A Thousand Bridges

by Michael McKinney

  "For you see, gentlemen," he almost whispered the words, "leadership is the single most important product we supply to the world. Let them have their factories and their spiraling inflation. We will trim down and rebuild a nation that will be the envy of them all, and the wheels have already been set in motion."

  It wasn't a long speech, but I thought it would never end. Military bases would be converted into drug detention centers and state-controlled AmeriGrowth housing where disadvantaged children would be taught trades, honing them in ultra-modern shops that would provide cheap, dependable, non-union merchandise for the state.

  Everything from envelopes to computers would be made in these state centers. This would also relieve the overburdened public school systems so that Florida's other children, the leaders of tomorrow, could begin to learn again, could prepare for their futures.

  The speaker told us that the Contras, and their training at places like Omni, were conceived in Washington, D.C., and designed to be the prototype of the future "supercadre" of special-forces style troops, an army that would be housed around the state on private land in privately financed mini-bases near urban centers. Funded by industry and private donations, these troops could be mobilized at a moment's notice to isolate the drug community, or any other threat to order, from the rest of the population. If the need arose.

  Changes in drug laws would legalize the sale of drugs in these tightly controlled areas, and the sales would be heavily taxed.

  "If you think Prohibition was a failure," the speaker said, "then you simply aren't seeing history for what it is. Prohibition was only a tool, just the time it took our government to establish an orderly line of supply to meet the demand. To cut out the Wildcatters, and those who wouldn't play by the rules. It was never the object of the government to remove liquor forever from the American people."

  He returned to the podium, replaced the microphone on its stand and took a deep breath. "Drugs aren't going to go away," he said. "That's the reality. But the killing and the destruction of law and order don't have to be the reality of the drug trade. The overlapping of drug problems on the lives of decent people need not be tolerated. We feel we can set up supply lines and bonded agents to handle these 'lower forms' who will always use drugs, and to tax them, thereby providing services to the good people of the state of Florida.

  "Each of you will receive a copy of our detailed plans charting the future of your state, and a short letter telling you what will be expected of you. There will be substantial rewards offered you as members of this leadership team. You have never had in your possession documents so vital, and so sensitive. They are not to be taken home and shared with the wife," he said. "Or your mistress."

  There were chuckles in the room. "There is a good reason why no women are in this room," he said. "Women are not leaders. They do not have the capacity to lead." He held up his hands and smiled.

  "Please don't misunderstand me, gentlemen," he said. "I have a wonderful wife and we've been together for over thirty years. When it comes to nurturing, to support and love, there's no one I like better. But I don't tell her what I do day by day, and I never will.

  "Things have gotten mixed up in the world, and that's what's gone wrong. We've allowed malcontents the right to make decisions that affect the rest of us. You are on the front line of a new America that will take control again."

  He went on with his pep talk to this small group of power brokers, and I wondered how many other groups he'd stroked this way. I also began to wonder, a little late, how I was going to get out of there alive. I felt like the guy in The Invasion of the Body Snatchers just before he ran screaming onto the highway.

  I looked at the speaker, at Bob Birk, and at a few others sitting behind him from my hideout. These weren't the smooth officials sent to pacify the public - these were the rough-and-tumble boys, the left hand of government that picks your pocket as the right hand waves the flag.

  When the speaker wrapped up his little talk, he held up a videocassette tape and said, "I have a surprise for you all after dinner. We have a copy of The event that started it all several years ago, when the Colonel came here to Omni." A splatter of applause, like bacon frying, died down when he placed the tape on the podium.

  "The Colonel's speech is still an inspiration, and we thought, since several of you here tonight weren't a part of us during those early days, tonight would be a good time to relive the event." He nodded to someone along the back wall and the lights came back to their earlier brightness. I dropped the cloth to the floor.

  "Mr. Birk assures me we have the finest seafood dinners you have ever tasted just across the hall." The speaker moved away from the microphone. "So, if you will join us?"

  Chair legs scooted on the floor and I heard the crowd shuffle out of the room.

