The Land of the Free

by Krakondack

  Their expressions softened noticeably at the prospect of getting some digs in at the greenshirts. Frank and John noticed the body language and took that as their cue to sit down.

  The comments from the men started coming so quickly, they didn’t even need to ask questions. “I’ve been unloadin’ ships for 15 years,” one man started. “And now the new security guys tell us how to do our jobs. There’s more security than workers. They tell us the order to unload containers, where we can put ‘em, and which end first. Sometimes they make me unload ‘em backwards to the way the trucks come in, so that slows everythin’ down. They don’t give a shit about efficiency. They have some kinda’ ballet choreography they’re makin’ us follow. They’re sure not helpin’ Tilbury. And the foreman’s just told to shut up and follow instructions. No one knows what the hell these guys’re up to.”

  “They turned the place upside-down,” said another man. “They’re so screwed up, the place is half empty. Then everythin’ shows up at once and we start our ballet dance, as Joe called it. It’s like the opposite of efficiency. Tilbury used to work on it, even brought guys in to organize us and find efficiency. Now it’s the opposite.”

  A third man could hardly wait to speak. “It used to be Tilbury managers running the show. Then they were all fired and a new guy came in with the greenshirts. Now they run the place. But I can tell you this. They don’t know squat about running a port.”

  John posed a question to the group. “So would it be fair to say they have inordinate influence on operations beyond any fair scope of ‘security,’ to the detriment of efficiency, employee morale and profitability?”

  “They don’t influence shit,” said one previously silent worker. “They run the show. Other than that, it’s as you say.”

  “Well, at least they built us a social complex,” said another man, laughing mockingly. “Get this. They put in dozens of showers and bathrooms. Do they think we like it here so much we wanna’ move in?”

  “So you think you gonna’ sue them? I don’t think that’s a great idea,” said the final man.

  “Why not?” asked Frank. “What’s nice about being scumbag lawyers is we can sue someone for farting in the office if we want to.”

  “You’d make a killing off Larry’s office!” added one of the men, to raucous laughter.

  “Seriously,” said the final man, a quiet man about 40 with thinning red hair and slender build. “These guys are tight with Morningstar Security and they’ll kill you before you can spend your money.”

  “We’ll let the senior partners worry about that,” said John. “If there are going to be any threats, they’ll go to the decision makers. What do you think they’re up to here with all this meddling?”

  The first man to have spoken wasted no time responding: “We’re rehearsin’ some sorta’ fast unload of a few hundred containers. It’s the same thing over an’ over. If it were drugs, they’d care ‘bout efficiency. But the order of everythin’s so important to them, it’s gotta’ be somethin’ different. I couldn’t tell ya’ what it is.”

  “Well, maybe we could make some phone calls and get some Feds to show up when they’re doing one of their unloads,” said Frank, more provocatively than seriously.

  “Not a good idea unless you plan to bring an army,” replied the red haired man. “And even then, they’ve got enough firepower in the warehouse to put up a good fight. No SWAT team could stand up to ‘em, that’s for sure.”

  John made a show of taking that comment very seriously. “When we conclude the investigation in Baltimore, maybe we’ll go to the Congress with this.”

  “Unless they take over the government first,” shot back the red haired man, to some good natured mockery from the other workers. John laughed with them, but inside the blood turned ice-cold in his veins, as he realized the implications of the man’s comment. John thanked all the men, and again assured them that he knew no names, and would soon forget faces also.

  They left the bar but hadn’t noticed the surveillance equipment at Fred’s, and the bartender who discreetly tipped off his benefactors over the inquiries they had been making. John and Frank decided they were hungry and it was time to get some dinner. The sidewalks were right up against the street, and they had no reason to be suspicious when a white utility van stopped beside them. The side door of the van slid open and two hooded men simultaneously pushed them from behind into the idling van. One of the men grunted, “got you, you bastards.” They felt the prick of the hypodermic needles in their arms, and as they collapsed unconscious in the van, John thought he scratched the inner arm of one of the men, whose voice sounded familiar.

  Chapter 44: San Marcos

  Luis was the boat operator José had arranged for Lyle and Jess, and he came to the beach bar at the Hotel Contadora at 4:00, as agreed. “Josh Feldstein, and my wife Rachel,” said Lyle, with palpable awkwardness.

  Whether Luis noticed or not, he did not let on, but he motioned for them to take a short walk on the beach while they spoke. He started the discussion. “Why San Marcos?”

  “I heard the reefs were pristine there,” replied Lyle.

  “You want to snoop around on the operations there, that’s obvious. The reefs are pristine lots of places. There’s nothing special about the ones at San Marcos.”

