Cold War Copa

by Phil Swann

  “What are doing out here? You trying to kill yourself?”

  Then I was in a sitting position, water being poured into my mouth.

  “Here, put this on,” the voice said.

  As I slowly came back to life, I felt a hat being placed on my head.

  “Put this coat on too. You have to protect yourself from the sun out here. Don’t you know anything?”

  When my vision returned, I saw who it was. “Skipper, I need your help.”

  “You’re going to be okay. Drink this water.”

  “Skipper, I was looking for you.”

  “Well, lucky for you, you found me.”

  “I need your help.”

  “Just drink this water. We have to get you cooled down.”

  I was fading in and out. My words must have sounded like incoherent mumbling.

  The next thing I knew I was at my car holding a water jug. Skipper had erected a canopy off to the side of the road, laid out a blanket, and helped me onto it. It took a few minutes, but eventually I started to return from the brink—for the second time inside twenty-four hours if you’re keeping score.

  “Feeling better?” he asked, taking the jug from me.

  “Yes. Thank you. I don’t know what happened to me out there.”

  “Sunstroke, that’s what,” he said, taking a swig from the jug himself. “This place is not for the uninitiated. Congratulations, you’re initiated. Here, put your shirt back on. That was the first of your many mistakes.”

  I did as I was instructed.

  He continued, “You’re lucky I got booted off the three-forty from Santa Fe. Otherwise, you’d be buzzard meat about now.”

  “I need your help, Skipper.”

  “What do you think I’m doing?”

  “I need you to help me get into The Ranch.”

  Skipper stiffened and shot me a look. “You’re not serious?

  “I’ve got to get into The Ranch. A life depends on it.”

  “Yes, yours if you try something stupid like that.”

  “There’s a man there, he took something of mine, and I have to get it back.”

  “What?”

  “A record.”

  “A what?”

  “A record.”

  “What kind of record?”

  “A Louis Armstrong record.”

  This caused Skipper to actually laugh. “Son, I like Armstrong as much as the next guy, but—”

  “There’s something on that record. I don’t know what it is, but one of the most important people in my life has been kidnapped, and the only way I can get her back is to give that record to whoever took her. But I don’t have it. Clegg took it.”

  “Who took it?”

  “A man named Clegg. I don’t know his first name, or if that’s even his last name, but I’m certain he works for the government. I’m also certain he works at The Ranch. That’s why I’ve got to go there.”

  Skipper stared out across the desert and didn’t say anything for moment. Then he shook his head. “Trip, I’m sorry about your friend, but there’s no way for you to sneak into The Ranch. I should know. It was my job to make sure you couldn’t. And that was five years ago. Who knows what kind of security they have now.”

  “I don’t want to sneak in. I want to be caught.”

  “You’re out of your mind.”

  “I don’t care,” I yelled, trying to stand up. “I don’t have time for this. Okay, I’ll find it on my own.”

  “Sit down, you idiot,” Skipper said, pushing me back down. “Did you not understand what I told you about that place? Did you not hear what they did to me? You won’t get within ten miles of The Ranch, and if you do, you’ll probably be shot, but okay, let’s say by some miracle you do get in without becoming Swiss cheese. Here’s what’s going to happen next: you’ll be restrained by men wearing army fatigues and ski masks. They won’t say anything to you, and they sure won’t be listening to you. They’ll just remove your skinny butt without you being allowed to see or speak to anyone. Then you’ll be locked away somewhere very remote and very unpleasant. You’ll be interrogated so many times that in the end you won’t know what’s true and what’s not. And, by the way, you will probably be there for quite some time, so I hope you don’t have anything in your date book. Do you get it? Are you hearing me? This is not something you want to even think about doing. I don’t care what the circumstances are.”

  My gut reaction was to snap back, but I didn’t. He hadn’t change my mind, of course, but I didn’t want him to think I was dismissing him outright, either. I needed his help and thought it best he knew I had heard every word he’d said. This was going to take some finessing and a Herculean amount of patience on my part.