  "Stanley?" the speaker's voice became fatherly, relaxed. "After you rewind that tape and put the Colonel's tape in for viewing, you may join us for dinner."

  "Thank you, sir!" an eager voice replied. The door opened and closed and I lifted the cloth slowly. Stanley was still bent over the video camera as I slipped out from under the table, and I almost died of fright when my ankles popped, louder than firecrackers. Luckily, the man was lost in his work as he tinkered with the machine. I glanced at the door as I crept up behind him.

  It wouldn't have been good enough to get me into professional football, but the dropkick I delivered to Stanley's nuts from behind lifted him up on his tippy-toes. He sucked in air and his hands shot straight up over his head as though he was giving me credit for a field goal. When he came back down he bent double like an inchworm, and I had to crouch down to punch him.

  His long head snapped sideways on his long neck, and when he hit the floor Stanley curled up in a ball.

  The tape in the camera was still rewinding, and I punched every button on the machine twice before it stopped and ejected the black plastic video tape cassette. Stanley moaned. I grabbed the tape and the second tape from the podium and stuck one in each pocket of the blazer as I hurried to the table. I picked up the trumpet and opened the door. There, alone in the hall, was the same young soldier I'd met earlier. Upstairs, the band was playing The Hokey-Pokey.

  "You?" the soldier said as I brought the trumpet up and connected solidly with his chin. The bell rang. His eyelids drooped, but to my surprise he didn't fall. His hands fumbled for the M-16 and I slammed the bent bell down over his flat-topped cap. He dropped to his knees, and I slipped the rifle from his arm as he fell forward onto the tiles.

  The two smacks with the trumpet bent it out of shape and my footsteps in the hall sounded louder than a courthouse clock, but I had already grabbed the jumpsuit and was halfway to the fence by the time the yelling started. Men shouted in anger and confusion, and to my horror I heard the rotors of a helicopter begin whumping through a high-pitched whine.

  The space between me and the fence looked to be roughly the size of Nebraska and the cassettes were lead weights in my pockets. I ran over the little trees and bounced off the big ones. My blazer caught on a jagged edge of tin and ripped as I dove through the fence. I threw down the balled-up jumpsuit, shrugged out of the blazer, and looked back to see a helicopter's running lights lifting into the sky over the Men's Club.

  I removed the cassettes from the pockets and spread the red jacket over the floor of the yellow boat, then pushed it back into the current with my foot. I grabbed the jumpsuit, slipped it on, and started running north along the creek bank. Men were shouting commands just a few hundred yards away, and even though I carried a loaded M-16 in my right hand I doubted I would use the rifle under any circumstances.

  It wasn't as though these men were real soldiers. They were part of a new, private army - renegades, as far as I was concerned. But I didn't want to get into a firefight with them when I only had the clip that was part of the rifle. I much preferred the run-and-hide method.

  The chopper, a Blackhawk, swung over the bridge, and I waited until it nosed southward before I st
epped out from under the abutment. As I climbed over the limestone banks in the dark I pushed the cassettes into the deep jumpsuit pockets, and when I heard machine-gun fire I stopped in my tracks and looked up at the Blackhawk as it negotiated over the heavily forested creek, its searchlights flashing through the branches like a strobe light, like the slow flares that used to illuminate the magnificent landscape of Vietnam.

  The chopper pilot held the tail in the air as it skittered sideways above the creek, and the gunner cleared the right-of-way with his heavy firepower. Tracers whizzed through the trees, and somewhere below the little yellow boat was taking a beating. Small fires began dancing on the banks. I turned my back on the scene and made my way slowly upstream to my car.

  I drove with the lights off until I came to the paved country road, then headed carefully to my house. I didn't think they'd get around to suspecting me until much later, and though this hadn't gone as well as I'd hoped in one way, it certainly turned out to be a bonanza in another.

  I had the evidence Mel wanted, and all I had to do was stay alive long enough to get it to him. I decided to pack a bag and disappear from Palmetto Bay until I could get the tapes safely to Mel. My first move would be to call Katherine and let her know the time had come, but as I opened my front door and turned on the lights, my telephone rang.