  “I want to get a read on the effects of all that activity on the health of the reef,” said Jess, fresh from her environmental science degree. “It’s best to monitor it from the beginning, before the serious damage has been done. Josh is just doing this for my benefit.”

  Luis looked unsure for a moment and said, “I can’t just take you to the harbor at San Marcos. It’s too dangerous. Also, there’s no reef in there. To see reefs, you’re better off looking at the south side of the island and making your way as close to the harbor mouth as you dare. I can take you close, but you’ll have to dive the reefs yourselves. I can pick you up after three hours. If you’re there, you come back with me. If not, you’re out of luck. And it’s $1,500, all upfront. If you get caught, I don’t want to be out the money.”

  “Deal,” replied Lyle. They agreed to meet at eight the following morning and Luis left.

  “Do you trust him?” asked Jess.

  “There’s no reason not to. We’re just a couple of stupid tourists in his mind, a chance to make a buck. I don’t think he’d abandon us there or anything like that. He has a reputation to maintain. I think he’s just trying to cover his own tracks with his comments. And I think he may have bought your line about environmental monitoring. That probably means there’s really something to it.

  …

  After a light breakfast the following day, they met Luis at the marina where his boat was moored. It was an old 30 foot deep hull boat that was fine for ferrying passengers for fishing or diving, but it did not look like something they would want in rough waters for extended trips. “She’s faster than she looks,” smiled Luis. “I’ve made quite a few modifications myself.”

  Jess was skeptical that this heap would be anything like “fast” but she had other things on her mind right now. “Luis, have you noticed environmental problems with the San Marcos operations?”

  Luis thought for a moment, as though deciding whether to speak or not, then said, “I thought you already knew. With all the people they have there, sewage gets in the water and kills the reefs. It’s worst at the mouth of the harbor, but as I said, I can’t take you there. I’ll take you to the south side of the island and a rock outcrop that was once part of the reef. I can’t get any closer on that side of the island or I would hit the reef.”

  “Can you tell us about the people there?” asked Lyle.

  “There sure are lots of them, getting off big ships that look like cruise ships painted over in gray. Around here they say they’re North Korean. And there’s no music or dancing. They’re all young men, like soldiers, but they don’t wear uniforms. Are you here to call the Americans on them? Are you the CIA or something?”

  “No,
far from it,” said Lyle. “And it’s more complicated than just calling the Americans, but we do need to learn who they are. And if it turns out that they’re Chinese instead of Korean, then it will become even more complicated.”

  “But we need to have the story ready if we get a chance to make our case,” added Jess. “And I don’t want to see the reefs killed off.”

  Before they left for their trip to San Marcos, Lyle decided to call John to update him on the large numbers of possible North Koreans on the island. He dialed John’s phone and listened to the “hello.” It wasn’t John’s voice that answered. He paused for a moment, then disconnected. “John and Frank may be in trouble, Jess.”

  “Then it’s all up to us,” said Jess, trying to sound brave in the face of this troubling development.

  …

  Panama Bay is a shallow tropical body of water known for excellent fishing and unspoiled reefs. The short trip to San Marcos was a delightful cruise in a pristine environment amid colorful waters and abundant sea life. Before they knew it, Luis had stopped at a rock outcrop about 300 feet from shore. There was just enough exposed rock where they would be able to wait for Luis’ return. Luis reminded them to be back in three hours. Both divers nodded in agreement and then tipped backwards overboard.

  Once Luis had left, Lyle motioned to the shoreline. They quickly covered the distance to the beach, and within minutes, they had stashed their scuba gear in a cluster of coral boulders out of sight of any passersby. The island was small. The beach where they landed was on the south side, faced by a hill that extended as a ridge to the northeast. They would need to cross it to get to the port, which lay to the north. At least we’re not likely to be seen making our approach, thought Jess.

  They began the hike up the hill in the sun and humidity, an uncomfortable undertaking. They reached the top after about 20 minutes, and the vegetation had some breaks just below the ridge line where they could look down on the port. The harbor was directly in front of them at the base of the hill, and several ships were in port, including one that appeared as Luis described, a converted cruise ship that had been painted battleship-gray.

  Across the harbor to the west and to their left sat a cargo ship in the process of being loaded with shipping containers that looked like they had some extra attachments, as suggested by the memo Robbie had sent to Jess. Farther back on the west shore was a large warehouse surrounded by shipping containers. Trucks were taking containers into and out of the warehouse through various doors. “Whatever modifications they’re making to the containers, it’s happening right in that warehouse,” said Lyle.

