by Bob Mayer
“Good morning! Hey, Morti. Sweet-T!” Truvey bounced out from the back of the diner looking like a million dollars, bright and shiny and ready to greet the new day. “Morti, baby, we’ve got that try out later today. Aren’t you excited?”
“Audition,” Morticia automatically corrected.
Truvey finally zoomed in on the mood. “What’s with the long faces?”
24
Monday Afternoon,
15 August 1977
GRAND ESCALANTE STAIRCASE, UTAH
After an uneventful night and morning, they heard the plane before they saw it. Kane scanned the sky through binoculars and spotted it as it cleared the southern horizon.
“Twin engine, moving slow,” he informed Caitlyn.
“We can’t hide the truck or trailer,” she said.
“Kinsman says it’s not unusual here. People park at trailheads and ride into the range.” He lowered the binoculars. “But I think we should get under cover.”
They went below a large rock that had tumbled from the top of one of the stone columns to another and wedged in place, leaving eight feet of space below. They stood underneath as the plane approached. It was doing lazy S turns at about five hundred feet. It was a twin-engine propeller plane, similar to the one in the imagery. It passed by to the far west, near Hole in the Rock, but then looped back.
Kinsman heard the plane and watched it fly back and forth, each traverse bringing it farther to the west as he slowly rode. As it came by, he looked up, making sure anyone on board could clearly see his face. He waved and smiled broadly.
Then continued on his trek.
He tried to sit straight in the saddle, but had to accept a slouch was the best he could manage. He watched the plane continue its search. He chanted: “Comes the enemy to my singing. Comes the enemy to my song.”
The aircraft passed just to the west of Devil’s Garden. There was no doubt the truck and trailer were spotted as it looped immediately and circled several times, before continuing on its way.
Kane and Caitlyn watched it for fifteen minutes before it disappeared in the vicinity of Escalante to the northwest.
“Why did the Cellar allow this network to exist?” Kane asked Caitlyn as they settled in to maintain their wait.
“It was international,” she said. “Our mandate is domestic.”
“Like the FBI?”
“The Cellar isn’t like anything,” she said.
“Right. The photo of Ngo and that General,” Kane said. “The CIA had that. They only gave us the one of Ngo and the NVA officers in Vietnam. We were played.”
“You figured that out long ago,” Caitlyn didn’t phrase it as a question. “But here’s something you might not have considered: how do you know that image of Ngo and the NVA officer, or the one I just showed you, came from the roll of film you recovered in Cambodia?”
Kane was still, letting that sink in. “Did it?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “But it’s smart to question every piece of evidence.”
“How did you get that picture?”
“It was in my briefing file. As I said, it purportedly was on that same roll of film. As was the one that initiated the Green Beret affair that you got caught up in.”
“Your briefing file from the Cellar.”
“Yes.”
“I shouldn’t trust anything but I should trust the Cellar?” Kane asked.
“You’re here of your own volition, Kane,” Caitlyn said. “I’m helping you.”
Kane changed topics. “What did Yazzie do in Vietnam?” he asked. “He told me he was a Code Talker and a tunnel rat. I didn’t know we had Code Talkers in ‘Nam.”
Caitlyn took a drink from her canteen before answering. “Whatever he did was off the books. He wasn’t in the Army. Or any service as far as the records indicate.”
“Agency?”
“Not on their books either. He was in country off and on from ’69 through the fall and beyond.”
“’Beyond’?”
“He’s traveled throughout southeast Asia over the years. Where exactly, no one knows. Much like you did from late ’69 until you returned with Thao and the others.”
“Are you implying—”
Caitlyn cut him off. “I’m not implying anything. I’m saying many people fly under the radar. Yazzie is one of them.”
“Did the Cellar pull my records?” Kane asked.
Once more she shrugged. “It’s possible.”
“You’re just a fount of information,” Kane said.
“I’ve given you quite a bit,” Caitlyn said. “I’m here aren’t I?”
