Watchers in the Woods

by William W. Johnstone

  “Tell them to start packing up one at a time, with as little movement as possible. I don’t want everybody to start rushing around. I can’t believe we’re not being watched.”

  “Cathy was very sure of herself, Matt. And Nick says the breakaways probably believe they have us trapped. I think we’re under very loose surveillance. We just might be able to pull this off. I’ll get them packed up.”

  It didn’t take long. The tents would remain where they were pitched. Each group member was taking only a waterproof ground sheet which could be used for protection when and if they were forced to spend the night. They took foods that did not have to be heated, it would not be all that tasty, but it would keep them alive. Matt, Nick, and Norm had stripped the dead CWA men of their camouflage jackets and shirts and those were passed around to the group. Everything that might jingle was either tied down or discarded.

  Matt singled out Tom Dalton and straightened out a few points. “If you fuck up and get any member of this group hurt or killed or captured, Dalton, I’ll track you down and kill you. Is that understood?”

  “Are you quite through?”

  “Get your shit together and get ready to ride.” Matt turned away from him and walked straight to Nick.

  “You about ready to pull out?”

  “Sittin’ on go.”

  “How do you want to exit the camp?”

  “We’ll walk the horses out one at a time, stayin’ as close to the face of that rock behind us as possible. I’ll go first, then the women and kids, then the men, with you personally escortin’ that damn sorry Tom Dalton so’s he don’t attempt to make a run for it.”

  Nick hesitated, then said, “Once we get clear of this valley, if Dalton acts up any, I’ll fall back with him and lose him. I can’t risk a shot.”

  “Whatever you think is best, Nick.”

  “Best would have been for his mama to have aborted him,” the guide said shortly.

  * * *

  “Eerie,” Jones said.

  The group had been gone for nearly half an hour and there had been no sounds of shots being fired or screaming or yelling. Matt figured the group had probably made the north end of the valley; Nick had said that he knew a way through what seemed to be a box canyon.

  “I think they made it,” Matt said. “Against all odds, I by God believe they made it out.” He fed more sticks to the fire he was tending. The three of them had each built a small fire to give the appearance of a large group still in the stockade, and they had deliberately exposed themselves several times, each time wearing a different article of clothing left behind by the campers. “Let’s start packing up our stuff, boys.”

  Matt divvied up the gear he had brought in among the three of them.

  “You damn sure came prepared for war,” Norm said, adding, “and ain’t I glad.”

  “Let’s get ready to go. At dusk we’ll slip out the south end and work our way over to the CWA camp. Whatever we can’t carry, we’ll cache. I’m going to turn the horses loose just before we leave. We can’t go crashing through the woods on horseback.”

  “Suits me,” Norm said. “My butt’s still sore from the ride in.”

  “No sign of this rain letting up,” Jones said, walking to the edge of the tarp-covered cooking area and looking out, letting the rain hit his face. “That’s good. Those guys over there were bitching and griping about how miserable they were when I left. They’ll really be down in the dumps when we hit them.”

  “You mind if I ask a question?” Norm glanced at him.

  “Why did I join that group?”

  Norm nodded.

  “You have to understand my state of mind when I joined. I was down about as far as a person can go. I’d been on the run, seeing my name in the paper and my face on TV. I was flat broke, living out of garbage cans and thrown-away food behind fast-food places, when I saw a flyer about some meeting a group was having. I went for the free food. At the meeting, there were maybe a hundred people. The food was good and there was plenty of it. The speech was . . . interesting. It really was. Emmett Trumball talked about how foreigners were taking American jobs away from Americans. He talked about the welfare state and about the decent, hardworking and law-abiding taxpayer subsidizing bastard babies who pop out of mothers like cans of beans off a belt and about mothers who refuse to work. He talked about the decline of morals in the nation and dirty songs and dirty films and dirty books and how the hands of the police are tied by liberals while criminals go free. And how the dope pushers are running loose and oftentimes when a black criminal is shot by the police there is a riot and looting immediately afterward. And I sat there and I thought: Jesus, this guy is right. Everything he is saying makes sense. If you take just those words, he’s right. So there I sat, for the first time in months full of good food, dry and warm, and I thought: what the hell? Why not? Why not join this group? What has the country I fought for, was wounded twice for, and paid taxes to for years done for me? They branded me a criminal for demanding justice. I lost my business, my home, and all my savings. I lost everything because the laws in this country are so fucked up as to be unbelievable.”

  He had not spoken emotionally; his had not been the voice of a zealot. He was telling it as he had experienced it.

  The three of them made their rounds and checked their perimeters. They were finishing packing when Jones said, “What the three of us are facing in these woods, that’s nothing, boys. What’s out there,” he pointed his finger, “in the so-called civilized areas of America, that scares me.”

