by Nick Svolos
After Herculene finished her confession, her image was replaced by SpeedDamon, reciting the same speech. I noted that the North Koreans hadn’t removed his mask. Then I noticed his eyes. They were blinking in an odd pattern. It continued like that until every team member had made their oddly blinking confessions.
“These confessions were picked up by every news agency on the planet. I assume from your reaction that you haven’t been listening to the radio.”
“Naw, I’ve been unplugged since the shootout downtown. What’s with the blinking?”
“It’s Morse Code,” Drummond answered tersely. “We train our high value assets to do this when they go overseas in the event of capture. We assume Ultiman’s done the same with his team. Do you know Morse Code, Conway?”
I shook my head. “I learned the alphabet when I was a kid, but I don’t remember any of it. What’re they saying?”
Kirk leaned forward. “Send Reuben Conway.”
I groaned, and leaned back in my seat, rubbing my eyes.
She continued. “We’re guessing that, since the North Koreans used threats against their civilians as leverage to capture the team, they’re probably leveraging that to force the team to make these videos.”
“Yeah, that’s probably it. They didn’t take their masks.”
“I’ve been wondering about that, myself,” Drummond mused. “Usually, you want to completely humiliate prisoners in a situation like this. Makes ‘em easier to control. Any idea why they didn’t do it?”
“GL probably drew the line at that. He’s using hostages to coerce them. That only works if the people you’re coercing feel an obligation to protect the hostages. You know, heroes.” I got up and pulled a couple of books off a shelf, setting them on my bohemian substitute for a coffee table. “There’s a psychological theory on this,” I said as I picked up a heavily referenced copy of The Psychology of Masks by Luis Hotalling and thumbed to the second chapter. “‘There are a multitude of reasons why people wear masks, but they can be placed in two categories. The first is to conceal one’s identity. The second, and perhaps more important, is to become someone or something else.’
“You see, most of these supervillain types think heroes are full of crap. They can’t quite get their heads around the idea that the other guy’s acting out of something other than self-interest. So they build the mask up in their heads as a way to explain the hero’s behavior. Why else would this miserable do-gooder be thwarting my schemes when he could easily be using his gifts to get the things he wants? It’s stupid. The Angels use masks to protect their IDs. Hell, Bill and Herc don’t even wear them. I know them well enough to tell you any of them would die before they let civilians get hurt. They’re category one, but GL think’s they’re category two. If I’m reading this right, Glorious Leader’s probably thinking if he took their masks they wouldn’t be heroes anymore, just powerless people in a containment cell. He’d lose his leverage over them.”
General Drummond rubbed his chin in thought. “Interesting analysis. Does that give us anything to use against him?”
“Not really. I mean, even if I’m right and he came to this strategy in error, it’s still the right play. As long as he’s holding guns to the heads of a bunch of civilians, The Angels will play along. The thing I can’t figure out is why me?”
“That’s a good question, Mr. Conway.” Kirk picked up a folder and thumbed through it, although I was sure it was pretty much for effect. She’d already memorized anything in there she planned to use. “We’ve done a complete background on you, of course. You haven’t used your passport in a few years, no contacts with anyone we’d be interested in. You don’t seem to have any political interests. According to our data, you don’t even vote. All we have is the request that you received last week, where Glorious Leader asked you to interview him.”
“Yeah, that.” I remembered the diplomatic communique in my bag. How’d they know about that? “Seemed like a stupid idea then, even more stupid now. The only thing I can come up with is he plans to use me as a witness against Ultiman if he decides to put on a show trial.”
The General shook his head. “The timing’s wrong, unless Glorious Leader had some advance knowledge of how this crisis would play out. We don’t think that’s the case.”
I yawned. “So, what’s his angle, then?”
“I have a thought, if you’d like to hear it,” Kirk said with a grin that set off warning bells in my head. My dad has a saying about poker. It goes something like, “If you look around the table and you don’t know who the sucker is, it’s you.” Somehow I’d played into her hands, and I didn’t have a clue as to what she had planned.
