by Tom Hron
“I’ve changed my mind about MAD over the years, sir.” Skeleter’s forehead was getting hot. What was the President up to? he wondered. On the one hand he was asking him to stay, but on the other he was making him out to be a Machiavellian. Was he playing him like a fish, and for what reason?
“Yes, I know.” Connolly was on a rip and his rich voice went on like heavy rain. “Listen, let’s get back to the CIA. When I read the president’s daily briefing this morning, I see a lower-echelon director has suddenly been murdered. Someone named Chambers. My God, things have gotten so bad I can’t even get a PDB without reading about some kind of catastrophe. That’s reason enough right there for not sending you over to Langley. Are you some kind of masochist? You need to stay here.”
Skeleter looked up as though he’d been struck by lightning. Now everything was becoming clearer and no wonder Connolly was going on and on as if he were half nuts. “—the murder was connected to a covert operation?” he asked carefully, trying not to come off as too bowled over.
“I’m told not. The FBI’s investigating, but I’m sure it’s because of Opendoor.” Connolly’s voice was crisp and businesslike. “He was the head of the classified library.”
The Map Room suddenly seemed way too bright. “There must be someone on the inside?…”
“More than someone.”
Skeleter hardened his face as though he was taking a pledge. “All right, tell me what you want me to do.”
“First, we must get the Gulfstream back.” Connolly faced him with his whole body. “I’ve already called President Juan Rodriguez and he’s promised to find it and have it ready for you. Esthesia Cosmetics in New York will give you and a couple of pilots a ride down in their corporate jet. I don’t want to leave any damn fingerprints on this deal, and if you’re in Mexico we’ve got our excuse for the plane being down there.”
Something in his eyes must have caught Connolly’s attention because he went on without even waiting for an answer. “I know, I know, I’m breaking every law in the books, but I don’t care. Esthesia owes me a favor and getting caught would be the least of my problems right now. I’m fighting for my life.”
For a long moment Skeleter didn’t know what to think, let alone say. Slick as could be, Connolly was sending him back out of town. For what purpose? “Is there someone else who could go?” he asked. “I’ve just gotten back from Vegas.”
Connolly stayed on his rant. “No, no. I realize the whole thing’s convoluted, but it gives us some cover if this turns into an impeachment fiasco on us. The courts have always sided with the White House when comes to national security and with you and Area 51 involved, then we have our excuses.” Another inscrutable smile lit up the president’s face.
Skeleter’s eyes widened until they hurt, and then he mumbled something about he understood. Is he suspicious of everybody or just me? he wondered. He had never seen the president so wild, let alone manipulative. Then he heard him ask something that left him frozen in his chair.
“Why did you go out to Nevada in the first place, David?” asked Connolly.
He kept his hands calm and looked straight at the president. “I couldn’t believe we had that kind of technology, and I wanted to see it for myself.”
“So, what did you think?”
“Unbelievable, and it would have changed our whole military complex.”
“Why did you go to Sharp’s home afterwards?”
“I wanted to talk to him, you know, after finding out he was alive. I had promised you a full report, remember?” He tried not to blink.
The president gave a slow nod. “Yes, you did … Listen, give Esthesia a call and get the airplane back here as soon as possible, then we’ll go from there.”
“I’ll do it right away.” The tension in his chest was terrible. He stood, counting every second until he could get away.
Saying good-bye, he left the Map Room and walked out of the South Portico and away from the White House. The rain had stopped, letting the sun lift the fog and reflect an ethereal light. He saw the crowns of the capitol buildings signaling like beacons above their darker sides. He saw the masses in their cheap clothing filling the public areas, now that the weather had cleared a little. The air was warm, muggy, and smelled of way too many people. His limousine was waiting.
He must find a safe phone inside a soundproof room where he couldn’t be overheard.
