by Jay Vielle
“Won’t it be great when we get back to normal,” Wendy said.
“IF we get back to normal,” Jake said. “Remember, the bombs last week may have only been the first volley.”
“Okay, Pollyanna. I can only stand so much optimism all in one bite,” I replied snarkily. Jake show me a look and I smiled.
“Look, given the gravity of everything we’re doing, how about we talk less about that and more about how pretty it is on this river,” I said.
“Point taken,” said Jake.
We paddled past the newly developed Buzzard Point area between Nationals Park and Ft. McNair. I looked longingly at the boats near Ft. McNair and wondered if we could try stealing a motor-powered means of transportation. Jake must have seen me and read my mind.
“Let’s look,” said Jake, without my prompting. We all tied up our canoes and jumped on every boat imaginable. As expected, everything we tried was locked, or had no visible keys nearby. We climbed on pier after pier with no luck. Finally, Tommy hopped down into a small, yellowing fiberglass boat with a 70 horsepower outboard engine on the back. There was room for four to sit on bench-type cushions in the front, and two tall swivel chairs in the back, separated by windshields on either side. The steering wheel was a faded black, and if you bent down and looked at the side of the hull underneath the throttle, you could just make out a hidden set of keys dangling from a command strip hook.
“Dad. Bingo. We have keys,” he said.
“Let’s try it out, boy. Lower the engine first. There should be a lever somewhere,” Jake said.
“Found it. Now what?”
“Look for a tank of gas somewhere. Probably in the back near the motor,” said Jake.
“Found it. Next?” asked Tommy.
“The rubber gas line ought to have like a bulb there. Do you see something like that?”
“Yup. Squeeze it?” asked Tommy.
“Squeeze it until it’s firm,” said Jake.
“Phrasing,” said Wendy. “You know, phrasing? ‘That’s what she said?”
“What kind of chick are you?” I asked. She chuckled and gave out a little snort.
“And now we have a snort,” I said. “It’s the trifecta.”
“I thought a trifecta was three things,” said Vinny.
“It’s an expression,” I said.
“Yeah, an expression for three things. You have phrasing and a snort. That’s only two,” Vinny said.
“Shut up, Vinny,” I said.
“Thank you for defending my honor, Vinny,” said Wendy, smiling. I shook my head.
The engine cranked immediately. Smoke came out of the motor, water shot through the back, and all seventy horses in the engine seemed to hum with readiness.
“We’re in business,” said Tommy. We all tied up our canoes.
“Leave the bikes?” I asked.
“No room for them on this little thing,” said Jake. We all got in what turned out to be a sixteen foot long Renken with a Johnson 70 HP outboard. It wasn’t much, and it sank down a good bit under the weight of five people, the painted waterline now no longer visible under the water. But it was fast, and it was a helluva lot easier than trying to paddle the last mile or so across the Potomac.
Looking upstream on the Potomac was amazing. Seeing monuments on one side, Ladybird Johnson park on the other, the GW Parkway and Roosevelt Island, I had that same feeling—that I should have visited all of these places when I had the chance. The entrance to the Pentagon would be through a thin narrows at the Columbia Island Marina. We rode to the far side where the visible walls of the Pentagon loomed in the distance.
We dismounted at a tree line along Boundary Channel drive, and hoofed it across Richmond Highway. As we approached the Pentagon, I got nervous. Military personnel were everywhere.
“Jake, where, what do we,” I stammered.
“Eddie, we’re not doing anything wrong. We’re friends of an important guy who might be here and for whom we have vital information,” Jake said.
And then he said it again. To a guard. The guard wasn’t impressed.
“I’m sorry sir, with no credentials, I can’t let you in,” he said.
“Credentials? During World War III? I just paddled two miles down a river to get here, soldier. Call the guy I’m asking for,” Jake said.
“I’m sorry sir, that’s not what I do,” said the guard.
“Well, what do you do?” asked Jake.
“I guard the door,” he said plainly.
