by R G Ainslee
"No … No one knows you are leaving except me."
It sank in. I’m a fugitive from my own people. "Where do I go from there?"
"You will fly to Paris. Here is your Canadian passport, Mr. McGregor."
A quick flip through pages: the document contained all the appropriate stamps and visas. A sense of finality began to seep in.
"In Paris, you make a connecting flight to Montreal and then you are on your own. The envelope contains enough money in for you to return home."
Home … from Montreal, I can do it. Go back to Huachuca and Mack will help me straighten things out, it’s a chance, gotta take it.
"Aren’t you're taking a big chance."
"I take responsibility for the complications … a stupid blunder with the Canadian embassy. I hope this will correct my mistake."
"Lara you're an amazing woman, I've never met anyone like you. Wish I could tell you how important your help has been, but I can't. I'm sure you understand."
"I assure you, I appreciate the situation," she paused, "I have one last question though."
"About what?"
"Was it you who fired the shot?"
I looked at her, puzzled. "I don’t—"
"The helicopter?"
"How did…?"
She cocked her head and gazed at me with a smile. "I told you. It is my job to know."
"Now I understand why you're still single."
She laughed heartily and in the rear-view mirror, I detected a hint of a smile from the men in the front seat.
We passed through the airport gates to the tarmac. A small jet transport with French Navy markings, a Dassault Falcon, ready for take-off, the door open, waiting to take me away.
The Citroën pulled up beside the steps to the open hatch. The man in the passenger seat jumped out and handed a large pouch to a crewmember.
Lara leaned towards me and spoke softly, "Good-bye Ross, you are a good man. I wish I had met you before Lisette, but now you belong to her and her alone. This is for Lisette and for me." She kissed me affectionately on the lips and told me to go.
I barely made it up the steps, my eyes clouded with tears. I glanced back — she was gone.
Chapter 28 ~ Arizona
Wednesday, 1 March: Southern Arizona
The journey to Arizona lasted four long days. In the Seychelles, the French crew chief helped me past authorities and into the civilian terminal. The Air France 747 left after ten p.m. and included a stopover in Djibouti, a small newly independent country sandwiched between Somalia and Ethiopia.
The flight landed in Paris in time for breakfast. The first available connection left late afternoon and arrived in Montreal eight hours later. The trip culminated with a train from Montreal to New York, a flight to Phoenix, and a bus ride to Sierra Vista.
The trip gave ample time to reflect on my relationship with Lisette. With her it was different, not a case of red-hot passion, something deeper and meaningful. It happened once before, with Lydia. We had attended the same schools and always been best friends. More than simple teen-age infatuation, we assumed we would be together forever.
I felt the same way with Lisette. We had a bond forged in common tragedies, we understood and needed each other, it just seemed right. Lisette claimed God brought us together to help us heal. I wasn't so sure. It was the devil. Marsden was responsible. My feelings were conflicted. Without him, we would have never met. I decided not to try to figure it out. Just live every day. I had cheated death. Every new day was a gift.
Painful memories of the days after the tragedy, on the road to Las Cruces, returned mixed with soul searching and self-pity. Uncle Rex’s intervention saved the day. A rough no nonsense man — you had to be to endure as a cattle rancher on the dry eastern New Mexico plains — he told me in no uncertain terms to get my act together. Somehow, his message got through. I even asked Joe, the old Apache ranch hand, what he thought. His answer: It is what it is. Live with it or it will destroy you. Joe was a man of few words, but his wisdom always caused me to pause and think.
Rather than head directly to the office, I decided to go home and clean up. The first thing I noticed, after the cab deposited me at the cabin, was the open garage door. The broken lock lay on the ground, the garage empty, my beloved Triumph TR-4 missing.
Confused and angry, I looked around. The yellow stray cat sat by the food bowl.
"Some guard dog you turned out to be."
Enraged, disgusted, and just plain pissed, I ate, showered, and collapsed into bed. I wanted to telephone Lara and find out if she contacted Lisette, but it was nighttime in Kenya.
