into a slow trot but nearly smashes his churchy face on the rails. He regains his footing and walks toward me. I’m already moving, hoping like hell a train doesn’t come.

  The last ambient light from the outside fades. The tunnel has no lights. The tops of the rails conduct the outside glow the longest, then even that disappears. I try moving in the center of one of the railroad tracks. It’s flat and stable. Until it curves slightly and I nearly fall again. So I move over to the wall and run my hand along it as I make my way along the uneven terrain where the roadbed falls off toward the ground close to the edge. The space smells of diesel fumes and emptiness. It gives no hint of the roof or far wall. Who knows what I might find in here? There might be an alcove that opens up and lets me into a homeless camp nobody’s ever heard of, or at least some maintenance room for the railroad. But the wall stays smooth and faithfully engineered close to the edge of the tracks, and I calculate there’s enough room for one man to survive if he stands as flat against it as possible when a train is passing.

  I move as fast as I can in complete darkness. My shoes make too much noise on the gravel ballast of the tracks. Rocks get kicked against the wall. I stop and listen: the walls hum and a sound like muffled wind is barely audible. No footsteps behind me. I heft up the duffel and keep moving. Just a mile. How fast can I walk a mile in darkness?

  A train whistle wafts into the tunnel. There’s no way of telling where it’s coming from. I push down the spike of panic and walk faster. Then I’m making good time, catching a rhythm, feeling the edges of the ties under my feet but not tripping. Step, tie, step, tie.

  I spot a blue light and walk toward it. It marks some kind of sensor for the tracks, but in this gloom it might as well be a lighthouse. I step out on the tracks—maybe that will keep Bill from seeing my silhouette against it. Stop—no sound of walking behind me. But I can hear the rumble of a locomotive engine, growing closer. By the time I pass the blue light and move back to my trusty path by the wall, a whistle sounds much closer. It might as well be Gabriel blowing his horn.

  Then the tunnel walls in front of me are bathed in bright yellow-white light.

  That’s when I see it. I don’t know if it was part of the original tunnel or added in the ensuing years. I don’t give a damn. It’s a slight setback in the concrete behind the bulge of a pillar—there’s no more than two feet of extra space, but I’ll take it. I duck in front of the pillar as my forward vision is temporarily lost to the bright stars of locomotive headlamps. I don’t want the engineer to see me and call the cops. My body is pressed tightly against the concrete as the engines thunder past doing an easy speed. The horn doesn’t sound; maybe I am invisible. The ground shakes and the noise is nearly unbearable. I cough against the fumes.

  But the locomotive lights become my ally: I turn to look back down the tunnel they are now illuminating.

  No one is behind me.

  Now all I have to do is keep from falling backward into the train as the freight cars trundle by. Metal hits against metal and a screeching sound comes every few seconds.

  The next sensation comes beyond surprise: in that sensory zone where noise and nearby movement are so overpowering that awareness is lost. My right knee gives way and I fall to the ground, then I feel a strong grip around my neck.

  I’m nearly face down on the rocks and Bill is on my back and in control. He’s got good moves—a classic foot in the back of the knee to drop me, then he puts me in a choke hold, where the pressure of his arm is starting to cut off the oxygen to my brain. I outweigh him and I’m taller, but I feel the deadly strength in his arm around my throat and I’m so stunned that I can’t even fight back. The gun in my pocket might as well be on the moon.

 
“It’s all over, motherfucker!” he yells above the din of the passing railcars. I am vaguely aware of a gun barrel at my left temple. He presses on my neck and I see light at the edges of my eyes.

  “Don’t pass out on me yet!” His mouth is so close to my ear I can feel his breath.

  “I liked killing your whore girlfriend,” he yells. “I want you to know that before you die. It was your fault that I had to do it, but I enjoyed it! I woke her up. Know that? You were both asleep. I went to her side of the bed and touched her shoulder.” He repeats himself over the noise. Out of my peripheral vision I can see the wheels of the train go by, their flanges heavy and sharp on the rails. They screech, steel meeting steel. “She had this sleepy-eyed look, your bitch girlfriend.” He eases the pressure. I gulp in diesel-tainted oxygen. My forearms and hands are able to gain some precious purchase on the ground beneath me.

  “Don’t pass out on me! I want you to know how she died. She died afraid! She saw me right there over her with a gun in her face and she was about to scream. She was raising up, starting to scream and turning toward you for help. And that’s when I did the bitch—right in the back of the head…”

  And that’s right when I use every bit of oxygen left in my brain to force up my arms and swing slightly to the right. Some crazy grace has turned fear and anger into purpose. The weight atop me disappears instantly, effortlessly.

  Bill screams and his gun discharges harmlessly against the concrete wall, just a pair of piercing sounds and a spark in the distance. But by that time he is under the train. The huge wheels don’t even register the fragile human body they are grinding apart.

  Chapter Forty-two

  After the train passes, I slowly get to my feet and lean against the wall. Whether it’s because I am getting nearer to the end of the tunnel or my eyes have adjusted, I can see more clearly: the shiny tops of the rails, the murky edges of the concrete. The oxygen slowly returns to my brain, making the train fumes stronger than ever. I hold the wall, letting the scarred, cold surface calm me. It’s a long time before I stop shaking and begin to breathe normally. Awhile longer and my hearing returns. Then I sweep the dust off my clothes, find the duffel, and continue walking toward the north portal. Another fifty steps and I can see it, a crescent of city light against the darkness.