by Alex Ryan
"What's the helicopter for?"
"Who knows? Picked it up at Camp Lejeune. Marine bird. Hauled it all the way across country. Why they didn't fly it, I don't know. Guess it's cheaper to throw it on a truck. Hell, I know it flies, they actually flew it on to the bed. They'll probably fly it off the bed too. I used to ride around the back of those damn things in 'Nam, back when I was a marine."
Bite your tongue, Dahl. Don't engage in a military conversation. Don't reveal your background. Alerts are out for you. "Yeah, I've always wanted to go military myself."
"All you missed was the bullshit. I was drafted. Ain't turned my head back since they discharged me. Hey, you hear about that one kid from Fort Lewis, that Ranger? Escaped from the stockade? Killed his captain. That's some crazy shit."
"Yeah. You never know what goes through these people's minds."
"Wonder where he is." The driver pulled out a plastic bag of some green, moldy looking strips and pulled one out. "Jerky?" He waved the bag at Dahl.
"Thanks. I'm good."
"Just fuckin' with ya. I wouldn't eat someone else's moldy shit either. Got any family out there?"
"They are in Idaho." That actually was not the truth. They were in Wisconsin. That's where Mom and Dad chose to retire, to be with the relatives. They spend nearly all of their adult lives travelling the globe with the military, and decide to settle down back in Wisconsin. Why? They hate it out there. They wish they were back in California. As much as Dahl would have liked to go running back to Mommy and Daddy for help, that would be the last place he'd want to be. It's the first place they will look. Their house is probably already under surveillance and their phone already tapped.
The truck’s engine had a familiar sound to it. It was an older rig, from the 70s, equipped with a General Motors two stroke diesel engine, which made the characteristic high-revving and sharp tapping sounds. Those motors powered much of the older military hardware, such as the M113 personnel carriers. They packed a lot of power for their size, but they were thirsty, made a lot of noise, and spewed a lot of fumes. “Hard to sleep in this thing, isn’t it?” The driver asked.
“Sure is.” Dahl replied.
“Two stroke diesels. I love ‘em and I hate ‘em. They got a lot of pull, but they smell and they’re noisy. At least, though, you don’t fall asleep when you’re driving.”
The truck approached the gate at China Lake Naval Weapons Station. It seemed kind of odd to have a landlocked naval base, but that’s where a lot of airborne missile and bomb systems were developed. You could shoot a lot of ordinance in that dry lakebed and not upset the environmentalists excessively. As soon as Dahl stepped down from the cab, he realized why he didn’t really crave the place. It just wasn’t home; there was nothing for him.
There’s one thing about returning to your hometown. Everyone knows you. It’s a good thing this wasn’t his hometown. For a no-name desert locale, it was a fairly sizable city, and not that many people knew him, and fewer knew him well. The chance of being recognized on the street was fairly slim; it’s good to be obscure.
Curiosity got the best of him. He knew where Maria Stoddard lived. She was in the phone book. Not personally, as Maria Stoddard, but her family had a house here. She went to that community college. Was she still there? Probably not. It’s a two year program. Some of the older, ‘professional students’ take classes for fun more than for achievement, and string it out over several years. Maria was not one of them. Was she still even here? There is only one way to find out.
The pay phone in the booth next to the coffee shop was missing pages, but at least they had left the ‘s’ section. Daniel Stoddard. That’s her father. He never met the man, and had no idea what her mother’s name was. But he dropped some change in the phone, and dialed the number. A woman answered.
“Hello?”
“Yes, hi, I’m looking for Maria Stoddard?”
“Maria? Who is this?”
“My name is Jim. Jim Smith. I’m a former classmate of hers.”
“Well, Maria is currently living in Texas. She was married last year.”
Dahl took a long pause. “Well, I’m glad to hear. Please relay congratulations to her.” He did not sound convincing.
“I’d be happy to forward your name and number to her if you would like.”