  I helped myself to the jug, took another swallow, and then laid back on the blanket. Although my insides were a Barnum and Bailey circus, I made sure my voice was calm as I spoke. “Last night, you told me we all have a story. You’re right, we do. Here’s mine: I was raised without a mother, it was just me and Pop. He was father, mother, brother, and sister, all wrapped up in one. He was a good guy, Skipper. You would have liked him. When he died, I wasn’t ready. I mean, I really wasn’t ready. It knocked the props right out from under me, and I didn’t know if I’d ever stand upright again. I became lost, rudderless, some might say a little wild. But mostly, I just got mad. I started getting into trouble. Nothing serious, just things that were against the rules. See, I didn’t like rules. I thought rules were generally arbitrary and unfair. Like, shouldn’t there be a rule a son has a mother? And if he doesn’t, shouldn’t there be a rule he gets to have his father for as long as he needs him? That should be a rule, if you ask me, because I wasn’t done with Pop being my father. That’s when I decided rules were stupid, and life was nothing but a ridiculous game of chance.

  “Anyhow, that way of thinking eventually got me kicked out of school. I didn’t much care because I was planning on splitting anyway. I had nothing, and cared about nothing. Sure, I could blow a horn, but so what? I only saw it as a way to pick up some quick bread when I needed it. You know how I ended up out here, Skipper?”

  He shook his head.

  “Golf balls. Yeah, golf balls. Me and some other delinquents were running around late one night and thought it’d be a hoot to fill the inside of the dean’s new Mercury full of golf balls. So, we broke into a local driving range, filled a duffle bag full of Titleists, and did the deed. I was nabbed leaving the scene. The dean and the driving range decided to press charges. I decided it’d be a good idea to get as far out of town as possible.”

  Skipper chuckled.

  “Betsy, the girl who’s been kidnapped, is the daughter of the best man I’ve known since my father died. I owe him everything, and not just because he gave me a job as a musician when I got out here. He taught me how to be a musician. How to carry myself, how to respect my art, how to respect myself. He also taught me about rules, and how they’re important, and if you intend to break them, have a good reason, and do it the right way. Luther’s become my father, mother, brother, and Betsy has become my sister. Last night you said the reason you were all out here was because you looked out for each other. That’s important. We all need people who’ll look out for us, and we all need people to look out for. Luther taught me that too. So yes, Skipper, I heard you, and me trying to get into The Ranch is dumb, dangerous, and possibly suicidal, but I’ve got to try. I’ve got to get Betsy back, no matter what it takes. She’s family, and family looks out for each other. Just like you and your boes do.”

  Skipper was silent for a long moment, and then he said, “This ain’t golf balls, son. You’re talking about breaking one whopper of a rule.”

  I nodded. “One worth breaking.”

  He shook his head and sighed. “So what do you want from me?”

  “Tell me how to get to The Ranch, and what to do once I’m there.”

  He looked off, and I could hear his mind grappling over the decision. I stayed quiet and waited. Final
ly, he grabbed a rock, pulled back the blanket, and drew a circle in the hard sand. “We’re here, a little west of Vegas. Groom Lake is up here, about eighty miles northwest. You’ll take 15 out of the city to Route 93, from there head north. Eventually, you’ll come to an old ghost town called Crystal Springs.”

  “That’s it,” I exclaimed. “I’ve been there. That’s where the gas station is.”

  “What gas station?”

  “It’s where…never mind. Then what?”

  “You’ll take Route 375 west. The Ranch is located twenty-five miles to the south at this point. It’s surrounded by mountains on all sides so you can’t see it. You’ll notice dozens of unpaved roads shooting off the main highway. All of them will get you to the perimeter of the base, but I’d take this one,” he said, circling a line on the ground.

  “Why that one?”

  “It’s the most conspicuous and least threatening. If you were someone trying to sneak onto the base, this is the last route you’d choose.”

  “Thank you,” I said, getting up. Skipper stopped me again.