Thursday, 2 March: Southern Arizona
Woke up early, made coffee, and called Lara’s apartment. Took forever to make a connection, ten rings, no answer, an hour wasted. A second pot of Folgers, a call to the French embassy, only a half-hour to connect. An officious voice informed me Madame Dumont is not available and hung up.
Fortunately, my Colnago bicycle was stored in the cabin. The big yellow cat indignantly noted the empty food bowl as I pushed the bike out the back door. He could wait.
At the front gate, Sergeant Demetrius Jones waved me through unimpeded with a wave and a smile. A good thing, I carried no identification.
At the office, Mack Gibson's first comment was, "What took you so long?" He didn’t seem surprised to see me.
"Would have been quicker, but some SOB stole my car."
"Your TR?"
"Yeah, the bastard broke the lock and it's gone, probably over the border by now."
"How did you get here?"
"Rode the bike."
"No, I mean from Nairobi. We received a message from Wilson saying you flew the coop. The ambassador created a big stink when he found out. How'd you manage to give them the slip?"
"Sorry, can't say. If I don't tell you, they can't make you divulge what you don't know."
"That's fine, but you'll need to explain eventually if you want your old job back. Do you understand?"
"Really don't care. I've been hung out to dry and—"
"Wilson and I promised we would back you up and we will, but you got to trust us."
"I trust you Mack, but—"
"No buts about it Ross, you're in deep—"
"And sinking. I appreciate your efforts and realize you won't let me down, but one lesson I've learned is — it all flows downhill and guess who's standing at the bottom."
Mack shook his head. "Okay, just got here yesterday myself. Have a seat and I'll bring you up you date on what we've come up with. By the way, Michaels flew back with me to help review the Cochise data. Let me call him in here." He rose from his chair and eyed my shirt. "You’re bleeding."
I glanced down to my side. An obvious wet spot shown through from the bullet wound. Must have torn the scab loose on the bike ride. It was beginning to hurt. "Just a scratch, nothing."
"What happened? You okay?" Mack eyed me with a skeptical look.
I had cleaned it before leaving on the bike, afraid it might be infected. "Might need some anti-biotic, it don’t seem to be healing too fast."
"I’ll take you over to the infirmary."
"No. Can’t actually, it’s a bullet wound."
Mack bit his lower lip but didn’t ask. "Okay, go to the lab, get the first aid kit and put on a new bandage, there’s some strong ointment in the box. I’ll see if I can find you some pills. You’ll need a clean shirt too."
"Got one in my locker." I always kept a change of clothes in case I returned from the field and didn’t have a chance to go home before going out.
* * *
Michaels was in Mack’s office when I returned. The expression on his face was one of total surprise. I acted normal and he posed no questions. Mack played along stone-faced.
Mack and Michaels spent the next hour reviewing what they discussed on the trip to Fort Meade from Nairobi. Mack now agreed with my theory, Michaels remained unconvinced about the deception angle. The higher ups at NSA concurred with Michael
s' assessment. Wilson was open to either explanation.
Michaels said, "We all realize we'll not be able to discover the real truth, it lies on the bottom of the Indian Ocean. A concrete resolution of the problem isn't possible. As I indicated, they've instructed us to pursue the Cochise Project angle. And that's where we're at."
He didn’t tell me anything I didn’t know. One avenue of hope left. I queried Mack, "When will Marsden be available for further interviews?"
"Soon. Right now, he's on his way to Diego Garcia. They'll put him on a flight to the States when he arrives."
I glanced at Michaels and smiled. "Great. Just remember, I get first crack at him." We had unfinished business.
Before Mack could respond, I enquired, "What about my situation?" I had lingering doubts and wasn’t sure the way Wilson would react to my unauthorized excursion.
"I'll call the colonel and tell him you've turned up." Michaels' gave me an inquisitive look. Mack told him, "Don't ask."
"Okay, but first I gotta find some wheels. All I got now is my bike." Glanced at Michaels and said, "Some SOB stole my car while I was gone."
