Serpentine

by Peter Parken

  And also, if not most importantly, the hint of terrorism being rampant around the world gave the United States another great tool—that being the very powerful ‘false flag.’ Once in a while a government needed to accomplish something that required an excuse, or ‘reason,’ before it could be executed. The typical ‘false flag’ was usually a terrifying act that mimicked terrorism, but in fact was done by the government against its own people and its own soil. But always done with acceptable collateral damage—just enough damage and terror to give the government momentum.

  And a ‘false flag’ operation was always done in a way to implicate someone else—another country, an organization, virtually anyone the government wanted to take action against. But wouldn’t be able to otherwise, unless they succeeded in getting their people, and their allies, behind them.

  One of the most ingenious ‘false flags,’ in Carl’s opinion, was way back in 1962, termed as Operation Northwoods. The Department of Defense and the Joint Chiefs of Staff authorized an action that would have seen the CIA and other operatives committing acts of terrorism in Miami, Florida and Washington, D.C. But, those acts would be designed to implicate Cuba. Planes with Cuban insignia would be slammed into high-rise buildings, explosives would be detonated—in other words, all hell would break loose—all made to look like Cuba was doing it. But the wimp President, John Fitzgerald Kennedy, outright rejected the plan—even though the military had already approved it and was ready to launch.

  Carl thought it was ironic that the documents pertaining to Operation Northwoods had been declassified for years now, but virtually no American was even aware of the proposed plan. It was out there for the looking, but no one was looking. People could even just google it; it was that easy and that available.

  But, that’s what made a ‘false flag’ easy. Even if people read it, they wouldn’t believe it because the blind patriotism that the U.S. was so good at propagating somehow brainwashed its citizens. Which was a good thing for the NSA and the CIA. The naivety and stupidity of the people allowed total freedom for power to be abused any which way the government chose. And the mainstream Press wouldn’t dare report on Operation Northwoods—even though it was a huge news story, a barbaric revelation. The Press just did what they were told, reported what they were ordered to report. Carl silently thanked God that there weren’t any ethical journalists like that Walter Cronkite guy around anymore.

  No wonder no one believed that 911 was a ‘false flag,’ although in fact it most definitely was. Carl thought it was amazing how similar the 911 operation was to Operation Northwoods. It was just as if that old document had been dusted off and thrown back on the table in 2001, almost forty years after it was conceived. JFK thought he’d put a stop to something horrible back in 1962—but all he really did was cause a delay. And he paid for his cowardice with his life, the fool.

  The NSA’s mandate went much further than ensuring safety from terrorism and foreign powers—much further. Its role, in a nutshell, was just ‘security’—period. If, for example, there was an economic or natural resource risk, the NSA would have to foresee that and recommend appropriate actions.

  Which they always did. As a matter of fact, there was a serious risk that the NSA had reacted to many years ago already. The risk was identified and the solution was proposed. But this time, a President wouldn’t be given the chance to say no. They weren’t going to repeat the JFK mistake. It could happen without the President’s authorization.

  It was labelled ‘Operation Backwash’ and it was the most brilliant ‘false flag’ ever conceived. It had to happen—the very survival of the United States depended on it, and no wimpy President was going to stand in its way.

  Carl’s thoughts were disturbed by a knock on his door.

  “Yeah, come on in, Roger.”

  A tall skinny man with glasses came through the door.

  “Have a seat. Do you have what I need?”

  Roger handed him a CD. “Yep, this is the recording of that woman’s voice from the phone booth in Georgetown. It was flagged and we caught it.”

  “Good. Thanks.” Carl waved his hand toward the door, dismissing him. Roger took the hint and left.

  Carl popped the CD into his computer and listened to the nervous voice saying the words that told Carl everything: The wreckage has been hauled to Key West, Florida. It’s at the main landfill Transfer Station. And it will be dumped at sea in a few days.