“Look, this is his research partner. She has valuable information about the orange things you guys have been chasing for a week. They got separated after some understandably challenging circumstances, but we’re trying to fix that. Just get on that phone there, and page the guy.”
“I’m sorry sir, we don’t page. Do you have this colonel’s extension?”
“No. Is there a place I can look it up?” Jake asked.
“You can look at our website or call the receptionist,” he said.
“Your website is down. It went down a week ago when our fucking country got bombed, you idiot. And how are we supposed to call the main number when half the country’s cell phones don’t work?”
“I’m sorry sir, but I can’t help you,” said the guard.
“I’m betting you can,” said Jake.
“Dad, don’t do what I think you’re gonna do,” said Tommy.
Jake slugged the guard and walked past the checkpoint.
He was descended upon by four more guards, the first two with Tasers at the ready.
“Freeze or we will be forced to subdue you,” the nearest guard said.
“And if I freeze?” asked Jake.
“We escort you out,” said the guard.
“And if I resist?” he said.
“We tase you and throw you in the brig,” said the guard.
“First of all, you army puke, you don’t use the word ‘tase.’ It’s not a word.”
“Sir, I don’t much care if it’s tase or taser, you are going to get shocked and you won’t like it,” he said.
“You guard duty boys don’t know a whole lot, do you?” Jake was shouting by now, and people down the hall were beginning to pay attention and watch what was developing.
“Do you even know where the name comes from?” said Jake. I didn’t understand what he was doing.
“Do you?” he yelled, quite loudly. More people appeared.
“It’s a fucking acronym, you doofuses. Taser. Stands for ‘Thomas A. Swift’s Electric Rifle.” God, no wonder they send us Marines in first. You idiots don’t even know what your weapons are called.”
That riled the guard enough that his face began to show some anger and he stepped forward. Jake ducked below the arm of the guard with the Taser in it and double-legged him like Olympic champion Jordan Burroughs. That guard crashed into two of the others and all of them went down in a heap. The fourth guard pulled a gun on Jake, and Jake did his little Aikido disarming move and bent the guard’s wrist back, causing him to drop the gun into Jake’s hands. Jake sprinted for the final doorway, ran through to the other side, and the observers scattered. Another pair of guards came down the hallway yelling “freeze,” and Jake dropped to his knees with his hands behind his head. The guards grabbed him and I horrified.
“Dad, what is wrong with you?” asked Vinny.
“Jake, what were you thinking?” I yelled.
The guards who initially came to address Jake were now on their feet. One was nursing a dislocated jaw, another a sore wrist, and the final two had bruised bottoms and egos. None of them were very happy, and they grabbed Jake’s sons, Wendy, and me and marched us all towards Jake and back into a separate area.
As we walked down the hall with our hands on our heads, the faces of people there stared at us, and my face went hot with embarrassment and fear. In an instant, our smart, well-prepared, resourceful leader had taken us ninety percent of the way only to have us arrested in the Pentagon.
The plan had gone to shit.
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br /> CHAPTER 12
“Okay, I got it,” said Mark Longaberger, carrying a wooden chair on his shoulder.
“That looks heavy,” said Pablo. “Do you need any help?”
“No, it’s not that bad. And besides, it would be more awkward with two people anyway,” said Mark.
“Vale,” said Pablo.
“Bah-lay?” said Mark. “I’m afraid I don’t know what that means. Is it like, ‘cool’?”
Pablo smiled, “Not exactly. Vale—spelled v-a-l-e—is an expression we use a lot in Spain. It is from the Spanish verb valer, meaning ‘to be worth.’ So essentially, when you say vale, you’re saying that the other person’s comments are worthy. It’s a little be like, ‘okay.’ I suppose that in the right context, ‘cool’ could work. Sure.”
“What part of Spain are you from?” Mark asked.
“Galicia. It is the northern-most part of the country that sticks out over Portugal,” he said.
“I’ve never been to Spain,” said Mark.