Mack pitched his car keys. "Go do what you need to do and get back ASAP, you can help us review the data. We've got a lot of work to do."
* * *
Later in the afternoon, after filing a theft report with the Sheriff', contacting my insurance agent, and arranging a loan at the credit union, I made a deal on a used 1975 Toyota pick-up at a lot in Sierra Vista.
When I walked back into the office at ten till six, Mack was still at his desk. I slid his keys across the desk, took a seat, and told him about my new ride.
Mack nodded with approval and asked, "How’s the side?" He pulled a bottle of pills out of his desk and pitched them to me.
"Thanks. It’s better, but still stings a bit."
"Right after you left, I called Wilson and informed him his prodigal son has returned."
I didn’t like the expression on his face. "What'd he say?"
"He'll be here tomorrow afternoon."
"Was he angry?" When you do something out of the ordinary, like going AWOL, the brass tends to get upset. That’s just the way it works. Anyway, he shouldn’t complain, at least the airfare didn’t come out of his budget.
"Hate to be in your shoes."
"Sounds like I'm SOL."
Mack gave a hint of a smile. "Don't worry. Maybe he can find you a new job on Shemya."
I’d been to Shemya, the next to the last island in the Aleutian chain. It's colder than a penguin's butt this time of year. "No thanks, I'll just … hope for the best."
Mack glanced at the clock and told me to leave and rest up for tomorrow.
* * *
On the way home, I stopped at Julio's Ice House at the turn-off to the cabin. The small grocery store and filling station, one of my regular stops. Needed to restock on basic supplies and gathered a loaf of bread, milk, peanut butter, a bag of Cheetos, and a six-pack of Modelo Especial, all essentials for a single man.
"Well Cheech, guess this is all I need." I always called Julio Cheech because of his uncanny resemblance to the guy in the movies.
"Hey man, you gonna need more than one six pack tonight."
"Do I look that bad?"
"No, you'll need some for your friends. They looked thirsty to me."
"Friends? — What’cha mean?"
"This afternoon two guys stopped and wanted directions to your cabin."
"When?"
"Couple hours ago. They bought some Orange Crush and headed up the canyon. Should be waiting for you."
Sometimes a little voice tells you trouble is coming — an instinct, the best detector of danger. If it doesn’t feel right, it's probably not. This didn't feel right.
"Not expecting anyone. What did they look like?"
"One guy was Mexican, the other guy spoke Spanish, but different, sorta like the Puerto Rican's I served with in the Air Force. You know those guys?"
"Can't say that I do. What are they driving?"
"An old Ford Bronco, maybe grey or green. Didn't notice the plates, but it's gotta be local. What's the matter, they some kind of problem … bill collectors or process servers?"
"Could be." I nodded in agreement. "If they come back don't tell’em you've seen me. Okay?"
"Sure, just like Sergeant Shultz … I know nothing."
"No seriously, play it cool with them. I'll drive up and find out what they want. Thanks."
"Any time. You can count on me." He glanced out the front window. "Hey man, you got a new ride. Where's the little red car?"
"Some SOB stole it while I was gone. You didn't see it, did you?"
"No, not during the day, I would’ve noticed. They must have grabbed it during the night." He arched his thick black eyebrows. "Bet it's across the border by now."
"Yeah, that’s what I figure."
I cruised past the cabin at a normal speed. Everything seemed okay and there was no sign of the Bronco. Decided to continue up the canyon and check things out. Maybe they're insurance adjusters. But I only filed the claim this afternoon.
Fifty yards later, a light grey Ford Bronco sat in the woods off the road, a man in the front seat. The shade made it too dark to identify or even describe him. I drove on past, looking out of the corner of my eye.
Jim Roger's place sat about a quarter mile away. He lived in Tucson and only used the cabin on weekends. The driveway was empty. I pulled in, parked, and walked around back past Jim’s archery range to the dry streambed. Jim was an avid bow hunter and I practiced with him on occasion. In a few minutes, the sun would set behind the ridge and I could slip down the wooded canyon undetected.