“I think,” she continued, setting the folder aside, “that he has a story to tell, and you’re the only person he trusts to get it out.”
I had no idea what my face looked like at that moment, but from Kirk’s reaction, self-satisfied and just this side of smug, I could tell it was just what she was looking for. She had me, and she knew it. Dangling a story in front of a guy like me was like dangling a fresh salmon in front of a hungry bear. Damn, I just got schooled. Never match wits with a seasoned diplomat.
I took a moment to rub my face and buy some time to gather my thoughts. There had to be a better way to resolve this, but I was too damned tired to think of one. That’s when I spotted my out. “OK, look, I’m not going to make a decision tonight. Too tired to think straight. I’ll call you tomorrow and let you know.”
“That works for me, Mr. Conway,” the Assistant Secretary for Political-Military Affairs said as she crisply rose and held out her hand. “Thank you for your time. Have a good night.”
I shook her hand, and her little crew filed out of my apartment. I flipped off the lights, plopped down on my bed and was asleep in seconds.
***
I dreamed of Helen. She was shouting something at me, but we were separated by a dark chasm, and I couldn’t make out what she was yelling because when she opened her mouth, the opening drum flourish and chord sequence from Walk Don’t Run came out. The notes took form and flew at my face like an angry flock of birds. I threw up my arms to fend them off, but they simply disappeared. Then Helen shouted again and the process repeated.
Sluggishly, like I was crawling out of a vat of mud, I shook off my slumber and fumbled for the source of the music. Eventually, I realized it was emanating from my back pocket. Yeah, I use The Ventures as my ringtone. Wiping drool off my cheek, I thumbed the answer button as Bob Bogle began his melody. “Conway.”
“It’s Dawson” came the voice from the other end of the line. “Listen, we got a break in the case. Turns out one of the cell phones we took off the goons last night was used out in the Mojave Desert. I’m heading out there with a couple of my guys to check it out. Figgered maybe you’d wanna tag along.”
I took a look at the time. It was just short of five. “Geez, don’t you guys ever sleep?”
I heard him chuckle. “Justice never sleeps, Conway, you know that. So, you in or out?”
“Yeah. I’m in.”
“We’re just leaving Pedro now. Pick you up in fifteen.”
I put some coffee on and took a quick shower, which did me a world of good. I had so much grime on me from crawling around in that building last night that the water looked almost like mud as it flowed down the drain. Afterward, I looked at the bed and regretted not taking the time to bathe before I went to bed. The sheets were gross. Oh, well, no time to do anything about it now.
I got dressed, grabbed my gear and a mug of joe, and headed downstairs. About halfway down the stairs, I had a thought and went back. On one of bookshelves was the Angelphone. Ultiman loaned it to me back when we were investigating the cape-killer bullet business and never asked for it back. It only dialed one number, the duty desk at the Angel Tower. I grabbed it, just in case. Having a backup plan was a good policy in my business, and if things went really wrong in the desert, at least I could let Ben know where to start looking.
&nbs
p; It was still plenty dark when I made it to the parking lot. There wasn’t even a hint of the coming sunrise, and the lot was inadequately lit by the one external light that still worked. As I walked to the street, I heard a couple of car doors open, followed by the sound of a couple of pairs of boots walking behind me. The hackles on my neck started to rise, and I lengthened my strides while trying to maintain the same pace. You might call me paranoid, but with the way this week had been shaping up, I wasn’t about to take any chances.
“Whoa, Mr. Conway, hold up,” a voice drawled from behind me. “We’re with the Army.”
I glanced behind me, and sure enough, there were two soldiers, a sergeant and a corporal, in camouflage fatigues coming toward me. “Sorry if we spooked you, sir. We didn’t expect you to be leaving this soon.”
“How ‘bout you explain yourself, Sergeant. Why’re you watching my place?”
