The House That Jack Built

by Patrick Ford

  Aussie Hero of Bien Long to Advise US Army

  He gazed at the article, and the name Jack Riordan leapt out at him, not Major Riordan, but Lt. Colonel Riordan now. He would be visiting the Pentagon and Fort Benning in the last week of September. Allah Akbar, you have brought my enemy to me. Praise your name. Soon I will be with you in Paradise.

  Chapter 14

  Heartland

  Jack hired a car in Denver and headed east on Interstate 70. He had a week. Before he had left Australia, he had arranged some meetings with the USDA and he intended to visit machinery dealers. He drove through eastern Colorado into Kansas, and then north to the small town of McCook, Nebraska. He passed through some of the most fertile and productive land in America. He saw huge centre-pivot irrigation systems, drawing water from underground aquifers. There were crops of wheat and sunflowers.

  He stopped for lunch in a small town in Kansas, purchased a sandwich and sat in the town park to relax and enjoy his break. Before long, he noticed several memorials nearby. Closer examination revealed the park to be a war memorial park, dating back to the Civil War. He found the memorial to the fallen in Vietnam. This little town, no bigger than Goondiwindi, had thirty-two names of men killed in Vietnam. In Goondiwindi, they had lost one. Jack understood now the depth of the opposition to the pointless war in Indochina. There would be no victory there. The Vietnamese people were not interested in who won. They just wanted the killing to stop. It seemed the American man in the street wanted the same.

  Here in McCook, Jack visited the USDA offices and met with a young agronomist, Calvin Middleton. Calvin was an expert in wheat growing and the efficient use of water. He introduced Jack to the new theory of no-till farming. This theory postulated growing crops in soil that lay undisturbed since the last planting. The crop stubble was retained, not burnt as it was in Australia. The stubble had an essential role in water conservation. It covered the soil surface, preventing evaporation, and it reflected sunlight, keeping the soil cooler and reducing evaporation further.

  Middleton took him out to several farms to demonstrate. In adjacent fields—one mulched with stubble, the other bare—it was obvious the theory was working.

  “Why doesn’t every farmer use this system?” Jack asked.

  “Apart from the fact that our farmers are very conservative, and are addicted to the plow, the main problem is the lack of appropriate machinery to handle the stubble at planting time. We have good hoe drills, but they provide no weed control.”

  “Then what is the future for no-till farming?”

  “I doubt it will be adopted widely until a cheap herbicide is developed to allow weed control in the fallow. Once that occurs, the sprayer will replace the cultivator. I can’t see that happening for another ten years. Another benefit of no-till is that it greatly reduces tractor hours and fuel consumption. If we are faced with big increases in fuel prices, then that would be an incentive.” They adjourned to a bar late in the afternoon. After Calvin had left, Jack began to talk with locals, particularly farmers, about the new theory. Some were dismissive. Their fathers and grandfathers had farmed the same way for a long time. Why should they change? Others were more accepting. Jack exchanged addresses with some of these. Once home he would cultivate correspondence to keep his finger on the pulse of prairie farming. Jack steered the conversation in the direction of the war. Again, there was a difference of opinion, from outright support—shoot the hippy, homo lefties—to complete opposition.

  Jack spoke to one man. “I lost my son,” he said. “My neighbour’s boy came home in a wheelchair. Now his father has to wipe his ass for him. We have lost about twenty from this county alone. There is no way we will win. Even if we do, we will be seen by the world to have supported a corrupt dictatorship. That’s not what America is about.”

  One of the younger men stepped forward. “I am a veteran,” he said. “I think we should pull out. We are achieving nothing. You Aussies had some troops there, didn’t you?”

  “We still have,” said Jack. “But I don’t know for how much longer. Our people at home are sick of it as well.”

  Another said. “There was an Aussie there who made a hero of himself, led a bunch of our boys in a battle. We kicked ass big time. I can’t remember his name. Did you know about that?” Jack shook his head. There was nothing to be gained from talking about that.