* * *
The Bronco came into view. Twilight gave just enough illumination to make out a man's silhouette. I continued through the woods to a place across the road from my cabin and settled in to assess the situation. Normally, I would have walked right in, regardless of the circumstances. However, the events of the last few weeks had made me more cautious and even paranoid. Who are these guys?
A flash of light from the garage interrupted my thoughts, a match lighting a cigarette. Not a pro thing to do on surveillance, even I understood that. Someone was inside, waiting for me. My worst fears confirmed. Somebody knew who I was and where I lived.
I made my way back up the canyon to the pick-up and drove back down the road, past the Bronco, past my cabin, past Julio's Ice House, and into town.
Mack was still at the office. I briefed him on the situation and he called Wilson at Fort Meade on a secure line. Wilson was just about to leave. The colonel listened to my story and instructed us not to take any action until he arrived. Mack insisted I stay overnight at his place.
Friday, 3 March: Ft. Huachuca, Arizona
Early in the afternoon, Mack sent me out to meet Wilson at the airfield. I was surprised to find him accompanied by two men dressed in civilian clothes. Captain Breyer I recognized, the other a short wiry man introduced as Air Force Master Sergeant Ritter.
"Thanks for meeting us." He gave my yellow Toyota pick-up the once over. "Colonel Gibson told me about your car."
"A fitting end to a disastrous few weeks."
"Don’t be too hasty to characterize Raven-One a failure. I believe we made significant progress."
"How do you figure?"
"First, Marsden is in custody." Wilson glanced at his expensive Rolex, an aviator model. "He's due to arrive at the Norfolk Navy Brig as we speak. Secondly, I am confident we discovered a new Soviet initiative. The energy burst weapon. In addition, your SA-4 missile sighting confirms other intelligence relating to an upgrade to the Ganef air defense system. When all is said and done, Raven-One will be considered a success."
"You plan to pursue the Cochise Project angle?"
"Colonel Gibson assured me he will thoroughly examine the concept even though he doubts its veracity."
"How’ll we handle this new development?"
"Captain Breyer and Sergeant Ri
tter will deal with the matter." He glanced at the Toyota. "We need to find them some transport. Don’t think we can all fit into your vehicle."
"Sorry, thought you’d be alone."
"No problem. — Sergeant — find us a car."
"What about the other security issues?"
"The situation with Alfred Oldham is unresolved. He returned to Huachuca the day after your flight and is currently assigned in an un-classified support role." He noticed my frown and anticipated the next question. "His polygraph results proved inconclusive."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"The examination revealed no evidence we can substantiate either way. Captain Breyer is working on it and I am trying to light a fire under NSA to pursue the matter more vigorously." He gave my truck another look and told the captain, "Wait here for the Sergeant. Brannan and I will go on in his vehicle."
Inside the pickup, I inquired, "What about my status?"
"That’s a different kettle of fish. Certain people at NSA want your scalp. You can guess who they are."
Didn’t have to guess. "Sounds like I'm outta luck. Mack told me you might have an opening on Shemya."
"Shemya?" He paused and let out a hearty laugh. "No, I bet that would be a step up from what your friends at Meade have in mind." A serious visage returned. "I have been given a green light to proceed with the Special Signals Research Project concept and am building a team. The agency directors granted me a wide degree of latitude in staffing the operation. Are you interested?"
After a moment’s hesitation, I offered a non-committal, "Perhaps."
"If you choose to join, you will be a team member, not a lone wolf. Your propensity to buck the system contributed to the mess you're in now. Do you understand?"
"Yes sir. Let me get this straight, if I sign up with you, I'm off the hook?"
"That's correct. You won't have to worry about your situation. I'll handle the matter. However, you will need to be careful in the future. Am I clear?"
"Right … let me think it over." I wasn't sure. Things were happening too fast, none of my options seemed satisfactory. I wondered if I could trust the colonel, after all, he was an officer, and I was on the low end of the totem pole. All I really wanted to do was go back to my old routine.
