The Brad West Files

by Fritz Galt

  “Sacrilege.” Earl grabbed her by the hand and helped her into the cave. Inside, he nearly stumbled over a low rock stage.

  “This is an ancient temple called a heiau.” Yapo settled down in the center. “I’m more familiar with how Hawaiians cured medical problems. But we will attempt to contact Pele and see if she can affect the seas.”

  He had May’s father sit in the rocks beside him. Together they faced the opening to the sea.

  He held Yu’s hand and began, “The universal life force is flowing into me now. I feel it.” He leaned toward Yu. “We can wish to hurt others, but we must sincerely need it.”

  “Both are true,” Yu whispered back.

  “Fine. Yet bear in mind that we must state this in a positive, nonviolent way. Now, who will receive the spirit of Pele?”

  “Brad West,” May said. “He has to beat up the water god.”

  Yapo closed his eyes and concentrated. “Repeat three times after me: I ask that Pele enter Brad West’s mind, and that together with the water god they can quell the waters and bring safety and calm to the world.”

  Earl heard a strange voice emanate from deep within the old man as he repeated the phrase three times.

  Outside, the wind and rain did not abate. Instead they grew stronger.

  Jade left Earl’s side and walked over to May, who squatted on the rocks shivering. “Don’t worry,” she told her petite friend. “Brad is strong.”

  Chapter 42

  The concierge at Brad’s hotel had a walking map of Waikiki, but no roadmap. “Try the gift shop.”

  Brad waded into the gift shop. There were fake lava ashtrays, grass skirts made of cellophane, airbrushed T-shirts, and dashboard hula dancers. At the back, he found books, including a road map of the island.

  He found Diamond Head on the map, and then the gated community at its base where Terry Smith’s estate was located. Aside from infiltrating the community from the road, the only way to reach the house was from the summit of the volcano. Once he reached the top of Diamond Head, he would have to climb down rock by rock into Smith’s backyard.

  Unfortunately, there was no road up to the summit. He would have to hike up from the crater.

  He stepped outside and hailed a cab. “Can you get me to the Diamond Head crater?”

  The tubby native leaned over the seat. “Both ways?”

  Brad shook his head. There was no coming back from where he was going.

  “I’ll have to charge you double.”

  “Fine. I’ll pay it.”

  So they roared off.

  Originally named after the forehead of an ahi fish, Diamond Head looked like a long ridge in profile. In fact, it was the lower remnants of a large, cone-shaped volcano. What bathers saw from Waikiki was what remained of the rim of its enormous crater.

  They drove past the sign announcing “Diamond Head State Monument.” A paved road took them upward and then through a tunnel. When they emerged on the other side, they were in what was once a cauldron of hot lava.

  Brad stepped out of the car and paid the extra fare.

  “It’s a long way back,” the cabbie said.

  “That’s okay. I’m good.”

  He saw a trailhead leading up inside the crater. This was going to take longer than he had planned. Surrounded by steep cliffs and sparse, desert vegetation, the place felt like another planet. Old military buildings were the only reminder that he was still on planet earth.

  He passed a sign that described the history of the park.

  In 1908, the U.S. military dug the two-lane Kapahulu Tunnel through the north wall of the crater. Then they began to carve out a series of batteries facing outward in all directions. The vistas along two coasts of the island of Oahu gave them an ideal location to provide coastal defense. And the high gun emplacements offered great range.

  He studied the trail map carefully. The only way to reach the observation deck where he wanted to be was by a system of steps and tunnels carved into the volcano’s walls.

  He had to smile. He was an amateur rock climber in his previous incarnation before moving to China. As a student under his tyrannical stepfather Professor Richter, he needed those arduous climbs outside Tucson to let off steam and regain faith in himself. But at sea level with handrails and convenient steps, he could practically jog to the top.

