Travis laughed. “God, I’ve missed you, Cody.”
“Missed you too, buddy. ” Cody paused for a moment, looking at his friend. “Sure as the sun rises . . .”
“And the moon sets,” Travis said quietly.
Travis grabbed the rope that would have hanged him, and he and
Carlos tied the naked soldiers to one of the beam posts.
When they were finished, Travis turned to Cody. “Well, I guess we better get the hell out of here.”
“We’ve got some catching up to do, Trav. Your place or mine?” “Come on out to my place, and I’ll treat you to a bottle of ol’
Will’s mulberry wine.”
“Done,” replied Cody. “Let’s go. As they turned to leave, the leader of the soldiers rasped, “You’re dead men, all of you.”
Cody turned and walked back, squatting by the injured man, who knelt on the floor. He smiled. “Somehow that’s not all that threatening coming from a man with his balls around his Adam’s apple.”
They grabbed their supplies from the hardware store, thanking the owner once again, jumped into the van, and headed out of town with Cody Joe and his boys following in their Jeep.
As they drove, Christina turned to Travis. She grinned mischievously. “So that’s Cody, huh? You didn’t tell me he was gutsy and good-looking.”
Travis rolled his eyes. “You and every other woman in the country . . .”
“So what’s his story? Somehow I suspect it’s an interesting one.”
Travis nodded and smiled. “You have no idea. William J. Cody is, or was, a smuggler—sort of an outlaw with a conscience . . .”
As they drove Travis explained there was no doubt that Cody could have made a fortune smuggling cocaine or heroin—several times more money than he made on the gems, paintings or money transfers he dealt in—but he didn’t care much for drugs. He’d seen what they did to people, close friends, and he didn’t like it.
“Cody enjoyed the game of smuggling: the excitement of challenging his intellect and his talent, with freedom as the wager,” Travis explained. “And he liked the money. But what he brought in didn’t hurt anyone. Cody always said he wouldn’t be responsible for importing someone else’s misery, and as far as I know, he’s always lived by it.
“He invested his money wisely, having anticipated this disaster all along. He owns several airplanes, a handful of vehicles from four-wheel-drive trucks to Corvettes, and, until the islands disappeared, a number of very expensive boats. His home in Arkansas is state of the art—alternative energy, powered exclusively from solar and turbine sources. He has a two-thousand-gallon natural gas tank and a two-thousand-gallon fuel tank buried on his property. He owns real estate all over the west and pays a loyal crew of men exorbitant salaries to pay attention to his business and his back. Even with the change, or perhaps because of it, he’s probably about as set as a man could be.”
She nodded, impressed. “He made enough money to buy Miami and didn’t piss it all away, to misquote Jimmy Buffett.” She paused for a moment. So what was that between you two about the sun rising and the moon setting?”
A faint smile brushed Travis’ mouth, as if her words had touched a distant memory. “It’s an old Caribbean expression—actually dates back to the days of the buccaneers. It means, no matter what, I’ll see you again . . .”
By midday the gang was back at the ranch. Introductions dispensed with, and refreshments in hand, they sat on the porch while Cody entertained them with stories of earlier adventures. Cody’s large companions, identical twins who resembled lumberjacks on steroids, guarded the drive and the front of the house.
“Security,” Cody said with a grin. “A habit of mine, which has preserved my health and lifestyle.”
They reminisced for a while, then the conversation turned to politics. Travis looked at Cody, who was slouched in an old rocker in the corner of the porch. The smaller man’s long hair was pulled back in his usual ponytail. There were a few more lines around his eyes than the last time Travis had seen him, but those incredible eyes of his still glowed with mischievous exuberance; he still had that aura of barely contained energy about him. Same old Cody, thought Travis warmly, incredibly pleased to see his friend again.
“What do you know about this Rockford guy and his New Provincial Government?” he asked. “From all that I’ve seen and heard, the whole thing smacks of Hitler gone country.”
“Well, up until today, my people and I have done our best to avoid the thugs he calls soldiers,” Cody said. “We haven’t made any political waves, and he’s known we’re a pretty tough bunch, so there’s been no percentage in hassling us. But now, the complexion of this whole thing will probably change.