“No need. Thank you very much.”
He placed the receiver back on the hook. Like what in the hell was he going to say to her anyway, even if she was there? Hi, this is Alex Dahl? Right. No, the purpose of the call wasn’t to contact her. It was more just for confirmation of what he figured probably happened. That’s actually a good thing, because certainly, at this stage in his struggles, a future with her was an impossibility. For that matter, a future in itself was looking rather like an impossibility.
There was the school up the road. It would probably be a fairly bad idea to poke around up there. Someone might recognize him.
But he did have to make one stop. A risky stop. The problem was, he didn’t know what Roger’s phone number was, or where he could find him. There were only a few that did. The one person in particular, was Bob. Bob owned the gun store that they all shopped at. That is, all the guys in the competition league. It was sort of the central rallying point, plus people just showed up to hang around and shoot the breeze.
Could he trust Bob? Even if he was unaware of the manhunt, and he probably was, it would just be a matter of time before he mentioned, ‘Alex was in here the other day,’ to the wrong person, and then the authorities get summoned. But finding Roger was like looking for a needle in a haystack; he had to risk it.
That familiar looking Dodge four wheel drive was parked in front of the shop, Bob was there. But so was someone else. A Chevy Nova was also parked out in front. Twenty minutes later, a bearded man carrying some boxes of ammo emerged, and drove off in the Nova.
Bob was standing behind the counter. He looked as though he had seen a ghost. “Hey... Alex, long time.”
Damn. He knows. “Yeah. Hey listen, remember Roger? You know, CIA Roger?”
“Sure,” Bob replied in a nervous voice.
“He still around?”
“Yeah, as far as I know.”
“Got his number? I kind of need to talk to him.”
Bob tore off a page from a small notepad, and shuffled through a Rolodex, and wrote down a number, and pushed the note pad across the glass-topped counter to Dahl. “There you go.”
“Thanks.”
“Sure.”
Dahl walked out the door. That was a weird exchange. Bob was always a fairly quiet guy, but in his own way he could still manage to talk your head off, and maybe try to sell you a carbine or a revolver in the process. He couldn’t wait around for the city bus. He had to do a fast paced ‘range walk’ to the nearest pay phone, at the hardware chain store up the road, and hope that he could call Roger.
Then there was the trust issue with Roger himself. Could Roger be trusted? Probably, especially if there were some money to be made in the process. He hastily put some coins in the phone and dialed. The phone rang several times and then went to an answering machine. Dahl knew he could get away with this once, but probably not twice. Dahl left a message. “Hey Roger. This is Alex Dahl. If you get my message, please meet me at the pizza restaurant tonight at eight o’clock. I need to talk to you about something. I want to take you up on your offer.”
Dahl’s stomach was starting to feel slightly sick. Things were going to start getting complicated, and in a hurry.
The key thing now is to stay out of sight, and off the radar. That was going to be damned difficult to do. For all he knew, city police and county sheriffs were busy making copies of facsimiles of his face and distributing them.
Chapter 1 – I Know this Man
The two story community center, with large, expansive windows, was cattycorner to the pizza restaurant. Like all community centers, there were plenty of empty rooms, some of which were used for storage; it was an ideal place to hang
out. It was in a position where Dahl could sit there in the corner, out of sight behind a stack of folding tables, and observe out the window, tracking the comings and goings of the shopping plaza. It was close enough that he had a good view of the pizza restaurant, yet far away enough he could slip out if he had to. He was pretty safe at the moment. Nobody noticed him enter and take the elevator to the second floor. He could probably stay there for days if he needed. Unless they planned on doing a room to room search to every building in the complex, he was good for now.
He still had food left from Vegas. It wouldn’t last much longer and it was already probably starting to go bad, so he made the last of his hamburger makings, and finished off the stale, greasy onion rings, then changed clothes. A change of clothes would be helpful, but it wouldn’t make him disappear either.