“Sure thing, sir. I’m Staff Sergeant Spaulding and this is Corporal Fournier. We’re under orders from General Drummond to keep tabs on you. We’re not here to cause you any trouble, we’re just supposed to follow you around. Make sure you’re safe.”
Oh, this was just lovely. “Any idea why? And while we’re at it, what the hell gives him the authority to follow civilians around?”
“No idea, sir. On both counts. We’re just doin’ what he told us to do. Hope it’s not too much trouble.”
I was mad, and seriously considering raising a stink about the whole thing, but giving these guys a ration of grief wasn’t going to accomplish anything. It wasn’t like it was their fault Drummond was an overbearing ass. Instead, I took a sip of my coffee. “Alright guys, tell ya what. I’m going on a ride-along with some cops this morning. I gotta follow their rules, and so do you. If their Captain says you can follow, I’ll play along. If he says you can’t, then you go back to your General. Tell him I was uncooperative and hostile. Deal?”
“Fair enough, sir.”
Dawson pulled up in his Crown Victoria a minute later. I slid into the back seat next to Sandoval while Spaulding explained his situation to Dawson.
“You got your own transportation?” the Captain asked after hearing Spaulding out.
“Yes sir. We’re in that humvee over there.”
“Alright. We’re gonna be moving fast. I wanna be out of the city before rush hour hits. Try to keep up.”
“Yessir!” the Sergeant barked and the soldiers ran back to their vehicle.
Dawson put his Detroit behemoth into gear, and within minutes we were scampering along at one hundred miles per hour on the I-10. It was about two hundred forty miles from Santa Monica to the part of the Mojave Desert we were heading to. If we tried to do it during the workday, it could take us over four hours. Between our early start and Dawson’s lead foot, it looked like we might make it in under three.
“So, how’d you get on the Army’s radar, Conway?” the Captain asked. “That’s gotta be a new personal best for you.”
“Long story,” I said. “Not sure how much I can talk about.”
“Ah, so that’s how it is, eh?”
“Yep. Let’s just say they want me to do something stupid and leave it at that.” In fact, it was downright asinine. Assuming Glorious Leader’s request was on the level, I couldn’t see him being happy with the result. I didn’t do puff pieces. Interviewing him would only end with me in a North Korean prison cell. I couldn’t see any other way it could turn out. Still, Janice Kirk’s speculation, that GL had a story he only trusted me to break, intrigued me. And then there was the blinked message in the video. For all his faults, Drummond had that one right. It had to be Ultiman’s doing. What did he know that I didn’t?
It didn’t matter. I knew I was going to go. I just wasn’t ready to admit it to myself yet.
We passed the time with a series of discussions about cars, football and women. Dawson ran us through a drive-through when we hit Victorville so we could grab some breakfast. He handed the girl at the window an extra twenty to pay for the soldiers behind us. A class act, that Arnold Dawson. He pulled over at the ramp to let the humvee catch up before getting back on the highway.
I wolfed down my breakfast sandwich and logged some z’s through the next leg of the trip. At around eight, a change in the pitch of the road noise woke me up. I saw a big, one hundred and thirty foot tall thermometer basking in the morning sun. We were in Baker. Dawson pulled up at a diner, and we all got out to stretch our legs. We must have been expected, because a uniformed park ranger came out to meet us. Tall, sun-bronzed and lean, Ranger Maggie Oliphant radiated the competence of someone who’d spent her entire life outdoors in one of the most desolate places on Earth. After a round of greetings and introductions, we got down to business, huddled around the hood of Dawson’s car upon which the ranger spread a big topographical map.
“So, here’s the cell tower you asked me about,” she pointed at a spot on the map that looked to be a mountain. “The next tower is here,” pointing at another spot. “But you say your suspect’s phone never registered there?”
“That’s right,” Dawson replied.
“OK, so that means they must have turned off somewhere around here. Now, there’s an old dirt road that runs along the wash, right here, but not much else. I haven’t been that way in a while, myself. I don’t even know if it’s still passable.”