“Yeah, but—” he paused as they heard the plane once more. It was flying fast and low to the southwest, angled to the southeast. “Heading for Fiftymile Point.” He checked his watch. “Where the hell is Kinsman?”
CARCASS WASH, GRAND ESCALANTE STAIRCASE, UTAH
Kinsman was on the unimproved rock and dirt road that ran from Escalante to Hole in The Rock. It was the original trail the Mormons had traveled in their wagons 98 years ago with great difficulty. He could see the cliffs of the escarpment and Fiftymile Point, was due south about ten miles. He wasn’t worried about being seen; the possibilities of any reaction other than simply getting shot out of the saddle were all positive in his view. He assumed the enemy had binoculars or scopes and could tell he wasn’t a white man, and thus not Kane. It was not unknown for horsemen from his people to be out here, albeit rare.
Kinsman gave a slight tug on the halter as he approached a place where the trail went down into a steep wash. He could sense the spirits in the air. Sad, angry, lives cut off too soon. Older lives ended in their prime, full of guilt and sorrow. The bodies were buried far away, in Salt Lake City, but the spirits couldn’t leave this place. It had never been cleansed; never had any ceremony been performed in any religion, whether that of the People or the Christians who’d died here. He’d heard of the Mormon Boy Scouts and the accident in Carcass Wash when it happened in 1963. A terrible thing but there were many terrible things in the world. The Mormons had a long and complicated legacy in this land, but nowhere near as long as his people’s. And despite that accident, nowhere near as tragic.
There was no sign of the Flint Boys or anyone else.
Kinsman said a prayer for the dead, wishing their spirits peace and then, more importantly, a prayer to block them from following. He had enough on his hands with the living ahead. He rode east, toward Hole in the Rock. The Mormons had blazed the trail many years ago across the only route that was navigable. Kinsman did not understand a people who were so determined to populate so much empty area that they took this perilous journey.
Carcass Wash had been named that for some unknown reason by those first Mormons, but, Kinsman mused, the Scouts from a later generation might have taken that as a warning. It was ten miles from here to Hole in the Rock. Kinsman was in no hurry. Even though the horse had a smooth gait, each touch of hoof to rock jolted pain through his stomach.
Fiftymile Point was less than a mile from him. In the corner of his eye he spotted the glint of sun off glass. The enemy was careless. Kinsman was not overly concerned that it was most likely the scope of a sniper’s rifle. He’d felt death’s breath before in the Pacific, literally in his face, and it had become his constant companion since the first pains in his stomach. He hadn’t needed the VA doctor’s pronouncement. A warrior knew when his body was done. He’d been glad to get the call to come east.
Clearing a tributary of the Escalante River to the north of Hole in the Rock Road, Kinsman turned north planning on keeping that to his left until he reached the Escalante River proper. He didn’t like that his back was to the whoever held the rifle on top of the Point, but they would have shot by now. His hope was that the turning away from Hole in the Rock would relax the guards but he could not count on it.
The river was different than what he remembered from years ago, but the white man had dammed the Colorado River and the backflow filled the Esca
lante for a number of miles from where it connected with the larger watercourse. It was late in the afternoon and finding a spot where the gorge wasn’t so steep, Kinsman rode down into it and dismounted, out of sight of the Point.
He unsaddled the horse and gathered brush and what dry wood was scattered about. Built a fire, not caring about the smoke that drifted lazily skyward. He looked in his saddle bag at the cans of food he’d brought, but his stomach couldn’t abide the sight. He leaned back against the saddle, getting as comfortable as the cancer would allow, waiting for darkness.
He rolled a cigarette.
FIFTYMILE POINT, GRAND ESCALANTE STAIRCASE, UTAH
“Come with me,” Yazzie said to Toni after he had a brief conversation on the radio in Navajo.
“Don’t trust me with your brothers?” she asked as she walked with him to one of the Defenders.
“I trust you to do whatever you can to escape,” Yazzie said as he opened the passenger door for her, ever the gentleman kidnapper.
“What about the bikers?”
Yazzie didn’t answer as he went around to the driver’s side and got in.