  “They’ll know you’re coming the minute you turn off the main highway.”

  “How?”

  “They just will. After a few miles, you’re going to see a sign that reads no trespassing, restricted area, do not enter, and some other threatening stuff. If you’re smart, you’ll do as it says. If you don’t, then for crying out loud, slow down—slow way down. Don’t go barreling through there at a hundred miles an hour. Kick that hot rod of yours down to a crawl. Coast if you can.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you want to appear harmless. You’ll have about thirty seconds while they decide if you’re a threat to national security or just an illiterate numbskull lost in the desert. Get your story straight, and get ready.”

  “Ready for what?”

  “You won’t see them coming. One minute they won’t be there, next you’ll be surrounded. Do exactly what they say. Exactly. Do you understand?”

  I nodded.

  “If you’re still standing at this point, they will ask you what you’re doing. That’s when you tell them your story. I don’t think they’ll believe you, or give a diddlysquat, but that’s when you lay it out for them. Got it?”

  “Yes.” I stood up and dusted myself off. Skipper remained on the ground.

  I extended my hand. “Thank you, Skipper, for everything. I’ll never forget it.” He shook my hand but looked away as he did. He tried to appear as if he didn’t care, like it was my skin and if I wanted to risk it, that was my choice. But I knew better.

  I got in my car, started it up, and made a U-turn back for the main highway. As I came out of the turn, I saw Skipper standing in the middle of the road. I stopped the car, and he came around to the passenger side door, opened it, and got in.

  “So that story you just told me, was any of that malarkey true?”

  “Most of it,” I answered.

  He stared at me.

  “Some of it.”

  He stared at me some more.

  “Okay, not much of it, but the overall theme was true.”

  He looked away, but I still caught the chuckle.

  “It was a good story though, wasn’t it?” I added.

  “Drive,” he said.

  Chapter 16

  I had a little over two and a half hours to find The Ranch, get back the Louis Armstrong record, and make it to the abandoned gas station by eight o’clock. Skipper knew a shortcut bypassing the heart the city, so traffic wasn’t an issue. Beyond the occasional “turn here,” neither of us spoke as I flew up the deserted ribbon of blacktop.

  I was focused, worried sick about Betsy, but doing my best to remain calm. That being said, I still couldn’t help but wonder what was going through Skipper’s mind and wasn’t sure why he’d agreed to come with me. Was he concerned about my welfare? Did he empathize with me? Was he really just that nice of a guy? Or was it something else? Whatever his reason, I was grateful beyond words he was sitting next to me. I was prepared to go it alone if I had to. It was for Betsy after all, but given everything I’d heard about the mysterious Ranch, having a wingman who intimately knew the place made it a little less mystical…if no less frightening.

  After I turned off the main highway and started heading south on a dirt road, I noticed Skipper began to get more fidgety. He kept looking out the back window and even up at the sky. I presumed he was looking for helicopters. I wondered how anything of significance could be located in such a desolate place, when we came upon a large white sign posted off the side of the road. It was simple in its directive, and I can relay verbatim what it read: RESTRICTED AREA. MILTARY INSTALLATION. NO TRESSPASSING BEYOND THIS POINT. PHOTOGRAPHY IS PROHIBITED. USE OF DEADLY FORCE AUTHORIZED.

  “This is it, slow down,” Skipper ordered.

  I was way ahead of him and had already backed the Falcon down to a creeping thirty-five miles per hour. “How’s this?” I asked.

  “Slower,” he answered, looking out the back.

  I brought it down to thirty. “Where are they?”

  “They know we’re here. There are radar antennas stationed all along the ridge up there to the right.”

  I looked where Skipper was pointing. “I don’t see anything. How do you know?”

  “Because I put them there.”

  I responded with an uneasy nod.

  “They should be here any minute,” he said almost to himself.

  I continued at the agonizingly slow pace.

  After ten minutes and still not a soul in sight, Skipper said, “They should be here by now. Speed up.”