  "Hello?" I tried to sound calm, but Katherine's hysterical shouting on the other end unnerved me. "Wait a minute!" I shouted back at her. "Katherine, what is it? What's wrong?"

  "They're dead!" she screamed at me. "They're all dead, Mac!"

  Suddenly, the ground was falling out from under me.

  "Who, Katherine?" I fumbled for control. "Who's dead?"

  "Oh, God," she broke down then. "Mac, they killed everyone." She was gulping for air.

  "Please, Katherine," I begged her. "Slow down and tell me. Catch your breath and I'll hold on."

  I forgot about a suitcase and grabbed a couple of hampers of clean clothes and, with the receiver pinched between my chin and shoulder, I moved them to the front door. I could hear a woman crying in the background, and I tried to imagine where Katherine might be.

  "Hey, we can't let it fall apart now," I said. "I need you. I want you to get Candace out of town tonight. Right now."

  "Mac," she interrupted, "Candy called me this morning and told me that Dr. Kuyatt had gone to see Senator Teall. She begged him not to go, to wait until you called, but he wouldn't listen."

  Katherine spoke away from the mouthpiece and the other woman stopped crying. "She was scared, so I drove over and picked her up at the doctor's house. He told Senator Teall everything, Mac, and they just showed it on the news."

  "They talked about the Contras and the murders?" I asked.

  "No," she sighed. "Dr. Kuyatt's office burned to the ground this afternoon. When the police went to his house to tell him, they found him and his family dead. Someone shot them all, even their two children. The police said it was a gang hit."

  I became aware of the miles between us as she went on, sounding desperately tired now. "They won't stop until they find us, Mac. And now they know all about you, too."

  "Damn," I said, waiting as she tried to soothe the other woman. Valuable seconds passed before she came back on the phone. "Is that Candy with you?"

  "Yes."

  "Listen to me. I don't care how you do it, but get out of Las Vegas right now. Go to the place where you met Sack-o and Van Zeti and I'll be there." I heard a car pass the house and I looked out the window into the night.

  "Do it now, Katherine," I said. "I have the evidence we need to hang these people, and we can win! But it won't mean anything to me if you're not safe. I couldn't take it if you got hurt, do you understand?"

  "I think I do, Mac," she said, her voice almost normal. "I feel the same about you." There was a pause. "I'll be...we'll be okay."

  "Just get there, pal," I said. "I'll make sure they're expecting you. Do you think you can find it?"

  "Oh, yes," she said. "No problem."

  "Believe in me, Katherine," I said, and hung up. I tossed the M-16 on top of my stacks of clothes before I ran into the bathroom. I grabbed a handful of supplies and stuffed them into a shaving bag, then went quickly into the bedroom to grab the cash I'd withdrawn from the bank. I slipped my pistol into my belt, scooped up a box of ammunition, and took it all into the living room. I pushed everything between two piles of clean shirts, turned off the lights, and took one last look at my home.

  What I had was an absurd stack of supplies, but I knew they would be quick when the news from Nevada reached them. This vigilante government and its army had worked as fast as fire ants when I stirred them up at the Men's Club. I was still amazed at how they had reacted instantly to my intrusion. They were inexperienced, but good. I guessed they were mostly former soldiers, lured into private work. It had that feel to it. And, they wouldn't be inexperienced long.

  I kicked open the screen door and stepped out into the night, scanning the yard over the top of my tall stack of belongings. My foot missed the last step and I lost my balance, went airborne and fell on my stomach beside the jasmine, my clothes fanning out on the grass in front of me. My angry words to myself died in my throat when I looked toward my scattered clothes and saw a man standing in the shadows of my dark driveway. I dug desperately to free the pistol from my belt.

  "Clay," the voice was familiar. "You must be the original hard-luck ace."

  Lonnie Patrick knelt down on my lawn and began throwing clothes back into the baskets. He grinned at me as I got to my knees and grabbed a handful of my clean underwear.

  "Not really," I said, offended. "No hard luck here, Lieutenant. My only problem at the moment is that I happened to pick a really big fish to fry. Bigger than the pan."

