by Tom Hron
WASHINGTON, D.C.
David Skeleter listened to his call ring and ring. Damn it, he thought, pick up the fucking phone! You devote yourself to a special cause, work day and night, then find out that you can’t trust anyone. The ringing stopped and became a hollow silence. “Are you there?” he asked finally.
“Yes.”
“Then confirm.”
“SiddhArtha.”
“What in hell happened?”
“Something came up while you were in Vegas.”
“Why did you have Chambers killed? You ruined everything.”
“I had no choice. He’d figured out most of it and was going to tell on us.”
“Do you knows what this means?”
“There’s no choice.”
CHAPTER 13
THE ANASAZI RUINS
Joe was in a canyon that lay in the land like a fissure in the mountains. Narrow and not very long, it had benches halfway up its walls that were covered with high-desert bushes. The length of it was aligned with the summer solstice and in the mornings the sunshine warmed the bottom but not in the afternoon when the day was hot. On one precipice there was a waterfall pouring out of the rock face that cascaded into a pool eroded at the bottom where the water then ran into another pool before disappearing underground. A black, flat-faced boulder, which was covered in petroglyphs from the people who had lived there more than a millennium before, stood alongside the ruins in the canyon. There were stick men, desert sheep, snakes, lizards, and other rock symbols, many of which Joe didn’t understand, hand pecked into its surface. He understood well enough, however, that his sanctuary was a holy place. Moreover, he understood well enough that he had a difficult choice to make.
Should he seek revenge or make a run for it, and what about getting in touch with Harry and letting him know what had happened to him? Back and forth he went, with not much else to think about except Geronimo, who was now getting much better. No matter what he decided, though, it was time to go, for if he and the dogs stayed more than several days, they would starve to death. He had stored only so much food in the ruins and there was no wild game in the canyon, just the songbirds that flew in for the water. I’d rather not kill and eat my neighbors, he thought to himself. He looked at his dogs and watched them come to attention.
“I guess we won’t stay here any longer, you guys, at least not if I can get the helicopter started. No use simply sitting here, and I’m getting antsy, besides. We’ll fly to Mesa, fuel up, and make a run for Mexico like Harry did, then figure out what to do down there.”
Bright-eyed, the dogs sat like two black silhouettes in front of him. We’re ready when you are, they were answering with their perfect stillness.
He stood up and kicked dirt over his morning fire, then turned toward the old army helicopter that he’d landed below an overhanging cliff a few years before. The Cobra gunship was almost sacred to him, having stopped his enemy’s bullets from killing him long ago. It had since become his commemoration of the war that should have been won and his defiance of those who had never accepted him, all of the things that made him think that he was really weird sometimes. Who else would keep a helicopter as a storied weapon … who but a goddamn Apache?
The Army had stored all their obsolete helicopters at the Davis-Monthan Air Force Base in Tucson and by sneaking in at night he had stolen the first Cobra that he’d ever been shot down in. His grandfathers would have gone wild with joy seeing him counting coup against their old enemy, the U.S. Army, one of the reasons he’d taken it. For weeks, he’d worked at getting it ready to fly with its bullet holes and old dried blood, his blood, all destined for the scrap heap, forgotten without so much of a thank you or by-your-leave from those he’d fought so hard for. In his mind, he’d only taken what had belonged to him, taken it on a Fourth-of-July night when it had been so damn hot you couldn’t step outside, the fireworks had been flying, and the people at Davis-Monthan had been so drunk they couldn’t walk. His coup de maître had been complete, and now he would plan another.
He spent the rest of the day preflighting the old Cobra, fussing with every flight control and inspection cover, but also waiting for the late afternoon sun. Some of it had to do with the battery as well. He had faithfully run the helicopter every month or so, keeping it fully charged, but you never knew about batteries. Sometimes when you needed them the most, they let you down. He and the dogs were doomed, stranded in the canyon, staring at each other, wondering who would eat the other first if the Cobra wouldn’t start. He shivered, because it wouldn’t be a pretty sight. Bad things happened when you were starving to death.