  5

  The director of central intelligence pushed back his chair and stood up from his desk. He checked his watch. He had fifty minutes to make his luncheon engagement with the President. He buttoned his collar and straightened his tie before slipping into his suit coat. He felt lousy, worse than he had yesterday. He’d make an appointment to see his personal physician: he jotted it down on a pad on his desk. He took two steps from his desk and felt a tremendous weight slam into his chest. He went down on one knee, frantically clutching at a corner of his desk with his hands. He seemed to have no strength in his hands. They felt numb.

  Jesus! he thought, I’m having a heart attack.

  He managed to crawl around behind his desk and tried to reach the phone to punch a button, any button. He could not make his fingers do what his mind commanded. He felt a hard moment of panic at the thought of dying. He thought about his wife, his kids, his grandchildren. So much left undone; so much more in life he wanted to do. Too damn much pressure on him in this job.

  Then he thought of Matt Jordan. The project code-named the Unseen. The DCI managed to knock the phone from his desk to the floor. The receiver fell off. He punched a button for an open line.

  After a few seconds of anxiously calling “Sir? Sir?” his secretary ran into the office. She took one look at her boss and yelled for help.

  While waiting for the EMTs to get there, the office staff managed to loosen the DCI’s tie and put a throw pillow under his head. They noticed that one side of the man’s face seemed frozen.

  “Stroke,” one of the women said softly.

  “Choppers . . . Matt,” the DCI muttered, slurring the words.

  “What’d he say?” a woman asked.

  “Sounded like he said the chopper’s back.”

  “What chopper?”

  “In some operation, I guess.”

  “Jesus, what operation? We’ve got dozens going.”

  “Not too many involving helicopters. Richard would know.”

  “Christ, Richard is in ... where is he today? Greece, I think.”

  “Advise the President. Get on the horn and tell Richard we need him back here right now!”

  “... Seen,” the DCI muttered. “Seen . . . choppers Batt.”

  “I know what he’s saying,” a man said, stepping around and picking up the phone. He wants the choppers to pull back from the operation Matt’s on.”

  The DCI tried to shake his head, tried to speak
, tried to tell the man it most definitely was not what he wanted, but only the most grotesque sounds came from his mouth. He began losing consciousness.

  “That’s a joint Bureau-Agency operation,” another man spoke. “And one hell of a hot potato. I’m not about to give the order to pull those choppers out of that area. Husky’s in there.”

  The DCI was unconscious.

  “Well, somebody’s got to give the orders! God damn it, you heard the man. Those were his orders.”

  “I’m not so sure,” a woman said. “Maybe he was trying to say, ‘Choppers, Mats.’”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  She shrugged. “Beats me.”

  The number three man came rushing in and was brought up to date—at least as much as those in the room could tell him. “Has the President been told of this?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The EMTs were wheeling the DCI out of the room on a gurney, an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth.

  A file folder was placed in the number three man’s hands. He sat down and opened the file, reading slowly. “God damn!” he finally said.

  “See what I mean?” someone said.

  “Get me the President,” Number Three said.

  “What the hell is Operation Unseen?” the President asked.

  “I beg your pardon, sir?”

  “I said, what the hell is Operation Unseen?”

  “Sir, it says right here that this operation was given your official go-ahead.”

  “Get over here. And bring that file. This conversation is between us and us alone. You understand that?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Why are you handling this? Where is Richard?”

  “He’s . . . out of the country, doing an on-site inspection of stations.”

  “Who ordered that?”

  “You did, sir. It says so right here.”

  The President strung together some words that would have caused his supporters on the evangelical right to go into hysterics. “You get Richard back into this country and do it immediately. By the fastest possible method. You bring yourself and that file to me and to me alone. Now!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The President punched another button on his phone. “Cancel all my appointments for the rest of the day, please. And show Mr. Manetti in as soon as he arrives.”

  He leaned back in his chair. “What the hell is going on?” he muttered.

  The President read the report twice, then closed the folder, a look of pure astonishment on his face. “I never ordered the reopening of a National Guard base in Montana. I never heard of any tribe in the Primitive Area of Idaho. I never ordered the relocation of them. I never okayed this operation. I’ve never heard of any of this.”

  “Mr. President,” Manetti said, “I don’t know what to say. If you didn’t order this, who did?”

  “How the hell should I know? I want Richard in this office as soon as he lands at Andrews. I want Agent Simmons brought in from Denver! Matt Jordan. Matt Jordan. That name sure is familiar.”

  “You gave him a commendation when you were DCI, sir. After Operation Roses.”

  “Ah, yes! That Matt Jordan. Husky. Sure, good man. Why would the DCI want the helicopters recalled if he has a man in extreme danger in that area, Manetti?”

  “I don’t know, sir. We’re not sure exactly what he said. He was either saying ‘chopper’s back,’ or ‘choppers Matt!’ One or the other.”

  “‘Choppers, Matt,’ probably. He was trying to warn those in the office that he had a man in the field who was in danger. How is Husky doing in this operation?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  The President closed his eyes for a moment in frustration. Nothing ever changed around the Pickle Factory. Especially when Number One attempted to single-handedly run an operation. “How many helicopters are involved in this operation?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  The President swiveled in his chair, turning his back to the man to keep Manetti from seeing the anger and frustration building on his face. He calmed himself and slowly faced the number three man. “We appear to have an invisible government, Manetti. If you know what I mean.”