“Rockford’s boys aren’t used to being manhandled. They’re the only organized force in the area, and they’ve taken advantage of that. In fact, they’ve enjoyed it. We’d both better pay attention for awhile in case they decide to retaliate.
“As for Rockford himself, I think your Hitler analogy is pretty close. I don’t believe for a moment that most of the people are on his side, but he’s the one making the most noise, and his opposition keeps having accidents. He does have a core group of followers who stand to benefit from his rise to power; they range from a handful of crooked politicians and power brokers to the conglomerate of have-nots that he calls an army. They all want what he’s promising—a chicken in every pot, the minorities in their place, and prosperity from a new world order.”
They talked through the afternoon and polished off a couple more bottles of Will’s dwindling supply of wine. Cody brought Travis up to date. Cody had never really given up “the business,” as he called it; he’d just slowed down and chosen his times and places more carefully. The FBI, however, had been breathing down his neck for the past year, so the big shake was just about the best thing that could have happened for him. The down side was, with the present condition of the world, there was little demand left for the finer things in life, and virtually no restriction on imports or exports, which all but put Cody Joe out of work.
But with the day’s events, there were more pressing problems. The conversation came back to Rockford. Travis stood and paced the length of the porch once, then turned to his old friend. “I don’t see any way around this but to fight this guy. What it really boils down to is, do we take him out now, or later? I say let’s get him while he’s still organizing. A year from now, if he does end up in control, we’ll have a harder time dealing with him. His system might be so entrenched that his followers could simply pick up where he left off. I don’t want to give him that time to settle in.
“Now, I’m not saying that you and I should take him on single-handedly. What I am saying is this: There’s some solid, but poorly organized opposition to Rockford out there. It revolves around a congressman named Turner.”
“Yeah,” Cody interjected, “I’ve heard about that guy. Sounds like a pretty good man.”
“From what I hear, he is. I met one of his supporters the other day; I’d like you to meet him, too. His name is Judge Harcourt.”
“Heard of him, also,” Cody said. “He’s been getting in Rockford’s way, politically. I’m surprised he’s still around.”
“He wouldn’t be if we hadn’t come along when we did. It was sort of a fortunate meeting on both our parts. Anyway, he wants to go after Rockford and his army—he’s just not sure how. The guy’s got good connections, and I think he’s a man of his word. I’d like to take you to meet him tomorrow. Maybe we can find the colonel’s Achilles’ heel. What do you say?”
“Well, I guess you’re right. We fight him now or we fight him later.”
About six that evening, after dinner and one more bottle of Will’s wine, Cody and his men headed back to their ranch, which was less than an hour from Travis. He had agreed to return the following morning so he and Travis could meet with the judge, and figure out “how to kick Rockford’s ass.”
After Cody Joe had gone and everyone was sett
ling in for the evening, Travis and Christina sat on the front porch and watched the yellow Arkansas moon crest the pines and bathe the valley in soft luminescence.
Travis put his arm around her as they looked out over the pasture. “Well, what do you think of Cody?”
“You talked about him on the trip a couple times, but to meet him is something else. He’s like a ball of very cool perpetual energy.”
“That’s Cody. But don’t be fooled by that ‘let it all hang out’ attitude. He’s one sharp cookie; he plans things out, and he doesn’t make many mistakes.”
“I hope not, because you two are about to play hero again and, Travis, I don’t want to lose you.”
He pulled her to him, their faces only inches apart. “Honey, I’m sorry about this. I know I promised you we’d be safe here. I just didn’t know—how could anyone have known—that we’d have to deal with some maniac who wants to be king?”
CHAPTER 19
Cody showed up early the next day, and after a quick breakfast, he and Travis were off. They took Cody’s Jeep, leaving the van for the others should they need it. As they drove, the two reminisced over Key West summer nights and the Caribbean capers they had shared. Cody was in the midst of telling a story about a smuggler he knew who used to fly so low coming into the Keys, that he always had pieces of flying fish stuck to his windshield, when Travis looked up and saw a sign that read CHERRIES FOR SALE.