When the afternoon shadows had reached down the canyon like long spidery fingers with just the right amount of sunshine, he loaded Cochise and Geronimo into the nose cockpit and climbed into the pilot’s seat just ahead of the main rotor mast. Drawing a breath, he whispered all the old prayers he knew. His problems were far from over even if the helicopter started, since the canyon was not a lot wider than the rotor blades, leaving him almost no room for error.
He flipped on the master switch and listened to the Cobra’s electrical system come alive. However, would it have enough battery power to spin the turbine engine fast enough to ignite? He held his breath and snapped the starter trigger. The turbine wound to a shriek, then ignited with its telltale howl. Hooray, he had power and was on his way … maybe.
Waiting, he let the helicopter warm up, and then he hovered to the middle of the canyon and looked up. It had seemed so roomy when he’d landed, but now the sky looked as far away as the moon. He focused on an imaginary line leading straight up and hit the intercom button.
“You dogs ready? Hang on, because here we go,” he called, although he didn’t know why. They really couldn’t know what they were risking, could they?
He lifted the collective control and centered the cyclic stick, climbing the Cobra exactly vertically. Trust you peripheral vision, he thought, don’t look left, don’t look right, and keep your eyes straight ahead, watching for the slightest movement sideways. He glimpsed the altimeter start turning like a spinning clock—one hundred feet, five hundred feet, and one thousand feet. He didn’t dare look up and he didn’t dare look back down, since everything depended on his discipline. His eyes started watering, but he just blinked the tears away. Fifteen hundred feet … he was almost there, and now the sky was almost his. He pulled on the collective a little harder and held his breath. All of a sudden, he burst into the setting sky as a phoenix might rise. Freedom! Ahhhhhh … eeeeee, he shouted again and again until the dogs looked back and stared at him. They were beginning to think he was a little nuts as well.
Lowering the nose, he picked up speed and headed south. Off his left, he saw his brown ranchland with its little stream and the ash circle that had once been his home. His rage instantly came back. How could they have done this to him, after all he had done for them? There would be retribution, he promised himself, and by all the Apache blood in him, he’d get even with those who had ruined his life.
He headed for the Four Peaks, the purple mountains halfway between Lake Roosevelt and Phoenix. Once again, he looked around. What were his neighbors saying and how had his kids taken his disappearance? he wondered. He then felt curiosity getting the best of him, and he remembered that he didn’t have anything but pocket change on him. Not enough to buy a hamburger, let alone bribe any Mexican officials. He turned away from his cross-country and set up for a landing a mile or so away from Cannibal Junction. Minutes later, he touched down in a gravel wash surrounded by creosote bush and shut down the Cobra.
He let the dogs out, told them to stay, and then turned toward the run-down barroom. In the settling dark, he snuck through the desert, keeping his profile hidden behind the brush. When he reached the parking lot, he waited until there was no one outside, then pulled his cowboy hat low over his face and walked to a derelict pay phone near the door. He found the right change, dropped it in, and dialed the bar’s number. It said hello on the second ring.
<
br /> “Max, don’t give me away because it’s Joe. Whatever you do, keep a straight face.”
“Hey, no problem,” the phone answered after a moment.
“Can you come out back in a couple minutes? I need to talk to you, and I’ll wait by the empty kegs.”
“You bet,” said Max. “Talk to you later.” Then the phone hung up.
Joe walked to the back of the bar, smelling the cigarette smoke and draft beer permeating the night air. His friends would be inside talking about him, recalling how he’d made them laugh. They wouldn’t say an unkind word, that’s how charitable they were, the small-timers, busted-down cowhands, and boat mechanics from around Roosevelt Lake. They were his kind of people, the sort that always looked you in the eye and smiled.