  Those words told Carl everything simply because only a handful of people knew where that wreckage was being sent to. He opened up his map of Washington, D.C. and put his fingertip on a street.

  Out of that handful of people who knew, only one of them lived within about five or six minutes from that phone booth: John Fletcher, Chief Investigator for the National Transportation Safety Board.

  The man who had gotten angry with Carl when he insisted he sign a false report. And the same man who had actually yelled at Carl, asserting that the steel of the track had been melted, that it hadn’t snapped.

  Just another man with a small mind. Men like John Fletcher were perfect examples of one of the lingering problems with America, in Carl’s view.

  Chapter 20

  “Wait a few minutes, guys. I’m going to change into something a little more official-looking.”

  Nate glanced at Tom and they both shrugged, as Ron walked through the lobby and down the hall towards his room.

  It didn’t take him long. About five minutes later, he was back, looking very official indeed. Ron was wearing his Navy officer’s uniform—white high-collar tunic jacket with gold buttons, white pants, white shoes—the handsome image topped off by a white hat and black brim with the U.S. Navy emblem on the peak.

  “I packed this in my luggage just in case I decided it might come in handy. And after seeing the Navy influence on this island, and the reverence that these locals seem to have for the Navy, I figured I’d wear it—might give us an edge. So, I won’t use my NTSB identification. I’ll just be the Navy consultant to the NTSB. Whaddaya think?”

  Nate smiled and saluted. “Wow! I’m impressed—you look dashing! I wish I’d been in the military just so I could have worn one of those!”

  Tom walked over and rubbed his hands along the black shoulder crest. “What’s this mean, soldier?”

  Ron laughed. “On the white uniforms, our rank insignias are displayed on the shoulder. On our black uniforms—which they actually call ‘blue,’ don’t ask me why—the insignia is displayed on the sleeves.”

  Tom was still staring at the insignia. “So, two wide bars with a small one in the middle, and a star above—that’s the insignia of a Lieutenant Commander?”

  “Yes.” He laughed again. “‘Stand down,’ Tom. You’re embarrassing me.”

  “Well, I can’t help it if I’m blown away by your appearance. Never seen you like this before. I feel like I have to obey you or something now. Are you gonna start giving us orders?”

  “You bet I am! Starting right now—why don’t you pull the keys out of your pocket and get the car out of the parking lot. An officer can’t be seen walking to a car, now, can he? You have to pull up out front for me!”

  Nate jerked his head toward the door. “C’mon, Tom. We’ll both get the car—and I’ll hold the door open while our esteemed friend here crawls into the back of our rented Ford Taurus.”

  The three friends laughed. Ron adjusted his hat, pulling it down a bit over his eyes. “Oh, I forgot about the Taurus. Suddenly, I’m humbled!”

  *****

  As they were driving down Front Street approaching the Transfer Station parking lot, Nate looked out over Safe Harbor on his left. He was able to make out the jagged edges of the Black Mamba’s skeleton poking up from the pile near the harbor’s edge.

  He’d had a different view of this just yesterday—but it seemed like it was longer ago than that. Nate guessed that his brain was trying its damnedest to make yesterday’s nightmare flight a distant memory.

  As he gazed ou
t through the mouth of the harbor, he noticed a large cargo ship heading straight for the inlet. It looked like Safe Harbor was its intended destination and, if so, there was no doubt in Nate’s mind that his rollercoaster was about to go on its one-way cruise to the depths, never to be seen again.

  The parking lot was right in front of the office. There was an entry point on the left with weigh scales that vehicles would drive onto if they were loading or unloading refuse or trash. Other than that, the facility was wide open for entry and there didn’t seem to be any security personnel, none that were visible at least.

  “Okay, fellas. Before we get out of this car, let’s just muse about what we’re going to say. How we’re going to dupe our way in there.”