  I dropped the clothes into one of my baskets. Lonnie Patrick picked up the M-16 and looked at me, one eyebrow raised. He wiped gently along its length with the palm of his hand.

  "Yeah," he said. "But there's your problem. You see, a little fish can't kill a big fish."

  "Yes, he can," I said. I took the small rifle from him and put it back on top of my clothes, stacked the baskets and stood up. "The little fish just has to make sure he gets caught in the big fish's throat."

  Patrick opened my car door and I put the clothes on the back seat. "Valid concept," he said. I slipped the pistol from my belt and put it in the glove compartment.

  "Lieutenant," I said. "There are going to be a lot of people here in the next few minutes, and they'll be trying to kill me. If you want to chat, then get in your car and follow me."

  I pushed past him and sat down in my car, cranked it, closed the door and put the car in reverse. "Are you coming?"

  Lonnie Patrick nodded and ran to his car, cursing me all the way.

  TWELVE

  We raced to the interstate, and I headed west to the I-10 Trucker's Rest Truck Stop, pulled into the dark, crowded parking lot and waited for Patrick to get out of his car. We took a booth and I watched the door.

  "What the hell did you do this time?" he said with no attempt at humor.

  "Give me a break," I said. "What are you doing here?"

  He shrugged. "I took a day off. I've been watching the news, and I had a feeling you were about to do something stupid."

  "Well," I said, gloating, "you're too late. I've already done it."

  "Tell me," he said, so I did. When I wrapped up with the details of Katherine's phone call I looked in his big cop face and saw real fear. And concern. I was moved.

  "Shit, Clay," he said. "I'm not ready for this. I could handle dirty politics and even radical zealots, but you're talking secret governments and private armies here."

  "You're telling me?" I said. "Don't you understand, Lieutenant? This proves Candy's story of the murders at Limestone Creek. That's where they screwed up."

  He shook his head. The waitress brought burgers and fat, limp fries. Patrick squirted ketchup all over his and ate. I nibbled mine. "They had to pull them out of th
ere because of it," I said, "and they framed poor old Renaldo to cover their asses. And now they know there was a witness."

  "You're in a lot more trouble than I can undo," Patrick said, his mouth full. "What now?"

  I thought it over. I had to trust him. There was no time to play games, and I was too close to the edge to worry about caution. I told him about Mel, and his help. I said I was going there to make copies of the videotapes, and I invited him to come along. I called Mel's house, told Torrea I was on the way and left, belching from the greasy fries.

  Torrea and Mel met us at the door, and there was coffee perking in the kitchen. I introduced the Lieutenant and quickly summarized the recent events as Mel set up the taping equipment. We took our coffee into the cluttered living room and sat silently watching, first the tape of that night's meeting then, in awe, the fiery, arrogant oratory of the famous colonel.

  It was a stunning, matched pair of performances on these two tapes. A wild, tent revival-styled trip into a fantasy underworld where everyone outside the small group was either a Communist or an impediment to the American Way. The Colonel's part was to tell the audience that the Contras were an experiment now being studied by the best intelligence groups for the purposes of not only building an American version of this army with the help of powerful people in private enterprise, but also to decide the methods to ensure public acceptance of them.

  Whether the Contras ever won a battle at home wasn't even a concern. The Colonel said if the Contras and the Sandinistas killed "everyone in that miserable country," no one would care except for the coffee industry. The audience laughed.

  When the tapes ended we sat staring at the blank television screen and listening to a whippoorwill calling from the dark woods outside. Torrea was the first to speak. "How?" she said. Mel was hooking up patch cords between tape machines, and he answered without looking up.

  "The house bills," he said. "Those four numbers Mac gave me over the phone were the numbers of separate house bills. There were four, in all. They're designed to join together twenty-three laws already on the books, and they're written so as to reword each law just enough to create one new mega-law that'll change the legal system in the state of Florida. I just finished putting it all together in my computer. This new law will link all law-enforcement agencies in the state and put them under the command of the state government."