By the back door, he heard Max coming with his racking breath and prosthetic bumping on the floor. He’s carrying something heavy, covering himself for coming outside, he thought to himself. Then he saw a silhouette step out and set something down.
“Jesus, most people think you’re dead, Joe.”
“I would be if it weren’t for my dogs. How are my kids doing?”
“Only talked to them for a minute or so.” Max then sighed. “Both stopped here and asked me what I thought, knowing that you and I were pretty close. The feds won’t let them go near your place, so they’re worried to death. Told them I didn’t have a clue about what was going on.”
“If they call again don’t say a word, since I don’t want them mixed up in this. They’re probably being watched.”
“What in hell’s going on? Folks say the feds are investigating because you were making bombs. One’s been snooping around here, trying to pick up some information on you. That’s what made me think you might still be alive.”
“How’d you know it was a fed?” Joe felt his fear jump.
“Christalmighty, he shows up in jeans and a shirt, okay, but then he’s got hands like a girl and smells like aftershave, instead of cow shit and grease.” Max laughed softly. “Who’d he think he was fooling?”
“I don’t know why they’re chasing me, except maybe it has to do with a test pilot I helped out. They must think that he told me something secret…” Joe let his voice trail off.
Max’s voice rasped in disbelief. “What in hell are you talking about? What test pilot?”
“Somebody I found wandering around my ranch. He’d crashed up in the mountains someplace, and that’s when all the trouble started … Listen, I can’t tell you any more because there’s not much more to tell, and it’s all too crazy to believe, anyway.” Pausing, he let the darkness settle around them. “I stopped to borrow some money, and I’m going to hide out down around Nogales until I can figure out what to do.”
Max wheezed for a moment, as if he were searching his mind for something. “Do you know anybody named Harry?” he asked finally. “Some guy called here looking for you and said he wanted to buy your dogs. Sounded awful strange. By chance does that have anything to do with that pilot you’re talking about?”
Surprise, happiness, and confusion—every feeling in the world flashed through Joe. Harry needed him, wanted him in Bahrain! It had been a long time since he’d felt so alive, so essential. He looked at the indistinct face of his friend, backlit by the light coming through the back of the bar. Nogales was now even more important, because in Nogales you could buy anything, at least for the right price. “Can I get some money from you, Max?” he asked quickly. “The guy that called needs my help, and I want to leave right away.”
“Well, yeah, sure. I got seven thousand in the safe. Is that enough?”
“That should be plenty. Thanks.” Joe smiled. A phony passport, an airline ticket, and paperwork for both dogs … he’d need it all. In a few days, he’d be in a new time and place. But why did Harry need the dogs? he wondered. He couldn’t imagine.
Bumping back inside, Max slipped into the bar again, then came back with a roll of bills and pressed it into his hands. Afterward, they stood side-by-side.
“Remember when we first met?” Max asked.
“Sure, An Loc in nineteen-seventy-two, the second goddamn time I got shot down. Who could forget?”
Max took a long breath. “Left my leg back there, and sometimes, you know, I think about going back and getting it. Like I could stick it back on. Pretty sick, huh?”
“No, it ain’t sick. I understand,” Joe said quietly.
“They made us old men when we was still young, didn’t they, then let us down real bad?”
“Yeah.” He faced the night and wished he could go. The memories of Nam were never any good, and it was all so long ago, besides.
“This is kind of your jail break, so as to speak, ain’t it, Joe? You’re finally going to forget your old way of life, aren’t you?” Max fiddled with the deadbolt on the back door as if he were ready to go back in.
“I guess. It’s time, maybe, since I’ve been the same way too long.”
“Let me know how it works out, will you?” Stepping inside, Max swung the door behind him.
“I will…” Joe let his voice fall, because he saw that he was talking to himself. Max was gone and living vicariously again. Sometimes men lost more than a leg on the battlefield, he thought, because they lost their courage as well, leaving only sadness behind. His friend was stuck back in time.