  He started up to a cannon deck. A gunnery crew had once occupied that level of what was essentially a natural fortress. After another deck, he climbed through the battle commander’s position. Nice quarters, but basic. That took him out onto a concrete trail that passed earthen embankments once used as a pistol range. Soon the trail was switching back and forth up the steep interior wall of the crater.

  He paused at a lookout point where the military had constructed a platform for winching up materiel from the floor of the crater. In front of him, a set of steps led straight uphill and into a tunnel. The narrow passageway snaked over a hundred meters with no daylight at the top. He didn’t know he would need a flashlight. But the tunnel was cool, a welcome relief from the brutal tropical sun.

  You’re in me at last.

  Brad looked around. Who had said that? A young woman was whispering with a sultry Hawaiian accent into his right ear, but nobody was standing next to him. Nor was anybody above or below. It must have been some sort of echo.

  When he finally stepped out of the darkness, he was at the bottom of another flight of steps. Jeez, how long was this trail? The steps were even steeper than the last. He started up, but had to count out loud to keep his rhythm going. After ninety-nine steps, he hauled himself onto the lowest level of the fort’s gun emplacements.

  He staggered over to the bottom of a spiral staircase made of iron. It would take him up past the next three levels of the fort. At what point could he get out of the volcano and start heading downhill to Smith’s place?

  Stay inside me where it’s safe.

  It was the same lusty female voice.

  “Hey, I’ve got a girlfriend, you know,” he spluttered.

  And what a fox, too.

  This time it was a crackly male voice in his left ear. He recognized it as Xenhet, his Peruvian spirit guide.

  “Hey, keep it quiet in there.” He didn’t need any distractions. He began a vigorous trot up the steps.

  It’s true, Xen whispered. She is a babe.

  But you’re in me now.

  Brad reached the top of the steps, lungs bursting and thighs on fire. He lifted his eyes from the gun mounts to the sea. The water looked peaceful from that distance.

  Nice view.

  “If you two don’t shut up, I’m going to jump.”

  But you haven’t reached the climax.

  Okay. He gave up. He pushed past the metal door and stepped out into the sunlight. He rested a foot on a rock wall constructed to conceal the door from ships far below. At last he was where he wanted to be, on the outside of the crater.

  So where was Smith’s estate? When he looked straight down, all he saw was rock and water. For some reason, the map from the gift shop had failed to include elevation markings. He hauled his weary legs up the final flight of stairs for a better view. He was met by a stiff breeze.

  Whee! Aloha, Lono!

  “Who’s Lono?” He half-expected another voice to pop into his head.

  God of the wind, you dunce. It was Xen, his male spirit guide. How can you be in Hawaii without knowing about Lono?

  “I’m sorry. I don’t live in Hawaii. I’m just visiting.” Only then did he realize that he was yelling. He needed to keep his conversations private. But who, exactly, was he talking to?

  Okay, that’s really sad. You haven’t even been introduced yet?

  That was enough. Xen could butt out now.

  Gee, thanks.

  Call me Pele.

  That’s right. You’ve got a most divine goddess in your head.

  “Pele,” he said aloud. He’d heard the name before.

  So leave us alone, Xen said. We’re just get
ting to know each other.

  “So it’s me that’s butting in?”

  He looked around the summit to clear his mind. Beyond the substantial railings, he could see over a hundred meters down the southwestern slope to multi-million-dollar estates. Smith and Liang would be there lying low, but living in style.

  Yet he was not alone. Standing on the summit was a young Native Hawaiian. “Whoa. You must truly be Brad West,” the guy said, an unmistakable beach bum inflection to his voice.

  Brad sized up the buff twenty-something wearing gloves, shorts and a tank top. Was this one of Smith’s men? “How do you know my name?”

  He bit his tongue. Wasn’t that the first lesson in spycraft? Mick Pierce had warned him not to tip his hand. Make others come to him.

  The young man twirled his fingers around his ears. “They told me you talk to yourself.”

  Okay, who spilled the beans? “Exactly who told you that?”

  “Them, man. The agency.”