“Cody wait! Take this road coming up!”
“Travis, cherries are out of season. There won’t be any for another couple of months.”
“I know, I know. I want a tree, not the cherries. I promised the sensei a cherry tree to remind him of his home.”
They pulled into a drive next to the faded sign and drove up to a quaint little farmhouse nestled in an orchard of blooming cherry trees. Travis looked out at the blossoms and smelled the fragrance. “God, the sensei would love this. I’ll have to bring him here sometime.” Then, turning to Cody he said, “I owe that man more than I can ever repay him. I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for him—not once, but several times. He wants a cherry tree and, by God, if I have to dig it up and carry it back myself, he’ll have one.”
“Okay, okay, so we get the guy a cherry tree,” Cody laughed, a touch more impressed with the quiet Japanese.
Travis honked the horn and a fellow emerged from the house, shotgun in hand. They got out of the Jeep slowly and Travis called out, “Good morning. We’re in need of a cherry tree, and this seemed a likely place to start looking.”
Still cautious but warming, the man at the door smiled a little. “Well, I can see you’re a man of vast deductive powers. Now, the question is, if I had a tree, what would you give me for it?”
Travis, suddenly realizing he had nothing with him of value to trade, was stumped. Cody reached into his pocket and pulled out a coin, then tossed it to the man who deftly caught it. “How about that?” Cody asked.
The man’s eyes lit up when he saw the solid gold Krugerrand in his hand. “Follow me, gentlemen. I’ve got half a dozen nice little trees in bushel baskets, ready to be planted. He glanced at the gold coin again. “You boys can have your choice.”
Travis looked over at his friend. “What did you give him?”
“A Krugerrand.”
“God, Cody, that makes for a pretty damned expensive tree.”
“It’s okay. Through the years I converted most of my money over to gold, silver, Krugerrands. Trust me, it’s not the only one I have.”
“Yeah, I’m sure of that, but thanks, man. Thanks a lot.”
They picked out a perfect six-foot tree. The fellow wrapped the branches in burlap, so it wouldn’t become wind-burned on the trip home, and laid it in the back of the Jeep. As they turned to leave, the man called out, “You boys need any more trees, you be sure and come back, you hear?”
About an hour later, Travis and Cody pulled up at the gates in front of the judge’s homestead and honked the horn. The gardener let them in as Judge Harcourt waved from the porch.
The judge, limping a little, greeted Travis with a smothering bear hug. “Good to see you, Travis, good to see you. I thought perhaps you’d decided to play ostrich.”
“No, I didn’t even get a chance. Before I decided if I wanted to see the mountain, Mohammed and his provincial government brought the mountain to me.”
The judge stepped back, surprised. “You’re telling me you already had a run-in with Rockford’s boys?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, tell me about it, but introduce me to your friend here first.”
“Sorry, judge, my manners seem to be slipping a bit. This is my good friend, William J. Cody, named after Buffalo Bill Cody, the famous Indian fighter, to whom he is distantly related. You can call him Cody. Everyone else does.”
The judge’s eyes narrowed slightly at the mention of Cody’s name. “Yes, it seems I’ve heard that name before—mostly in law enforcement circles, if I remember correctly. But, Mr. Cody, if you’re a friend of this man, you’re a friend of mine. Right now we need all the help we can get, and if my memory serves me well, it seems to me you were spoken of with grudging respect for your ability to fly an airplane. Who knows, we might have need of your talents.”
Cody smiled. “Actually Judge, I’d like to talk to you and Travis about a plan I’ve been forming that applies exactly that element.”
“All right, gentlemen,” the judge said as he motioned them through the door. “Come in, come in. Your timing is excellent— uncanny, actually—because in less than an hour Congressman Turner will be here with a handful of Rockford’s most powerful rivals. We’ve decided we’re no longer political foes. We are Rockford’s enemies, and a number of us want to do something about it.”
After they had settled on the big couch in the living room, Travis told them about the militiamen in town.