CHAPTER 10
THE SIERRA ANCHA MOUNTAINS
Joe felt the dogs pulling him, dragging him like a grain sack farther and farther from his burning home, which had been blown to pieces. His subliminal woke to the shadows of the night. How long had he been unconscious? Despite his ringing ears, he heard the same helicopter as earlier in the day racing toward him. Working his arms and legs, he searched for broken bones. He must get up and run, he thought to himself, but his body wouldn’t let him. Finally, he found the strength, rolled to his feet, and stumbled toward the rugged mountains just west of his place, the Sierra Anchas, and the box canyon that spawned the stream that ran through his ranch. “Run, you dogs, run. We got to get out of here,” he yelled, though more for his own good than theirs.
Circling down, the helicopter landed near the demolished house, the whish, whish, whish of its blades sounding like giant bat wings, now that they were slowing. His mind’s eye saw faceless men searching the perimeter of his home, using their flashlights to make sure that he hadn’t gotten away. However, eventually one of them would find the muddy ground where he had fallen and dripped off, where the dogs had dragged him, and where he’d gotten to his feet. In a few minutes, they would be back in the air. He pushed as hard as he could, because the canyon was a long way off.
“Hey, over here,” a voice yelled, so shrill it was louder than the helicopter. Now he knew they were on to him, like bloodhounds in a prison break. His fear made him forget his pain and run faster. He heard more yelling, then the helicopter speed up. Probably two on the ground and two in the air, he thought. Bumping along in the dark, he could barely see the forestry trail he was following, the pinyon and juniper and mountain mahogany turning him whenever he got over too far. He looked back and saw the helicopter in the air with its police light beaming down. If they had a searchlight, they must have infrared as well. His fear ran deeper.
“Where are you damn dogs?” he puffed breathlessly. He couldn’t see them and had almost forgotten them. Both must be nearby, and it must be because it was so dark and they were so black. He looked back once again. The helicopter was sweeping the roadside, and there were two flashlights coming up the trail after him. If he could only get to the mouth of the canyon, but it was still so far off, and they would catch up with him in a few more minutes.
All of a sudden he heard the helicopter pitch up and pull around, its sound suddenly reversing, followed by a pistol shot. He stopped for a moment, sick to his stomach. The dogs had gone after the men chasing him, no doubt nailing them from behind, one feigning while the other ripped open their legs, darting back into the darkness at the last second. They would keep at it until they were both dead, that’s how much they loved him. He had seen them turn an angry bull weighing a ton and make it run for its life, corner coyotes and teach them not to come around the ranch anymore. He heard a second shot, the helicopter go into hover and try to get a light on the dogs, then a scream, although it was hard to tell with all the noise. He ran again because he had been given his chance to escape. “You stupid dogs,” he whispered to himself, “why did you commit suicide?”
He reached the hilltop above the narrow valley that held the stream crossing his ranch. Now there would be no light at all. He crept down into the blackness until he felt his boots fill with water, turned, and started upstream. Despite falling now and then, he kept going, the water feeling good on his face and soothing his soreness as well. Almost overhead, the helicopter was after him again, its light probing as if it were alive. Nevertheless, it was too late because he’d gotten into the mouth of the canyon, and if
they didn’t turn back they’d hit its walls. Serve them right, he thought, and he used the searchlight’s halo to find the game trail that he knew paralleled the water. Now he could run faster and stay protected by the hanging branches of the trees bordering the stream.
Catching him in their light, they fired at him, then fired again, the shots coming through the branches but missing him. Finally, they stopped and watched him run. After a minute they turned and flew away, their white strobes flashing, heading back for the men on the forestry trail, he guessed. Slowing, he became a blind man, listening to the tumbling water, feeling his way through the brush, feeling for the narrow path with his feet. Sometimes he fell, but he always started over and climbed higher. When he reached the high rampart ahead, he’d know he was there—the hiding place that was more than twelve centuries old. “Why, why did you dogs go back?” he moaned, although realizing they had saved his life.
The stream water stopped, lost in the rocks where it flowed out as an artesian. He climbed higher still—now the canyon walls were just a few feet away on each side of him, reaching to the starry dark they were so high. A few minutes later he found the crossing parapet, strewn with boulders the size of coffins. He could go no farther, leastwise not at night, and he’d have to wait until morning. Sitting against the boulders, he rested, never feeling lonelier in his life. He had lost everything. He started crying, “Why, you dogs, why?”