  “Oh. I see.” The guy was Brad’s contact from the CIA. “They certainly draw from a large pool these days.”

  “You said it, man. You’ve got it all figured out.” The guy seemed amazed by Brad’s powers of perception. In describing Brad to the field office, Sullivan might have oversold him somewhat.

  “So.” Brad sucked in his breath. “What’s the plan here? How can we get down there?” He looked at the houses far below. “And why are you handing me that crash helmet?”

  “We’re going to take a little flight today.”

  “Come again?”

  The guy stepped aside to reveal an aluminum tripod. In the small shelter behind that were the folded blue wings of a hang glider.

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “Not at all, dude.”

  “Tell me you’ve done this before.” Brad hadn’t noticed any other extreme sports fanatics preparing to jump off the mountain.

  “Let me assure you, this is a two-man glider, and I’ve been hanging with people for years. Now let’s grab some air.”

  Brad watched the guy expertly remove bungee cords from around the fabric. The glider expanded to a wingspan of nearly ten meters. “I’ve seen hang gliders before, but I’ve never seen a hang glider built for two.”

  “That’s what it is, man. You’re so intuitive. A tandem hang glider.” The guy finished assembling the tubing and threw Brad a jacket. It was a vest-like contraption used to attach passengers to the glider. “You get on my back, and I’ll pilot us down.”

  Brad wasn’t so sure. He had a miserable track record in small aircraft.

  “You coming with me or not?” The guy reached back to hook Brad to the glider.

  Brad had come too far to let a small thing like acrophobia get in his way. Sure, he’d love to jump off a volcano. He grabbed the guy’s thick, brown arms, and the two of them leaned forward into a strong updraft.

  Their legs carried them in a trot down the gravel slope. Wind caught their wing at once. The young Hawaiian leaned all his weight forward, and Brad had to do the same, yet fight the urge to scream.

  “Is this a normal day at the Company?” Brad asked. He found his feet running over thin air.

  “What company?” the guy said. “I’m a flight instructor at the local glider school.”

  Brad shut up. Hadn’t his father sent an agent up there to help him? “We’re heading for 22 Diamond Head Road, right?”

  “We are?” the guy said. “I was aiming for the beach.”

  What? Had there been some mix-up? He looked straight down at the beach. They were circling out over the water, away from the mountain. He felt a sudden onslaught of fear. “It doesn’t matter where we land,” he said between gritted teeth. “Just put me down safely.”

  Then he felt the shoulders of the young man convulsing. Heart attack? No, he was laughing. “I’m just kidding you,” he said. “I am taking you to that address, but I don’t work for the Company. In fact, I subcontract for a travel agency. I had no idea who hired me.”

  “Never mind,” Brad said. A thousand apologies to Mick Pierce.

  They descended in lazy circles. The breeze hit him on the face and knuckles, but strangely it wasn’t cold.

  He began to make out profiles of the handful of homes sprinkled along the prized coastline. Each dwelling on the exclusive road, which tunneled in and out of the volcano, faced out to sea and had a distinctive design. One was modern with circular windows. Another had a pitched roof and seemed to be lifted straight out of Bali. And yet another had a squared-off, Mediterranean look.

  “Which house are we heading for?”

  The man pointed at one estate that was angled to face both the water and Waikiki Beach. It sat perched on the edge of a cliff that fell directly into the ocean. Its floor plan was a symphony of geometric shapes that included two grass huts in front followed by two circular gazebos and then breezeways taking occupants to a series of rectangular thatched structures, patios, and a large swimming pool.

  “Looks like a cool thirty million to me,” the man said. “Where should we put down?”

  “I don’t want them to know we’re coming. How about in the lawn at the side of the house.”

  “Dropping in for a surprise visit? Hang on.”

  The man fine-tuned the approach and they began to pick up speed. Their feet dragged across the tops of coconut palms as they wove their way toward the estate. They were coming in for an easy approach, but fast. The ground rushed up to them at the last moment.