“You’re just a low-life criminal,” Toni said.
“I serve my family.” Yazzie started the motor. “Blood is more important than anything else.”
“But Crawford isn’t your blood,” Toni pointed out as he drove them into the narrow tunnel and raced up it, showing both confidence in his driving and a familiarity with the exit.
Yazzie didn’t reply.
“Are you letting me go?” Toni asked. “Have you killed Kane? Gotten what you wanted from him?”
He remained silent as they exited into dusk. Yazzie drove hard, tires occasionally skidding on dirt and stone as he negotiated a couple of switchbacks up Fiftymile Point. The truck rumbled to the top. The rock was flat and extended left and right. Yazzie raced down it and stopped at the end overlooking the drop-off and the empty terrain to the north. He turned on a beanbag light, opened the door and dropped it. Then drove in the other direction. He stopped the truck at the end point of the makeshift runway, turning off the headlights, but leaving the parking lights on.
Just in time as a twin-engine plane roared overhead, pulled up, banked and came in from the north. It touched down just past the lights and came barreling toward them. Toni flinched as it seemed just about to run into the truck, propellers spinning, but halted fifteen feet away.
Yazzie turned to her and smiled. “Nervous?”
“Fuck you.”
“That’s what you tried with Tsosie to no avail.” The plane turned and the door folded down to the ground. Boss Crawford exited, followed by two short, Oriental men with assault weapons.
Yazzie turned the engine off and made sure Toni saw him take the keys as he exited. He left his door open, allowing her to hear.
“Boss,” Yazzie said, extending his hand.
Crawford shook it, glancing at Toni in the Defender. “How has she been?”
“Nothing more than expected,” Yazzie replied.
“You were right,” Crawford said. “Kane is either here or on his way. I checked when we landed in Escalante and he hasn’t called the number.”
“What about the others?” Yazzie asked. “His friends?”
Behind Crawford, the two Hmong had slung their weapons and were unloading duffle bags full of heroin from the plane and putting it in the back of the Defender.
“The Montagnard is still at the diner. His army friend is at his duty post in Massachusetts. Kane’s alone. There’s a horseman north of here in the wild, an Indian. Looks to be meandering, but I radioed Bluehorse at Hole in the Rock just in case. There’s a pickup truck with a horse trailer, probably connected to the Indian, at Devils Garden but I left two of them—” he indicated the Hmong— “in Escalante. They’ll drive in and check it out on the way here. They’ll also clear the length of the road just in case.” He glanced to the north. “Kane’s coming. Let’s go below.”
DEVILS GARDEN, GRAND ESCALANTE STAIRCASE, UTAH
Hearing an approaching car engine, Kane unfolded the stock of the Swedish K, wishing he’d been able to bring something with more range, but there hadn’t been time for Merrick to supply him with appropriate weapons from Fort Devens other than the ‘goodies’. He had noted a long case among the gear Caitlyn had stowed in the back of the truck but he figured she’d show hers when it was appropriate.
“Old school,” Caitlyn noted. “But not much range.”
“It’ll work,” Kane said. He had the forty-five on his belt and tucked the .22 High Standard in the map case, which he slung over his shoulder.
“What are you doing?” Caitlyn asked.
“Going to meet the guest or guests,” Kane said. “I’m assuming you don’t want to be involved? Not in your mandate? Sanction? Whatever?”
Caitlyn didn’t reply.
Kane jogged toward the trail leading to where they’d parked the truck and trailer. He’d kept an eye out as they drove in and already had a spot in mind. Less than two hundred meters from Devils Garden the trail had crossed a steep wash. Kinsman had managed to wrestle the truck and trailer through it with great difficulty, bottoming out the back of the trailer several times.
Long shadows cut across the cut in the earth. Kane slid between two boulders with good surveillance on the track as it descended into the wash. A Defender, the vehicle of choice of Crawford’s people, appeared, headlights on. It pointed down and negotiated the trail. A driver and passenger. Short, oriental, dressed in black. It reached the bottom, struggled the upslope. Just before the military crest, it stopped. The passenger got out, dressed in black fatigues, an AK-47 in hand to scout ahead.