  * * * *

  In Waterloo, Iowa, Jack visited the John Deere factory. He was interested in seeing the latest model tractors. Released here, they would appear in Australia six months later. He was particularly interested in talking about special machinery suitable for the new no-till farming systems under research in Kansas and Nebraska. Deere had some things in the pipeline, but nothing definite. One of the engineers said to him on the side: “This is off the record, but you should have a look at some of the smaller manufacturers. Deere is what we call a main line manufacturer. We would like to have every machine, for every purpose a green one. However, the development cost for a small market of innovators is far too high. When a good machine appears and is accepted by the wider market, then we will get on board with our own version.”

  “Can you tell me where they are?”

  “The Canadians seem to have the jump on us at this stage. Perhaps you should go see Morris in Yorkton, Saskatchewan. They seem to have some good products.” Jack had not planned to go there, but thought he might be able to spare a day.

  He made his way to Chicago and turned in his hired car. He phoned the Baker house from O’Hare Airport. Everyone was in good form, enjoying the family reunion. Jacqui wanted to know when Daddy was coming home.

  “Tell her tomorrow. I will be at Logan at eleven o’clock.” He found a room at the airport and in the morning boarded his flight to Boston.

  He had learned a lot. He was impressed with the idea of no-till farming. Anything that could save soil moisture in the baking heat of Ballinrobe was worth consideration.

  Chapter 15

  The Face of God

  The man now known as Luis Ortega stepped from the train at Union Station in Washington, DC. He had made a long slow journey to get here, from Montana to Chicago to Washington. He preferred the train. For a start, the security at airports was much tighter. Secondly, he had plenty of time.

  It was Tuesday. He knew Riordan was expected to arrive on Friday. The infidel newspapers were very helpful. They had published his entire itinerary. He would attend a reception on Friday night, use the weekend for leisure, and attend a meeting at the Pentagon on Monday. He had plenty of time to make his plans. In a down at heel suburb, he found a decrepit rooming house. He took a room for a week although he did not intend to stay that long. He hired a car using his Canadian ID and paid with a false Amex card. Tomorrow he would begin his search for a suitable target.

  He prayed many times a day. He asked for the strength to do what he had to do. He would have his revenge on Riordan, and he would immolate himself and some significant target belonging to the Great Satan, Allah Akbar. This sacrifice would annul his fatwa. He would enter the gates of Paradise.

  * * * *

  Susan was waiting for him as he emerged from the gate at Logan. She kissed him as though he had been away for months. How good he tasted.

  Jack kissed her back. Then he noticed she was alone. “Where is everyone? Where are the children? There was an anxious look on his face.

  “They’re fine. Marci and Sarah have them. They decided we needed some time on our own. Come on, my darling husband, we have work to do.” She took him to the Buick and headed for downtown Boston.

  “Where are we going?”

  “You’ll see. Sit back and enjoy the drive.” After a while, she turned into the entrance to the Madison Hotel. They had stayed here almost two years ago when he had come to Worcester to take Jacqui and Susan home. It was firmly planted in his memory. “You little schemer,” he said, “What a lovely idea.”

  They entered the lobby and checked in, and then walked to the elevators. The
Bar and Grill was doing a roaring trade, but Jack wasn’t interested in food. He was interested in the gorgeous bottom in its short skirt that was leading him to their room.

  “I even booked the same suite we had last time,” said Susan.

  Once in the room, he took her in his arms. The old electricity buzzed and crackled around them. They kissed for a long time. Finally, Susan broke the embrace.

  “Not so fast, Jack Riordan. You will be acting the tourist this afternoon. Tonight is special. You must save your strength.”

  Jack grinned. He knew his beautiful wife would be more than loving tonight. God, how lucky he was! He showered away the grime of travel and they went down for some lunch. In the Grill, they ordered cold beer and the chef’s salad. Both were delicious. Then they began an afternoon of adventure. Hand in hand, like sixteen year olds, they walked the streets of Boston. They strolled in parks, they saw memorials, and they stood for a long time looking over the bay.