All of a sudden he heard the slightest noise, something so stealthy that he held his breath so he could hear it better. Choking back his tears, he dried his eyes on his sleeves and waited, listening as hard as he could. He heard another noiseless step, but with the sound of claws crossing stone. Pulling out his jackknife and never feeling more helpless, he opened it and got ready. The canyon was full of cats, mountain lions that weighed as much as he did. His heart pounded and the hair on the back of his neck stood on end. He waited …
A sharp cry speared the darkness around him. One of his dogs had lived! He was so surprised he broke into tears again. There was suddenly hope and he hadn’t lost everything after all. Feeling as happy as when his children had been born, he screamed the loudest war cry that his ancestors had left inside him, sending it down the canyon, making even his skin crawl. “Ahhhhhh … eeeeee, ahhhhhh … eeeeee, ahhhhhh … eeeeee,” it echoed back.
Next, he spoke to the dog, although it wouldn’t come any closer and only whimpered more. Crawling on his hands and knees, he inched his way down the canyon until he was certain the dog was within arm’s reach. He spoke again and the dog answered. Reaching out, he found the dog with his hands and pulled him closer, learning that it was Cochise. Then the dog twisted away and moved farther down the canyon, crying as it went. Geronimo must still be alive, he thought. He wanted to give another war hoop.
Stifling the urge, he crawled after Cochise, hoping he would hear some telltale sound when he got near him. Moments later, he ran into both dogs, one standing and the other lying down. Using his hands like a blind man, he found that Geronimo had been shot in a hind leg. The bone wasn’t broken but the bullet had left a big wound, and the dog had weakened so much it couldn’t go any farther. He cut off his shirttail and bandaged the leg as well as he could, then sat cradling him, keeping him warm with Cochise huddling alongside both of them. “We’re going to make it,” he whispered. “We’re Apache and by all the spirits we’ll make it. Just wait and see.”
They sat up all night, counting the minutes as hours and the hours as days because the time passed so slowly. Then, when he’d almost given up on the idea that it would ever get light again, he saw the gray dawn creep up the canyon. He still waited. The rampart behind him was unscalable, at least not without technical skills, ropes, pylons, and plenty of guts, since the rock wasn’t very good.
The Anasazi had discovered it twelve hundred years before, but he had no idea how. It must have been because his ancestors had been hard on their heels, for what other motivation would there have been for anyone to climb so high, let alone try to live there. It had taken him years to find the secret passage, and actually he hadn’t found it, the dogs had. What he’d discovered had been incredible—a prehistoric cliff dwelling hidden in a red amphitheater, so perfect that he couldn’t believe his eyes. The pottery was still there, the bows and arrows, pieces of cloth, even a loom had been left behind. Right away, he had made it his home away from home, or better said his spiritual home away from home. He had never told anyone about it, not even his wife, fearing some pointy-head professor would somehow hear about it. How many ancient sites would have to be desecrated before the colleges and museums would finally leave them alone? How many arrowheads, spear points, and human bones did it take to convince them that prehistoric people had used stone tools, ate animals, raised crops, lived and loved, and moved around just like people of later times? It made him so mad. How would all the pointy-heads feel if a bunch of Native Americans started digging up early settler’s graves, seeing how they lived? They would scream to no end, but it would serve them right.
At last, the light was strong enough. “Cochise, find the way,” he said. “Let’s get up on top.” Despite every muscle in his body being sore to the bone, he picked up Geronimo and followed Cochise. Sadly, Geronimo would have to make it on his own once they crawled inside the tunnel, the tunnel from hell.
Rainwater had done it. Maybe it had taken ten thousand years, who knew, but the test of time had let water carve a narrow cave from the back of the canyon on top of the false wall to the floor on the lower side. People came up the canyon, saw the wall, and never realized there was anything at all on the far side. It was the cleverest trick that Mother Nature could pull, making everyone think there was nothing more. But it hadn’t fooled the Anasazi or his dogs. One afternoon he’d looked up and there they were, probably having trailed a mountain lion through the passage.