  Tom reached into his suit pocket and pulled out a folded newspaper article. “You guys know how much I like to read the news. Well, I found this little article. Refers to a school bus accident in the Keys a couple of weeks ago. It was a bunch of choir kids—the thing rolled, killing three of them. And it says here that one of them was the son of a Navy officer from the naval station. Anyway, this article is an update to the original story—states that the investigation has been completed and it was determined that it was driver error, that there was no fault with the bus. I’m figuring that that bus has already been hauled here, awaiting the wrecking ball. Where else would they take it?”

  Nate scratched his head. “I agree—it’s probably here. So, your idea is that we pretend we’re here to look at the bus?”

  “Right—we can’t exactly come right out and say we want to look at the coaster, especially after what happened yesterday. I’m guessing that any request like that would be ‘red flagged.’”

  Nate licked his dry lips. “Okay, so we’ll say that we’re the NTSB and that we’re here to do our own quick inspection before the bus gets flattened. And school buses are in the NTSB’s jurisdiction if they choose to get involved, so that wouldn’t raise any eyebrows.”

  Ron jumped in. “Well, my uniform might come in handy then, too. We can say the Navy’s involved indirectly because the child of one their own was killed on the bus.”

  “Yep, that fits nicely.”

  Ron took a sip from his water bottle. “God, it’s so hot already—especially in this darn uniform!”

  Tom turned his head around to face the back seat. “Well, buddy, that’s what you get for showing off!”

  Ron laughed. “Speaking of putting on a show—what if our little skit goes wrong? What if the bus isn’t in this yard? We’d have to have another reason for being here.”

  Nate nodded. “You’re right. Then we’d have no choice but to state that we want to see the coaster wreckage, too. That would be our backup plan—nothing to lose. We just come right out and say that since we’re here anyway, and we’re the NTSB, we don’t want to miss the opportunity to have one final look at the wreckage. Make sense?”

  Tom opened his car door. “Sounds good to me. Let’s get to it, guys. Our flight leaves in a few short hours.”

  Nate led the way into the little office. There was a female attendant behind the counter. She looked up, surprised. A place like this probably didn’t get too many visitors. Most people that came here would be coming to dump something—so they would drive right onto the scales and then have to answer questions to the other attendant in the booth outside. The woman in the office probably didn’t have contact with anyone for most of her workday. Now, all of a sudden, three men were standing in front of her, one of them resplendent in uniform.

  “Y...yes? Can I help you, gentlemen?”

  Nate smiled and handed her his fake business card. “I’m Charles Duggett with the National Transportation Safety Board. My associate and I want to take one final look at the school bus that was involved in that fatal accident. And the Lieutenant Commander here is representing the Navy’s interests—one of the children who died was the son of a naval officer.”

  She smiled at Ron. Maybe she had a thing for men in uniform. Nate thought that perhaps it was indeed a good idea after all that Ron had dressed up.

  “That was a very sad accident.” She pointed through the window to the northeast corner of the scrapyard area. “Yes, we still have the bus. It’s scheduled to be crushed tomorrow, so your timing is perfect. Feel free to have a look around.”

  “Thanks so much. We won’t be too long.”

  She smiled, more at Ron than Nate. “Take all the time you want.”

  They walked out of the office and headed in the direction of where she had pointed. When they rounded the first corner they could see the yellow school bus—badly crunched in on one side.

  Nate shielded his eyes from the sun. Then he pointed. “That driveway leads directly to our wreckage. And, look, that cargo ship is just a few minutes away from docking. It’s going to get busy over there real soon.”

  Nate noticed a stationery crane mounted on the rear deck of the ship. It wouldn’t take them long to load the wreckage with that thing.

  “We have to move fast. Ron, I think you should stay here with the bus, and pretend you’re inspecting it, get underneath it and dirty up those pretty dress whites. Go inside, too—just be visible, look like you’re doing something.