The Hmong walked cautiously ahead of the car to where he could peer over the edge. He brought a pair of binoculars up, scanning. Kane briefly wondered where Caitlyn had secreted herself as he moved out, pulling the High Standard out of the map case. He ran up to the driver’s open window.
The man belatedly realized someone was there and turned to look. His jaw dropped in shock when he saw Kane just feet away with the High Standard at the ready. Which suited Kane fine as he fired, the round going through the roof of the mouth and into the brain. The driver’s foot slipped off the brake and the truck, in neutral, rolled backwards. Kane ignored it, kneeling and facing the crest, having swapped the pistol for the Swedish K.
The Defender crashed into the bottom of the wash with a loud crumple.
The Hmong with the binoculars came running back to see what had happened and Kane fired, working the trigger, three shots, all to the chest. The Hmong crumpled, but his forward momentum carried, and he tumbled past Kane, the body stopping halfway down.
Kane walked to the bottom of the wash, reached in, silenced the engine and turned off the headlights. He gathered the two AK-47s. As he headed back up, Caitlyn appeared, silhouetted at the top, a sniper rifle cradled in her arms.
“All clear?” she asked.
“All clear,” Kane said as he passed her. “Nice gun.”
25
Monday Night,
15 August 1977
HOLE IN THE ROCK, GRAND ESCALANTE STAIRCASE, UTAH
The truck paused a quarter mile from Kinsman. He rubbed his hands in the ashes of the small fire. There were two men inside. It was dusk, the sun halfway into the earth, a special time of day in the sacred lands. The truck continued, coming toward the camp site.
Kinsman smeared ash on his face. His rifle was in the scabbard, covered by a blanket. He began chanting in a low voice. The truck stopped and two men exited, one with a rifle at the ready. Kinsman could tell that one was Navajo. The other was a long-haired white man, dressed in leather pants and vest, pistol in hand.
“Hey!” The white man called out.
Kinsman kept chanting and rocking back and forth on his knees.
“Hey! You!” The white man walked forward. He stopped twenty feet away. “Hey! Old man.” The Navajo followed him, slower, scanning left and right for ambush.
Kinsman kept rocking and chanting.
“Old man?” The white man yelled louder, as if that would make a difference.
The Flint Boy joined him and called out a greeting in Navajo.
Kinsman stopped. Looked up. Raised his hands wide and began shouting in gibberish, mixing Navajo with English. He got to his feet, still yelling.
The white man took a step back. “He’s fucking crazy.”
The Flint Boy slung his rifle over his shoulder. “Calm down, Elder.” He said in rusty Navajo.
Kinsman drew the Ka-bar and started slashing at air, spinning about in a circle.
“Jesus-fucking-Christ,” the biker said. He aimed the pistol at Kinsman.
“Relax,” the Flint Boy said to the biker. He called out to Kinsman in English. “Are you all right, Elder? Can I get you help?”
Kinsman stopped his movements. “What is your name, young man?”
“Bluehorse. What are you doing out here?”
“I’ve come here to die,” Kinsman said. “Now leave me alone.”
“Is your horse all right?” Bluehorse said. “Can you make it back to town?”
“The horse can,” Kinsman said. “Let me die in peace. It is the old way. I’m not bothering you, so stop bothering me.”
“Listen, you—”
“Respect your elders, son.” Kinsman raised the knife. “Or do you want to help me die faster than the cancer that is eating me from the inside? This is the old way. The true path.” He turned his back to the men. “Leave me alone.” He resumed the chanting, rocking back and forth.
“Let’s just shoot the old asshole,” the white man said to Bluehorse. “Put him out of his misery. That’s what he wants, anyway.”
“Let’s go,” Bluehorse said.
“Just leave him here?” the white man asked.
“He’s not hurting anyone,” Bluehorse said. “The land is wide and open. This space is his.”