“We are an ancient people, dating back before the Romans. Spain itself is only six hundred or so years old. It became the modern version of itself in 1492, the year Colón sailed for the Americas. It is a country based on Catholicism. On Christianity. We united to drive out the moros. The North African Muslims. Our country’s patron saint called, Santiago Matamoros. Saint James, the Moor Slayer. We erected a giant cathedral for him in my home of Galicia, Santiago de Compostela.
“Wow. I’m not sure I knew that specifically. I know of the pilgrim trail by that name. What are the Spanish people like?” asked Mark.
“I’m not sure I can encapsulate the entire country. We are a country of regions. We have four languages spoken there, so we are very different,” said Pablo.
“You mean dialects, not languages, right? You all speak Spanish,” said Mark.
“No, actual languages. Gallego, Vasco, and Catalán. Gallego is similar to Portuguese. Catalán is something of a mix between French and Spanish and is spoken in the region near Barcelona. Vasco is like nothing else in the world. They say Vasco is so difficult to learn, that even Satan was unable to do it. The País Vasco is near Bilbao and San Sebastián. They are a sea-faring people. It is now a large industrial area as well. My country, Galicia, has roots to the Celts even before the Romans arrived. We have a form of bagpipe, the gaita, and kilts as well as some similar dances. We also share some bronze age history in terms of ancient building sites.”
“Fascinating,” said Mark.
“And you? What is your background, Mark?” asked Pablo.
“I’m mostly from this area,” he said.
“With a name like Longaberger?” asked Pablo. “That sounds German to me.”
“Sure, if you go far enough back, at least half of my roots are German. There are some roots to the Pennsylvania Dutch people as well,” said Mark.
“The Amish? I am a big admirer of them. To live your life so devoted to your religious traditions? Well, I have much respect for that, as you might imagine,” said Pablo. “I hope that I did not frighten you off before, in my discussion of the church. There is room for many here.”
“I can’t lie, Pablo. Some of the things you’ve said don’t sit well with me. Your views on homosexuality seem a bit intolerant, and the idea against mixing races? Well, those both seem to me to be a little bit Neanderthal. A little too ‘old school’ for my taste. I tend to be more tolerant, more inclusive,” said Mark.
“I understand. But you must admit from a sociological perspective, that human beings tend to group themselves in tribes. Tribes share language, culture, looks, food, and celebrations. It takes a great deal to bridge those gaps. It takes an extraordinary effort. All I was saying is that I believe that tribalization is natural, and it is my preference. Nothing more,” said Pablo.
“I understand. No hard feelings on my part,” said Mark.
“That’s good. I don’t wish to be on your bad side. I tend to be a little extreme in my views by comparison with many Americans,” said Pablo. The pair shuffled their way to the Church of Many Blessings and were approaching the parking lot as the sun began to reach its zenith.
“I believe the sign is in the back, by the gymnasium and storage area,” said Pablo. “And I see that Oleg’s van is here, so perhaps he can drive us to the college.” Just then Pablo slid his glasses down his nose and squinted at the church.
“Qué es éso” he said aloud, “I have never seen that door open before. I don’t even know where it goes.”
“It’s weird,” said Mark. It appears to have no knob at all. You must have to enter it just with a key. Who’s leg is that sticking out of it?”
“It must be Oleg. Let’s go see if he is free, eh?” The pair picked up their pace a bit. Mark decided to put down the chair for the moment in the hopes of catching his ride with Oleg. Then he saw the outline of a body look like it was struggling, and he thought heard a muffled scream in a girl’s voice.
Mark and Pablo ran towards the door. Mark, being so much younger, passed the middle aged father from Spain and closed in on the strange scene that had a knobless door with a strange, struggling leg and bizarre noises coming from them.
And then Father Joe rounded the corner.
“Mark? Pablo? What are you two doing here? Did you follow me?” he asked.
“No, Padre. We are getting the sign for Mark. It is upstairs in the gym I believe. We were hoping Oleg was here and could give us a ride in the van. Then we saw strange things coming out of this door and ran to make sure everything was all right.”