“Where’s the road go?” Powell asked. “Anything out there?
“Nuh uh,” she shook her head. “Maybe a hundred years ago, it was a mining trail. There was a Borax mine up north from there, but they closed it in the 20’s. We sometimes used ta catch kids going out there to drink beer, but we don’t even see that nowadays.”
Dawson nodded. “A mine, eh? How come that’s not on the map?”
“Can’t find it now. The whole thing caved in back, I don’t know, maybe fifty years ago. Nothin’ but rocks there now.”
“You know, if I’ve learned anything at all from Scooby-Doo, abandoned mines are usually a pretty safe bet when you’re looking for bad guys,” I observed.
“Well, who am I to argue with a talkin’ dog?” Dawson agreed. “I think that’s where we should start. Can you give us directions?”
“Sure, but you’re not gonna make it in this thing.” She directed her chin at Dawson’s machine. “Probably the only way you’re getting out there is if I give you a ride.”
“You gonna be able to fit us all in?”
“I can fit four, if you’re friendly.”
“We can take our vehicle, ma’am,” Sergeant Spaulding volunteered. “It’ll make it. We’re kind of an all-terrain organization.”
Oliphant nodded. “Alright, let’s get going then.”
Dawson got shotgun by virtue of his rank, leaving me squeezed into the back seat of the ranger’s Chevy Tahoe with Sandoval and Powell. Naturally, as the scrawniest guy there, I got stuck in the middle. It could have been worse. There was enough room for us, and the ranger’s vehicle had a full all-terrain package and a lift kit. It looked like it could probably tackle an apocalypse all on its own.
She took us up a frontage road that ran along the I-15 until she got to the turnout she described. She called it a dirt road, but I’m pretty sure “road” was just an inside joke. Maybe in ranger-speak, “road” means “area without quite as many boulders as the area next to it.” Needless to say, the ride was dusty, bumpy and, from my position crammed between two beefy cops, generally unpleasant. At least the high desert was cool at that time of year, and we didn’t need to open the windows.
A lot of people make a big deal about the desert, telling you about how beautiful it is. I’m not one of those people. To me it just looks like a depressing, dry expanse of unhappy-looking plants and rocks providing shelter to a bunch of unhappy critters, all of whom are too busy biting and poisoning each other to get any enjoyment out of life. I don’t have a lot of use for anything to the east of the I-5.
I zoned out, mulling over my fight with Helen, the impending trip to North Korea, what
the heck Protest Girl was really up to, and a myriad of pesky chores like writing that book, preparing for the tax audit and when I was going to find time to finish fixing my car. I suppose I was feeling sorry for myself. It didn’t do much to help my mood, but it gave me some escape from the mind-numbing boredom of the jarring two-hour excursion to look at a caved-in Borax mine. A North Korean prison cell was starting to look like a vacation.
About ninety minutes into our trip, Oliphant suddenly stopped the truck and got out. We joined her as she backtracked down the road a piece. She stopped and looked at the mountain we’d been skirting, then down at the road and over to a pile of rocks on the other side. Us city-slickers stood by, watching her with baffled attention.
“Something of interest, Ranger?” Dawson broke the silence.
“There was a rockslide here,” she said. “Not too long ago, either.”
“Somebody cleared it?”
“Yup.” She knelt down and brushed some loose dust away from the road with her hand. “Heavy equipment, from the looks of it. See these marks? Coulda been a bulldozer.”
“What makes you think it was recent?” I asked, astonished that she could have noticed all this while driving. It just looked like dirt and rocks to me.
“The bottom of that pile over there.” She indicated the rocks on the side of the road. “When the rains come, the water coming off the mountain usually works its way under it. The rocks on the bottom tend to sink down a bit.” She walked over to brush some pebbles and smaller rocks to reveal a small boulder sitting on hard earth. “This was done sometime after the last rain.”
Dawson checked the map and made a note. “When was that?”
“March,” she replied.
“And I take it this wasn’t done by the Park Service?”