  I accelerated and brought the car up to fifty. Skipper kept looking in every direction, but I was sure he was seeing the same thing I was, empty desert. The expression on his face said what we were both thinking. Something wasn’t right.

  “Shouldn’t we be getting close?” I asked.

  “We’ll see the base after we top that hill up ahead. I don’t understand. We shouldn’t be able to do this.”

  Without him telling me to, I gave the Falcon more gas, sixty, sixty-five, seventy, seventy-five. I was doing eighty miles per hour, and still no one was coming after us. We came over the hill and, indeed, a mile or two off in the distance, I saw the runways cut into the desert floor. Three I believe, though there could have been more, but I do recall one being considerably longer than the others.

  “Is that it?”

  Skipper didn’t reply.

  “What do I do now?”

  He shook his head. “Just drive.”

  I pressed the accelerator all the way to the floor. If there was any doubt to whoever awaited up ahead I was coming, the billowing dust cloud I was leaving in my wake would take care of that.

  I anticipated being flabbergasted, breath taken away, dazzled. After all, this was the infamous Paradise Ranch, Dreamland, Area 51. A place I was led to believe was so brimming with secret space age gadgetry and futuristic thingy-a-bobs that if the world knew about it, grown men would gasp and go running off screaming into the night. So, I was prepared to be impressed. Ready for my unworthy self to be utterly awed. I utterly wasn’t. On the contrary, I was completely unimpressed and unequivocally unawed, if that’s even a word.

  As I approached the base, the first thing that hit me was there was no gate, no check point, and certainly no armed guards. There were some drab one-story rectangular buildings, some structures that looked like military barracks, I think they’re called Quonset huts, and of course some airplane hangars, but I didn’t see any airplanes, which struck me as odd. I did notice a cluster of antennas located off the far side of the runways, as well as a control tower, two orange wind socks, one weather vane, and a tall pole with nothing on it. But that was it; there was nothing else. It looked like a medium sized, largely unused airfield tucked away in the middle of nowhere. There was absolutely nothing special about it. I might have been as much miffed as I was underwhelmed. It insulted my sense of showmanship. Rule number one in
show business: don’t overhype your act. As far as I was concerned, this place had been way over billed.

  I slowed as I came upon the first set of buildings.

  “Stop here. Turn off the engine,” Skipper said with no inflection.

  I did as I was instructed.

  Skipper’s eyes squinted as he looked around. I had the feeling he knew things he wasn’t telling me, but that could have been me making up stories.

  “Are we in the right place?” I asked.

  He didn’t respond. Instead, he opened the door and got out. I followed.

  We walked around to the front of the car and stood. Nothing moved. There wasn’t a person in sight. The only sound was the occasional gust of hot, dry wind whipping across the landing strips. It was as if the entire base was a ghost town.

  Time was an issue, so I decided it was appropriate for me to remind Skipper of that fact. “If we’re not in the right place, I have to find—”

  He raised his hand for me to be quiet. A few seconds later, a low rumble broke the silence. I looked at Skipper, and before I could ask what it was, he pointed. “There.”

  The doors to a hanger located two hundred yards directly in front of us began to slide open. At first, all I saw was a black slit getting wider. Then, two army Jeeps emerged from the void driving at a high speed, and behind them was a military personnel truck. As the caravan got closer, I realized there was another vehicle behind the truck. It wasn’t until it was upon us I saw what it was. A black ’59 Cadillac.

  The Jeeps fanned out and came to a stop on either side of us. The truck continued around to the rear of the Falcon. Several armed men wearing fatigues jumped out and surrounded the car. The black Caddy stopped a few yards in front of us. Tonto was the first out, followed by Square Head from the passenger side. Both men went to the front of the car and stood with their arms crossed. The rear driver’s side door opened, and I wasn’t at all shocked when I saw who stepped out. It was Clegg.

  He said something to Tonto as he walked past him, but when he got to us, he didn’t acknowledge me at all. Instead, he looked at Skipper, nodded, and then smiled.