When he reached some plain-looking boulders that had fallen one on top of the other at the end of the canyon, he set his dog down. There was a small opening between two boulders about the size of a washtub. Getting down on his knees, he stroked Geronimo’s head. Cochise had already disappeared inside the tunnel. Geronimo would have to make it on its own, crawling with his front feet, because there was no other way.
“Go on. I’ll help you all I can, pushing you from behind. I’ll try not to hurt you. Go on.”
Geronimo gave him a pitiful look with sad brown eyes and then limped into the long tunnel, dragging his wounded leg. They would have to belly-crawl to make it through, and in the pitchiest black that nature could provide, that’s how long the passage was.
On his hands and knees, he followed Geronimo. The first part wasn’t so bad, since it didn’t slope up or zigzag that much, but after a hundred feet it became a nightmare of twists and turns, climbing like a spiral stairs. You couldn’t get lost because there was lots of fresh air to follow, blowing down from above, but you could get stuck if you weren’t careful, maybe forever.
He went slowly, listening in the pitch-black and boosting Geronimo whenever the dog needed help. He and the dog rested, then started again. Curling up and up, he searched ahead for handholds and backward for footholds, crawling for the sunlight they could never see. Finally, he saw the end coming, a little circle of blue.
When they climbed out on top, he saw that Geronimo had lost his bandage and was bleeding again. He shook his head in admiration. Never made a peep, did you? he thought to himself. Then he saw Cochise waiting beside the ruins. Now he didn’t feel so crazy after all in making the place his hideout. For some reason the government feared him, even though he hadn’t done anything wrong. Luckily, the dogs had heard or smelled something and held him up for a few minutes back at the ranch, spoiling the smart bomb or whatever had been used to destroy his home. Clearly, it all had to do with Harry. Maybe they could figure it out if they could only get together, but first things first.
The Anasazi had built a three-story stronghold with a dozen rooms in the amphitheater, and he’d taken over on
e room, using its hearth for his fires and its floor for sleeping, getting in touch with the old-believers, a religious thing with him. When you looked at the walls, their handprints were still visible in the mud they’d used for plaster. Those prints had become sacred to him.
Another thing they’d left behind was a keystone—if you pulled it loose, the whole passage leading to the amphitheater would fill with rock, cutting off the outside world. Why they had never use it, he didn’t know, but it was there plain as day. He leaned over and pulled it out, triggering the scariest rockslide he’d ever heard. Now there was no turning back and only one way out, straight up two thousand feet.
“Geronimo, let’s get you fixed up and figure out why the government wants us deader than doornails.” He picked up his dog and carried him into the ruins.
CHAPTER 11
MANAMA, BAHRAIN
The seagulls fell silent and wheeled on the wind to their roosts on the pilings and the abandoned dhows along the city’s waterfront. Jasmine, eucalyptus, and the wailing calls to prayers in the downtown mosques floated on the wind as well, mesmerizing Harry with the fragrances of the island, the sounds of Islam, and the thick yellow sunset. He watched the world slowly change with the sidelight darkening the shoreline into shadow and brightening the sea to phosphorescent. It was all so peaceful, very unlike how he felt inside.
He had first visited Bahrain when he’d been stationed at the Prince Sultan Air Base in Saudi Arabia during the Iraq War, renewing his friendship with Shawki al-Hada, his roommate in college. The Air Force had given him a few days leave and he’d driven across Saudi Arabia, then over the King Fahd Causeway to the emirate called the pearl of the Persian Gulf. For centuries, the island’s people had earned their living by diving for pearls, but then Japan’s cultured pearls and the discovery of oil had changed all that, leaving almost no one interested in pearl diving. Shawki, even though his family had great wealth, was one of the few who had carried on the ancient tradition by acting as a Nukhadha, or captain of his boom, the long double-ended dhow he owned, sailing with a crew to the pearling banks each summer.