  “Daddy was stationed here for a while during the war,” said Susan “He loved it. He met Momma here. They were so happy. I guess she couldn’t face up to life without him.”

  They walked the Freedom trail, examined the memorials to the War of Independence. They had coffee. Susan would not let Jack eat. “We will be having the best meal you have ever had tonight, and afterwards you have a baby to make.”

  Susan took a long time to dress, barring Jack from the bathroom. When she emerged, she drew an involuntary gasp of appreciation from him. She wore a black cocktail dress, a simple thing that fitted her figure so perfectly he could see she wore little under it. She wore Jack’s favourite Hopi silver necklace with the turquoise stone and its matching earrings. She had worn those the first time they had made love. She looked so delicious he wanted to embrace her immediately, but she gave him her special smile, the one she kept for only him. “Look now, touch later,” she said, leading him out of the room.

  Dinner was at the Island Creek Oyster Bar, one of Boston’s finest, where they were settled at a discreet table with a window view. “We should try one of those Californian wines they say are so good,” Jack suggested. Susan chose one from the Napa Valley.

  They ate New England clam chowder, Shrimp, and the famous Lobster Roll. They could find no room for desert. While they ate, Jack asked Susan, “How is your family visit going?”

  Her wonderful eyes sparkled. She was so happy. “Oh, Jack, what a good idea it was to come back. Mom is glad to see us so happy, and she loves the children so much. I think she has recovered now and can get on with her life. She lost a lot of money when Worcester Electronic crashed, but she has recovered most of it. Now she is free to do as she pleases, but she says she won’t leave Worcester again. All of her friends are there. She does want to go to Albuquerque for a visit, but I do not think she wants to visit Australia again. I guess she still has bad memories.”

  “What about Sarah and the boys?”

  “She is happy with her work, and she and Marci seem to be living in harmony. James and Anthony are smart little boys and seem happy enough. She will always have a great sadness, though, for there is no hope of reconciliation with John. Besides, he has remarried. Sarah had a promising relationship going, but the prospect of raising someone else’s children proved too daunting for him. It is hard for a woman to maintain such a relationship when she has little children. Most men will run a mile to get out of her way.”

  “She could always come back to Australia. There are plenty of handsome young devils like me there.”

  “No one is like you, Jack Riordan, and you are mine forever and ever.”

  They walked a few blocks to help their meal digest, then finally caught a cab and returned to the Madison. As they approached the elevators, Jack felt the electric charge begin to build. By the time they had closed their door, it was almost too much to bear. They kissed. Jack could feel her body moulding to him as they clung to each other. God, he thought, every time it gets better.

  Susan drew back and her dress seemed to melt away, a gossamer thin bundle of cloth on the ground around her feet. He took her to the bed, marveling at all that soft smooth skin and her perfect breasts. Once again, her eyes drew him in until he was falling…falling…into her sweet embrace, her warm and special place.

  * * * *

  Luis Ortega began his search after morning prayers. For several hours, he drove around the city. He eliminated the White House; security was far too tight. He made the same assessment of the Capitol Building. He drove to the Pentagon and parked in the public car park. There was only one door for public access. He saw people lined up to present their IDs. There was armed security there, discreetly hiding, but his trained eye soon picked some of them out. This place was hopeless.

  Back in town, he walked about the various public buildings. The Smithsonian was a possibility, but was it significant enough? He looked at the Lincoln Memorial. It was the best so far. The only security he could see were the NPS Rangers manning the entry. Most were women; this one would be easy.

  He decided to take a couple of days and check out Fort Benning. An army post would be a significant target, especially one as big as this one. Fort Benning, dating back to World War One. It housed, among other things, the Infantry Training Centre. Most of the ground troops heading to Vietnam did their training there. The Military Area was enormous, thousands of acres. It was both a town and a military base. There were sports fields, shopping malls, and enough housing for the more than 120,000 people who called it home.