  “And in that white outfit you’ll be more visible than Tom or I. If she walks out to take a peek, she’ll see you and be reassured. While you’re doing that, Tom and I will take a look at the wreckage and, if we’re lucky, get some photos of the damaged section.”

  Ron shooed with his hand. “Okay, good plan. Get going.”

  Nate and Tom jogged off in the direction of the Black Mamba, or, what was left of her. Within two minutes, they were there. For a few seconds they just stood and stared. At their masterpiece. It was the first time they’d seen it since the accident. They hadn’t been allowed back to the site again after it had happened, and it was eerie looking at it now, in this place—a twisted pile of junk, in a junkyard. But, it was still their junk.

  Nate motioned with his hand. “You start over there at that end, and I’ll start here. Move fast. That end doesn’t seem to have anything piled. So, you won’t have to worry about being up high. I’ll take the higher spots at this end. We don’t have much time. If you find the section of track we’re looking for, give me a whistle.”

  Tom nodded and ran down to the far end of the wreckage. Nate stared up at the ominous sight in front of him. Then he climbed. It was just a mass of twisted metal. He made his way to the top and then got down on his hands and knees and peered through the trestle pieces. He could easily make out the track of the first straightaway—the one that would have led out of the station and up the first hill. There was also a sequential identification number that was engraved in the steel—Nate made sure that, in all his structures, numbers in sequence were engraved in each track section before any welding of pieces took place.

  Nate picked his way along the top of the wreckage and followed the silver track, which was several feet below him. He scanned it with his eyes; saw where it would take him. He crouched and worked his way monkey-style along the top of the twisted wreckage—saw that the track now had a curve to it. He knew he was looking at the first hill. In this case though, the track of the first hill was lying on its side, curving off to his left.

  He noticed that the way it was lying, just dumped in the spot it was in, it was leading back down to the ground in a gradual slope, leaning up against piles of trestles on the way down. It was leading back down to where Tom was. And Nate knew that after the first hill would come the fateful second hill—the hill they wanted.

  He saw Tom picking his way through the wreckage below. Nate put his thumb and forefinger to his mouth and whistled. Tom looked up and Nate pointed down at the track—then raised his forefinger to signify the number ‘1.’ Tom nodded his understanding and crawled underneath some twisted pieces of metal. Nate watched him edging along the ground following the silver strip of track. Most of the track had been bent and twisted mechanically for shipping purposes, but it was still
largely intact—parts of it looked like spaghetti, but it was easy enough to follow along like a puzzle, especially with the numbering sequence.

  Tom whistled back to Nate. Nate couldn’t see him now, but he knew approximately where he was. He slid feet first between two sections of trestle, and then swung with his hands. He had an open section ahead of him, heading down. He moved, hand over hand, down to where he knew Tom was. When he was ten feet from the ground, he let go and landed deftly on his feet. Then he advanced at a crawl—the area Tom had crawled through was almost like a ‘mechano-set’ tunnel. Nate actually had one of those neat mechano kits when he was a boy—that was when he first discovered his love of building things.

  He heard another whistle. Nate allowed one eye to roam to the right, and the other to the left. Then, through the mess, he saw the soles of Tom’s feet; about 60 feet ahead of him down a trestle tunnel on his left. He took off at a fast crawl.

  Nate examined the curve of the track as he crawled and ran his fingers along the edges. He could tell by the numbers that this was the second hill and where Tom was, up ahead, was probably where the peak would have been. He followed the curve of the hill—for an instant he thought how weird it was to see the hill track bent in a tight loop and on its side, instead of standing majestically erect like he’d designed it to be.

  Tom was digging with his hands. Nate raised his head to get a better look and banged his forehead hard against one of the trestles. Damn!

  He rubbed his head and shook off the pain. “Tom, what are you doing?” He crawled faster and stopped right behind him.

  His best friend turned his head around and stopped digging. “Nate, this would be the exact spot where the split in the track would be. See the way the curve cuts back in? But the bastards buried it!”