  “Yes, sir. Someone very powerful who is issuing orders in your name.”

  “Precisely. But it has to be more than one person.”

  “Yes, sir. May I offer a suggestion, sir?”

  “Of course.”

  “Pull in Husky’s contacts, at least by phone, and get as up to date as you can on what’s going on out there in the Primitive Area.”

  The President nodded. “You work out of this office. This office, and tape everything that is said. Now, then, who can we trust?”

  Manetti hesitated. “Some opinions and some observations, sir?”

  “Say what’s on your mind.”

  “One: we’ve obviously been compromised. Two: I’m not going to trust anybody in Washington except Richard. He’ll be landing in about twelve hours. Three: you don’t trust anybody on your staff until I can pull in some out-of-town personnel and start running extensive records’ checks. Four . . .”

  The President held up his hand. “What are we checking for?”

  “Family history.”

  “I see. You think this . . . tribe really exists?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You think the people issuing orders in my name are distant relatives of this tribe?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Jesus Christ! Go on.”

  “Four: I’m going to get on the horn and pull some polygraph and PSE experts in from our stations in South America. They’re Argentines and Brazilians. There’s no way they could be related to these . . . Unseen beings. Five: I can have them in country by dawn. With your permission, we start with your personal staff, beginning with your chief of staff.”

  “You have my permission.”

  “I’ll get started.”

  “Manetti?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “For the time being, you and I are the only ones who know about this.”

  “Yes, sir. The Secret Service, sir?”

  “Not until they’re cleared.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  * * *

  Jones had been listening to a small radio left behind by one of the kids. He walked over to Matt. “Did you know the director of central intelligence, Matt?”

  “I’ve met him. Why?”

  “He just had a heart attack. He’s unconscious and hasn’t spoken a word since he was stricken. According to the news I just heard, the President canceled all appointments for today and something very hush-hush is going on.”

  “Jesus!” Matt said. “What else is going to happen?”

  “Something we need to know, Matt?” Norm asked.

  “The DCI—Director of Central Intelligence—took over this operation when the political heat got too much for the number two man. He’s the only one back East that, so far as I know, has any knowledge of this mess.”

  “So . . . we might really be in trouble?” Norm opined.

  “You’ve got that right. And you can bet that Cathy has heard the same news, or someone has heard it and got word to her. Let’s cut out, boys. I’ll fix the corral gate so when the horses get hungry or thirsty, they can leave easily enough.”

  “God damn!” Jones said, looking toward the valley below. “They’re almost ready to cross the stream now, Matt. In force. And what are those? The links are with them!”

  “Hit the timber, boys.”

  “Stand and fight?”

  Matt took one quick glance through the mist and rain. It looked like a hundred shapes crossing the stream. “Hell, no!”

  * * *

  Dan intercepted Nick and the group. “I figured you’d take this trail, old son. Come on, we’ll head for that old mining complex by the river.”

  “Dan, I got to get these people to our kin so’s they can get underground to safety.”

  The old man shook his head. “No g
o, son. Breakaways are waiting to ambush you. Spread out all over the timber. You’d never get through. I got that information out of one early this morning.”

  “How’d you leave him?”

  “Dead.”

  Nick stared at him, waiting.

  “All bets are off for us and for anyone else who supports the relocation plans, partner. The breakaway told me the word’s gone out nationwide. There ain’t nothing any of us in here can do to prevent a bloodbath.”

  Dennis had worked his way to where the men were meeting. “But the breakaways can’t win,” he said, shifting in the saddle in an attempt to ease his sore butt. “They will eventually be destroyed. All they can do with this violence is poison the minds of the public against those tribe members who want peace.”

  “That’s been pointed out to them. They don’t seem to care. The wild urge is like dope, it seems. Their defense is that the gods made them the way they are, and man ain’t got no right to try to change them.”

  “I could tear that defense all to pieces in any court of law.”

  “You want the chance?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The tribe’s gonna need a good lawyer once they get on the outside.”

  “Mr. Watson, it would be a pleasure.”

  “They’ll be pleased. Come on, folks. We got us a long and hairy ride to get to the old mine.”

  * * *

  “Gone!” Monroe yelled in frustration. “The bastards is gone!”

  “They didn’t get far,” Cathy said to a normal-appearing man who, with a dozen others, had joined the breakaways the night before.

  “We’ll catch them,” the man said. He looked out over the valley. “Two more groups coming in. Look.”

  Cathy turned, a cruel glint in her eyes. Her lips peeled back in a snarl. At least twenty-five mounted men and women were crossing the valley. She fought back the wild animal urge that welled up within her and said, “That means the region is sealed. And that means something else too.”

  The man smiled. His eyes were savage. “Yes. Do we do it now?”