  Luis spent several hours driving the roads that allowed public access, noting the entry points manned by alert looking MPs. There seemed no easy way in and he did not have details of the layout or importance of the buildings. It was not a prospect.

  Back in Washington, he narrowed the target down to the Smithsonian or the Lincoln Memorial. He chose the latter. It was of greater significance to the infidels, it would suit his dual purpose. Firstly, revenge on Riordan, whose actions had disgraced him and bought the fatwa down upon him, and then the destruction of a special edifice of the Great Satan. Now, he had to gather his weapons. First, he needed a pistol.

  * * * *

  The Riordans made their goodbyes to Susan’s family. As Jack had predicted, there were tears aplenty. He held Jacqui in his arms as she sobbed. “Daddy, why can’t James and Anthony come home with us? They could help with the chickens and they could ride Quartpot. I want them to come home to play with me.”

  “Darling girl,” he said, “their Mommy would miss them too much. It is such a long way to our house.”

  “Then Sarah should come too. We have lots of rooms.”

  Sarah looked at him and smiled wistfully. Maybe, he thought, maybe she just might come back one day.

  Susan had spent a long time with her mother. Both women wore a look of serenity, tinged with sadness. “Momma,” Susan said, “it has been wonderful to see you again and to know our family has been united once more. I hope you can come to see us. You would like it at Balliinrobe. It is so peaceful. I hope we can be regular visitors to you. Maybe a white Christmas would be good for Jack.”

  Sarah drove them to Logan. Soon they were in the air, headed for Washington.

  * * * *

  Luis found a string of gun and outdoor stores in a rundown part of town. He walked along the street looking at store after store, trying to establish the best one to approach. At the first two, he learnt all about the local regulations and the paper work required for a legal purchase. They seemed to be too law abiding for him. No offer of a quick, below-the-counter weapon was forthcoming. He purchased a large Bowie knife and carried on down the street. This one showed promise. Behind the counter was a large man with a goatee, an earring, and a closely shaven head. He wore a black tee shirt and olive drab army pants tucked into paratroop boots. He had a chain of barbed wire tattooed around his neck. His arms and bulging biceps were heavily tattooed with skulls, swastikas, and ‘White Power’ slogans. He looked at Luis.

  “Yeah?”


  Luis decided to use a heavily accented voice. “I’ma want the pistola. I have mucho dinero.”

  “You talk funny. You ain’t one of them raghead terrorists are you?”

  “No I am Españolé. I am tourist.”

  “I can’t help you, but I might know someone who can. How much bread you got?”

  “Bread?”

  “Money, shithead. Dinero.”

  “I have five thousand of your dollars.”

  “You got wheels?”

  “You mean automobile?”

  “What the fuck do you think I mean, asshole, a scooter?”

  “Si, I have car.”

  The big man wrote something on a slip of paper. “Ok, here’s what you do. Go to this place. Midnight. Knock on the green door in back. Come alone and bring your money, ¿entiendo?”

  “Si.”

  Luis thought he could recognise a setup when he saw one. He had not worked all those years for the Saracen only to be taken down by a dumb white supremacist with an earring. No matter, it would get him the pistol he needed and maybe a bit more.

  Around eleven, Luis parked his car a block from the nominated address and took a covert look at it. The neighbourhood was lower than low. Graffiti and gang slogans decorated every surface, along with declarations of black power. There was garbage all along the streets. A couple of burnt-out cars stood by the curb. There were many boarded-up, broken windows. Luis approached the building carefully. It looked like an abandoned tenement. The front door and all the ground floor windows were covered up with plywood, but at the back he found a near new green roller door. He made himself scarce and settled down to watch and wait as he had done a thousand times before in a thousand different places.

  Just before midnight, a jacked up 4x4 pickup arrived in a blast of sound. The big man from the gun store stepped down, crossed the lane to the green door and rapped loudly. A small personal access door opened and he slipped inside. Luis quickly ran to the door and listened.