“Everything is fine, Pablo, but Oleg is helping me with a project right now and can’t take you. Take whatever vehicle you like, just ask Judith for the keys. I’m sorry, I have to go in. I’ll talk to you later,” said Father Joe, slamming the knobless door in Pablo’s face.
“That was unusual,” said Pablo. “I’ve never seen Father Joe act like that before. I hope it’s not an emergency.
“I’m kind of curious as to what that sound was,” said Mark.
“Well, one thing is for certain, Father Joe did not wish us included in whatever business he had to undertake, and I am only an assistant deacon, and a new one at that. I think I should simply get the keys and the sign and move on,” said Pablo.
“Fine with me. I’ll go back and get my chair,” said Mark. Pablo walked around to the front of the church and smiled at today’s volunteer receptionist, Judith. She recognized him immediately, nodded and reached for the cabinet door where the keys were stored. She handed him a set for the Ford mini-van and Pablo then went into the foyer and grabbed the large sign waiting there. It was of the same kind of material that many real estate signs were—a kind of corrugated paper material coated with plastic. The sign had printing on it with information about the meeting, and had places in the bottom to place metal stakes that would go in the ground to prop it up.
“Gracias, Judith,” Pablo said, walking out. He saw Mark coming around the side, and he pointed at the minivan in the side parking lot. “Mark, we are going in the minivan,” he said. Mark nodded, hefted his chair up a little more, and then walked towards the minivan. The pair drove the five or so miles from one end of town to the other, to a point on the campus of Mt. St. Michaels where the remaining members of the college community would pass by either by foot or by vehicle.
“This is the spot that Father Joe mentioned,” Pablo said. “I have to go back for a couple of things at the church, then I will come join you in about an hour. We can sit together here until dinnertime, then we can return to the high school for a meal that Wes Kent is making.”
“Sounds good. Thanks Pablo,” said Mark.
Mark put down his chair and picked up the sign with the stakes in it and gently shoved both stakes into the ground, trying to make the sign level. Once he was content with it, he sat down in his chair and waited. There were no cars, and he saw nobody on campus. Well, things aren’t completely back to normal anywhere, are they? He thought to himself. I may have to be
here a long for a long time, he thought, and he settled comfortably in his chair and looked up at the azure sky.
Pablo Fuentes pulled into the church parking lot and parked the minivan in its allotted space. He walked leisurely into the office, waved to Judith, and hung the minivan keys in the cabinet. He nodded and smiled, then walked back towards the men’s room to relieve himself. After finishing at the urinal, he washed his hands and began to dry them in the automatic dryer, when he heard a strange sound coming from outside the bathroom. He silently shook his hands dry and tip-toed out into the hall and listened again. In a few seconds, a similar sound returned, but he couldn’t quite make it out. It oddly sounded like it was coming from the broom closet. He frowned and shook his head, turned to the left, and began to walk away, when the sound came a third time. This time he was certain it had come from the closet. He opened the door and spied only brooms and mops. Thinking himself crazy, he shook his head again and began to leave when the sound came again, this time followed by a loud slap, followed by a guttural moan.
Pablo looked carefully at the corner of the closet and noticed that the wall didn’t seem to be connected in the back.
“Qué?” he whispered aloud in wonder. He jammed his fingers behind the wall and tugged. Nothing happened. Then he realized it was supposed to slide and pushed it to the right.
“Díos mío,” he said, and entered an antechamber above a set of carpeted stairs. He eased silently down until he could see four people to the right of the staircase. He was mostly out of sight, so he remained completely still. He heard Father Joe’s voice.
“Okay ladies, we’ve established that no one can hear you. This room is soundproof and so is the sliding door at the top of the closet that you unfortunately found during your little trespassing adventure. So one more time. What did you find?” asked Father Joe.
“Nothing. We found nothing except a secret room. I swear to you. Why are you treating us like this?”
That is the voice of my daughter, thought Pablo to himself. What is she doing here?
“Unfortunate that you don’t wish to be cooperative. Very well. Oleg. What did you discover when you came in?”