Harcourt listened, then added somberly, “Baptism by fire. Now you’re one of us whether you like it or not.” The judge turned to Travis’ friend. “All right, Mr. Cody—”
“Cody, or Cody Joe, please. That ‘mister’ stuff makes me feel too much like an adult.”
“Okay, Cody, tell us about this plan of yours.”
“Well, first off, I have one of my men in Rockford’s Delta Camp; he joined the New Provincial Government last week. He’s a quick study with lots of military experience. He’ll ask the right questions and we’ll have some idea of what the good colonel’s up to from now on.” The judge nodded as Cody continued. “As for my plan, I figure there’s no more mister nice guys now. We need to take Rockford out, along with as much of his organization as possible. We have to shock his weekend warriors enough to where, if they do survive, they won’t want to play anymore. Here’s the deal: I have an airplane in the hanger next to the strip on my property. It’s a P51 Mustang, which was probably the best ground support fighter in World War Two, if not the finest fighter, period. The unique thing about my plane is that it’s armed. The fifty-caliber machine guns are still in it and operable —and I have lots of ammunition.” The judge’s eyebrows rose perceptibly.
Undaunted, Cody continued. “I also have a set of wing tanks I can jettison. This is what I propose: We take the wing tanks and fill them with a mixture of castile soap and gasoline, which makes a hell of a poor man’s napalm. It works damn near as well as the stuff we spread all over ’Nam. The plane’s altered to seat two people, with dual controls. Travis and I will take her up tomorrow and hit Rockford’s Delta Camp a little after dawn. I already know that the major ammunition dump for Rockford’s army is in that camp; by tomorrow morning I’ll know exactly where. If we can hit that dump with a handful of rounds from the fifties on the plane, or one of those homemade napalm bombs, we can most likely take out the colonel and a good portion of his army. At the very least, after we’ve attacked that base it’ll never be the same, and a lot of his so-called soldiers will be considering alternative lifestyles.”
Travis looked over at Cody. “How in h
ell did you get live ammo and machine guns for a Fifty-One?”
Cody smiled. “Hey, all it takes is money, and that’s never been one of my problems.”
The judge turned to Travis. “Well, what do you think? This is your forte, not mine.”
“To tell you the truth, I think it’s a hell of an idea. A Fifty-One, armed, like the one Cody’s talking about, will make a mess of that camp.”
“Right you are,” agreed Cody. “They’ll think the devil himself grew wings and came for them.”
Harcourt pushed himself back in his chair, and clasped his hands together under his chin. “Well, I’d like to run this by Turner and his people, but my guess is that he’s going to buy it. Turner’s preparing a grass-roots campaign to bring himself to the attention of the people of Arkansas. He’s having a hard time now because of Rockford’s methods of dealing with competition. With the colonel out of the way, getting Turner elected as the new governor of Arkansas would be a piece of cake. The people know him; he’s got solid credentials and a good track record. He probably would have been the next governor anyway, if not for the disaster.”
At that moment, the housekeeper announced the congressman had arrived with his constituents.
Turner was a slender man of about forty-five, with slightly receding, gray hair and intense, dark eyes. He radiated a straightforwardness and honesty that seemed remarkably nonpolitical. His handshake was firm, and when he talked, he looked you in the eye. Travis liked him immediately. He was accompanied by three other men, two of them were congressmen, the third, another judge. Since the arrival of Travis and Cody, the focus of the meeting had shifted from aggressive defense to outright confrontation and, when Cody’s plan was revealed, it was agreed upon unanimously.
While they talked, another conversation was being conducted miles away in the officers’ quarters of Delta Camp.
Reynolds nodded as he listened to the men who were reporting the incident of the day before. The description of the big man with dark hair and the woman coincided with his memory of the people at the judge’s place. Not only had they again gotten the best of his men, it appeared that they had joined forces with the guy who owned the fortress-like property on the western edge of town. Reynolds was unaccustomed to being “had” by anyone once, let alone twice. He wanted those people. He wanted to settle the score personally. Jotting down their descriptions and the vehicle, he dismissed his men, then called Communications.
The New Madrid Run Page 23