They had met during the siege of An Loc, the little town near Saigon where the North Vietnamese Army had attacked with almost 50,000 troops equipped with heavy armor. The 3rd Brigade had thrown all their gunships against the NVA’s tanks and he’d been an early casualty, blown out of the sky by a surface-to-air missile. Unbelievably, he’d been shot down in a second Cobra. One minute he and his co-pilot/gunner had been flying at 5,000 feet and the next their tail boom had been torn off just behind the engine, leaving them spinning out of control like a drunken dragonfly. Slamming the collective down, he’d descended for a crash-landing, but with little hope that he and his co-pilot/gunner would ever live. Funny what you’ll do, he thought, even when you think you’re dead. He had hung on and aimed for a soccer field the Brigade had been using as a landing zone, and then fate had taken care of the rest.
The crash was still vivid in his mind—the last seconds of yellow-green ground and blue sky streaking by as he’d autorotated for a landing, the flare, then the impact. His co-pilot/gunner had been killed instantly as the helicopter had rolled over and beat itself to death with its blades. However, miraculously, the rotor mast had saved him, keeping the rear cockpit from being smashed to bits by the wreck. Hanging upside down in his seat belts, he’d at first been convinced that he was dead and just didn’t know it.
After a minute he’d realized the soccer field was being shelled by the NVA, with incoming rounds exploding all around him. White flashes, orange fireballs, black smoke. Despite being injured, he’d run for cover, diving into a nearby ditch. There lay Max, unconscious, bleeding to death from a leg shattered by ground fire. They had become friends that day, waiting to be rescued by a “Dustoff,” the 159th Medical Detachment’s helicopter ambulance. They had become friends for life, friends who had more or less followed each other around.
Staring ahead in the soft moonlight, he turned quietly from the back of the bar and picked his way through the desert to where he’d left the Cobra. Indian eyes, he thought to himself, he still had them. But when would he need them next?
Harry was up to something, he just knew it, feeling the excitement building again. How long would it take to get the phony paperwork together? he wondered. How far away was Bahrain? How would he find Harry once he got there? A stream of thoughts ran through his mind.
He put the dogs back into the Cobra, climbed in himself, and wound the turbine once more. A few minutes later he was he was over the Four Peaks, searching for the green and white rotating beacon at the Mesa airport. All of Phoenix was spread before him, its golden lights strewn like moon dust across the Valley of the Sun. No one could have made the nighttime more beautiful.
CHAPTER 14
MANASSAS, VIRGINIA
Alexis looked at her rearview mirror and saw the Frenchman’s Buick right on her bumper. Instantly, her emotions ran from disbelief to hopelessness, from anger to terror, and back again. It seemed the Mossad had their hooks into her and they weren’t ready to let go. There was no use in running, she thought, because surely they had an alternate strategy if she tried. She searched for a restaurant, some handy place to pull over. Might as well face them and get it over with…
The highway she’d taken after leaving the Capital Beltway had inadvertently led her Manassas, an old Civil War town some 30 miles west of Langley. She swung onto a service road fronting a long row of fast-food places and chose McDonald’s, for no other reason other than it was the closest, or red and yellow, or whatever. After parking, she walked inside without even a glance backward, asked for decaffeinated coffee, and sat at a corner table. Because the lunch crowd had already come and gone, there were only a few moms and kids in the playroom. She watched the over-featured Frenchman with his butterfly eyebrows come in, order a Coke, and walk lightly over. She threw him a dirty look as he sat down. “You guys never give up, do you?” she remarked.
“You’d be headed for federal prison right now if we had, so maybe you better thank us.” He took a long pull on his Coke through a straw. “All right, so what went wrong? We had hoped you’d stay in there a bit longer.”
Something inside her said that she should be snarky with him. “You don’t look a bit Jewish,” she answered. “Is that the reason the Mossad recruited you, since you don’t look the part?”
His eyes looked a little uneasy. “It’s not important who I work for, be satisfied it’s enough to know that I’m on your side.”