It was about a quarter till six, less than two hours before meeting time. There was no way of knowing if Roger would act on the message, or for that matter, if he had even received it. One police cruiser pulled in to the lot, and parked in front of the pizza restaurant. An officer emerged from the car, and returned several minutes later with a pizza box. Dahl was understandably paranoid, but the officer was probably off-shift and picking up dinner. Another drove slowly across the lot and then left. Aside from that, there appeared to be no abnormal police activity. Rest assured, if Roger ratted him out, there would be some staging going on, right now. And they wouldn’t necessarily be in marked cars. They like vans. Big white vans with no windows. Big enough to hold a SWAT unit. And they would be close.
The time drew near. That covered pickup was a tad suspicious. It was right outside the front door. There was no driving access to the rear, but if they were planning something, certainly they would have the rear covered. Nobody could be seen maneuvering back there, and he had a pretty clear view.
The time was well chosen. It was dark. With less than three minutes to go, judging by the wall clock, which may or may not have been set right, that Jeep drove up. The Jeep was familiar. He had seen it parked out in the desert sand during the matches, but had never connected it with its owner. Then Roger emerged from it. Roger was tallish, large framed, and bearded, with shoulder length hair. He looked like a somewhat refined mountain man.
At this point in time, Dahl had to trust that Roger was on the up and up. At least he came, thank god. Dahl grabbed his bag, and made a quick exit down the auxiliary staircase to an exit only door below. Thinking quickly, he grabbed a metal fire extinguisher tag, twisted it off and used it to block the doorjamb, so he could re-enter the building if he needed without going through the main door, which was probably already locked for the night anyway.
Avoiding eye contact, Dahl made a beeline to a row of booths at the end of the crowded restaurant. If Roger had half a brain, he would secure a corner seat that is as out of view as possible. Fortunately, he had. Dahl took a seat on the other side of the booth, facing away from the crowd.
“Thanks for coming,” Dahl said.
“I hear you’re in a heap of trouble,” Roger replied.
“That would be accurate. So is that standing offer still standing?”
A server appeared at the table ready to take an order. “Large draft beer please,” Roger said to the server. Then he spoke to Dahl. “You’re probably tight on cash, huh?”
“Tight yeah, but I got some,” Dahl replied.
“Let’s get an extra-large combo. And whatever you want to drink.” Roger replied.
“Damn, I’d like a beer, but...”
“My guess is you haven’t had a damn beer in a while, and you probably won’t be getting many opportunities to drink damn beers in the immediate future, so my advice is take it while you can get it.”
Take it while you can get it. That was the same advice the other GIs used to give when they were out on the town, trolling for women. “Yeah sure, I’ll have the same.” Dahl said to the waitress.
The waitress was Asian. She had light brown skin, and thin features. She looked nervous as she wrote down the order. Asians stick out like a sore thumb in this place. Most of the servers are white or Hispanic. In any case, nervousness didn’t bode well. An Asian server? Could she actually be a cop, and not a server? It just didn’t fit right. She walked away with the order.
“So,” Roger said, continuing his previous train of thought, “There is a little bit of a problem. The short answer is yeah, I got a merc gig available in Darfur, but how the hell am I going to get you out of the country? You’re a wanted man.”
“What about a new identity?”
“That’s sort of out of the realm of what I can do. Those can be gotten, but not through me.”
“So, basically, I’m fucked?”
The waitress returned with two frosty mugs of beer. “Go ahead and bring us another round, please.” Roger said to the Asian girl. “Well, I have a thought. I know this guy in LA, and he’s a high profile private investigator. He does International work. A little birdie tells me that he uses people, mercs even, to do deep cover work for some of his cases. You might talk to him. If anything, he could probably get you that ID you want. He might even have a job for you. I don’t know. But this is his card.” Roger slipped a business card across to Dahl. The name read Simon Bowe. Arrow Services. Aon Center, 707 Wilshire Boulevard, Suite 5001, Los Angeles, California.