  “Start running.”

  Brad put his feet in motion. Their momentum carried them to the far end of the property where they disappeared in an arrangement of bushy foliage. Despite the giant leaves and tangle of roots, Brad managed to stay upright.

  “There you go, man. Just like Mission Impossible.”

  With rapid movements, the man unclipped Brad from the glider and quickly dismantled it. “The agency told me to take the bird with me. It’s been righteous, but I gotta fly.”

  Brad spotted a service entrance near some garbage cans. “You wouldn’t mind using that gate, would you?”

  “I see it,” the guy said. “Name’s Muna, if you need me again.”

  They shook hands.

  “Aloha, dude.”

  Brad watched him slip out, then took a look around the carefully manicured grounds. He felt very alone.

  On their descent, he had noticed a truck parked on the circular drive. Maybe the police had already arrived. He had to find out.

  He followed the security fence around to the front of the house, where he heard jocular voices of two men. They were talking about “feeds” and “uplinks.” They weren’t police, but at least it was the right place. Who else but Smith would need a television crew?

  He turned his attention back to the main building. Louvered windows were open to catch the sea breeze. Bermuda grass stretched from where he stood to the cliff that dropped off at the back of the property. There, he spotted a covered lanai with a formal bar, a billiards table, lounge chairs and an infinity-edge swimming pool that faced an endless turquoise sea.

  Welcome to paradise, the female voice said.

  Just you and me baby, in the tiki tiki room.

  “Will you two shut up?”

  Once he got his internal companions into line, he turned to contemplate the task at hand. How could he break into a house where every wall was a window with a million-dollar view?

  Chapter 43

  Liang wiped the perspiration from his face with both hands. He must have been staring at the sea for an hour trying to will it to surge forth. The headache that resulted was on the verge of driving him mad.

  “Will you make your wave?” He smashed a fist into a table by the swimming pool.

  But you are hardly concentrating.

  “I’m concentrating on nothing but this. Now make your wave!”

  It was heartening to see that clouds were accumulating in increasing numbers and size. But it was almost afternoon, when rain typically fell a
nyway on that side of the island.

  Why do you doubt? You have to believe.

  “I doubt this will work because I didn’t expect the old man to put you in my head!”

  Don’t fight with me. Work with me.

  How? How? It wasn’t working. He took a swipe at a vase and it shattered on the tile deck. He stormed inside where it was several degrees cooler.

  In the foyer, a television news crew from a network affiliate was interviewing Smith.

  “The Lord is deeply concerned about man’s avarice and pursuit of the flesh,” Smith was expounding. “He has devised another plague and will come down on us in a flood of anger. And I say unto you, prepare yourselves for even worse destruction than you have experienced up to now. Build yourself an ark, for no mountain will be left to cling to in the new world.”

  A young blonde moved the microphone to her glossy lips. “Are you saying that there will be a real flood?” She shoved the microphone back in his face.

  “Of biblical proportions. Worse than any natural disaster to strike Moses, Noah, Job or modern man. I have heard this prophesied from the Lord Himself.”

  “So how, as the leader of the People First Party, do you expect to lead your electorate toward salvation?” She flipped her shoulder-length hair back with an amused smile.

  “First of all, no man who opens the floodgates of foreign imports will go unpunished. Shame on the governors, whose latest moves are the acts of the Devil.”

  “Okay. But assuming that there are still some out there who support you…”

  “Prepare for utter inundation. Not of money, but of God’s wrath. My America can be strong and will prevail if her people heed my call. Move away from the shores of sin. In the past week, the Lord has shown us exactly how strong we can be as a sovereign land—willing to shun vice, fortify our social institutions, keep our industries running, and carry on with the American can-do spirit!”

  “So you’re advocating a return to protectionism?”

  “Young lady, I predict far worse than an onslaught of other people’s products. I am predicting utter annihilation of all that we know and hold dear to our hearts. Head for the mountaintops and we will prevail!”