“That’s the high rent district,” Dahl said.
“This guy’s a heavy hitter.”
Dahl downed his beer. “I didn’t do it.”
“I’m not judging you. But I am glad to hear that. I’ll take you on your word.”
There was some ruckus starting at the front. Uniformed Federal agents started pouring in the door.
“Oh fuck!” Dahl exclaimed. “Did you rat me out?”
Roger nodded negatively. “Easy hoss, they’re not here on my account. Just stay calm.”
“What the hell’s going on?” Dahl said under a strained, muted breath.
“They’re carding the staff. It’s a goddamn immigration shakedown. They just hauled two Mexicans out in cuffs.”
“You’ve got to be fucking joking.”
“Just pretend like you own the place.”
“You positive they’re from immigration?”
“Yeah. Pretty sure. But...”
“But what?”
“They are Federal agents, so, just the same, you might want to see if you can slip out the back door.”
The agents drew near as Dahl casually exited the table and headed to the rear of the restaurant through the kitchen door. He wasn’t challenged, as some of the cooks were already in a state of panic over the approaching assemblage of federal agents. He popped out the rear door, and noticed that the Asian girl who was their server was standing there in a state of panic, looking around. They made eye contact.
One attribute that Dahl had was the ability to recognize a situation for what it was, immediately. There were two things at play here: First, a girl who is obviously at odds with the immigration authorities, and in imminent danger of being detained by them and deported. Secondly, there were a cluster of federal agents, and Dahl himself was a sitting target. He could see the shadows of the agents approaching from the side. It would all be over in about ten seconds, at least for one of them, and very possibly for both.
“Quickly,” Dahl whispered to the girl. “Throw your apron away.” She quickly complied and tossed her apron aside. Dahl threw his travel bag aside. He grasped her, and engaged in a passionate kiss. “Trust me, just go along with this,” he gently whispered in her ear.
The agents finally rounded the corner, one female agent, accompanied by a male agent. They stopped, watched briefly, and then turned around and walked back. “Nothing back there, just a couple kids making out.”
“Come with me,” Dahl ordered, as he led her by the hand around some dense shrubbery, working his way back to the community center. Nobody seemed to take notice as they slipped in the exit only side door on the corner of the community center building
. “We’ll be safe here.” He escorted her up the staircase, and through an unlocked door to the same room where he camped out before during the day, put his bag down, and sat on the carpet. The girl sat next to him.
“Thank you,” she murmured, with a slight accent. “I was so scared.” The girl looked tall from a distance, but her thin figure accented her height, and the high platform boots she wore only added to the affect. She had long, dark reddish brown hair, and full lips. It was hard to place her ethnicity. She didn’t quite look Japanese, but she didn’t quite look Chinese either, nor did she appear to be from any part of Southeast Asia.
“What’s your story?”
“My story?”
“What are you running from?”
“My student visa has been revoked. It has to do with my father’s political connections. The State Department has orders to deport me.”
“Where are you from?”
“South Korea.”
“What’s your name?”
“So-Young. Means beautiful and everlasting. What is your name?”
“Alex.”
“So, what is your story?”
“I’ve been accused of a murder I did not commit.”
“You do not go to court to plead your case?”
“I did plead my case, but it was under military law. It doesn’t work the same as it does out here. They already convicted me. In fact, they are looking for me.”
She looked out the window in to the darkness. There were flashing lights, and agents milling around in the darkness loading several handcuffed individuals in to a bus. “That could have been me out there, loading on to a bus, headed towards some detention center. I don’t feel safe here anymore.”
“Trust me, you’re a lot better off than I am right now.”
She looked at him. He had hard, angular features, but he did not look like a bad person. He looked young. Like her own name, so young. He admitted that he is an accused killer on the run. Yet, his presence is comforting. She felt a commanding presence of inner strength and resolve. She felt safe next to him, and she hadn’t even known him more than ten minutes.