  On the east shore to their right, there were many small buildings that seemed to resemble army barracks. They couldn’t see all of the facility because the ridge they were standing on projected to the east of the harbor before descending towards the low land near the shore. It appeared the facility extended around the ridge to the east side, along the shore. Of what they could see, it was enormous.

  “I wonder why they need two water towers,” asked Jess. There was one on either side of the harbor, each large enough to support a small town.

  The questions raced through Lyle’s head. Soldiers and barracks on one side, shipping containers and a large warehouse on the other, each with its own water tower. But there were no missiles that they could see. “Jess, we don’t have that much time. I need you to follow the ridge to the right, far enough that you can see how many of those buildings there are in total. A hard count is what we need. If these are soldiers, we need an estimate of how many can be housed here. Armies seldom construct vast excesses of housing capacity. While you’re doing that, I’m going down to that warehouse to have a look inside. This facility is designed to modify shipping containers for some purpose, and I need clues for what that might be.”

  “I get it,” she replied. “We meet back at the outcrop, okay. No hanging out on the beach to let them find us,” she added.

  “Absolutely,” agreed Lyle. “And don’t wait for me if I’m not there. There’s no point in both of us being caught because one was.”

  Jess didn’t answer, but hugged Lyle and said, “Just you worry about getting back, alright?”

  Lyle returned her hug and said, “You be careful too. Knowing you’re safe will help keep me focused.”

  Chapter 45: Into the Desert

  Cam Burrows’ cell door only opened when they brought him his food and when they took him to the shower to attend to his hygiene. There was an armed guard present on both occasions, as well as the “room service guy,” as Burrows called him. The food delivery was too quick to allow any attempt at an escape. It would have to happen in the shower. The shower was part of the bath complex and was in no way hardened for prison or brig use. He had worked out the routine. He would throw his white pajama-like clothes in the hamper in the changing area, and would then be given some privacy to conduct his business. He would receive fresh clothes upon completion. There was a window in the bath complex, and it opened. It was high up on the wall and Burrows thought it might be possible to climb through it. He accentuated his limp well beyond how much discomfort it still caused him, hoping they would underestimate his recovery.

  Burrows helped himself to two sets of clothes that evening, wearing both pairs back to his cell. When they brought his evening meal, he took it and then knocked on the door again to complain that they had not given him a knife. As he had hoped, the room service guy was not paying close attention and simply gave him a second dinner knife. He returned one set of cutlery with his dishes that night, arousing no suspicions.

  The following evening, Burrows walked to the shower wearing both sets of clothing, ducked behind the partition, and tossed one set of clothes into the hamper that was in full view of the attendants. He turned on the shower to drown out any noise, and moved a wood bench to the window. Standing on the bench, he tried opening the window but quickly determined that it didn’t swing out wide enough. With the blunt end of his dinner knife, he broke the window and knocked out as much loose glass as he could. He took a towel and laid it on the bottom of the frame, then jumped up and pulled himself through the hole. It was a tight fit, and he scraped his stomach on small bits of glass that still protruded through the towel. But these injuries were minor. More concerning was that his leg was still not completely healed, and while he could walk well, he did not think he could run far if he was pursued.

  Once outside, Burrows surveyed the landscape in the fading light. At the northeast end of the complex where the runways ended was a crude road that ran out between the runways to a locked gate. There were not many ground exits, as everything was supplied by air. No importance seemed attached to the gate, and there were no guards stationed there. Burrows walked to the gate and found a gap in the razor wire where the doors of the gate met. It might just be big enough to squeeze through. He wished he had kept the towel he used earlier. He was also aware he probably had only about another minute before they came into the shower looking for him. He climbed the chain link fence and reached the top in short order. Now what, Cam? he rebuked himself. He could not swing his leg over the fence. There simply wasn’t enough room between the banks of razor wire. He was no gymnast, but he remembered a move he’d seen done on the high bar. Behind him he heard commotion coming from the common building, so it was now or never. He threw his head forward, spinning his body over top the bars, his feet following behind and spinning upwards into the gap in the razor wire. His feet followed over his head and he let go of the gates to fall to the ground outside the complex. His leg had grazed the razor wire, which cut through his pants. He felt nothing, so he assumed he wasn’t injured.

  Burrows made his way into the dark desert, walking barefoot and trying to avoid stepping on any of the jagged rocks that were scattered throughout the desert. He took a direction he believed to be east, or at least close to it. If he was not mistaken, the Texas border was about 20 miles in that direction. He walked for most of the night, until near morning he found a gu
lly with some tall bushes where he could hide. He crawled in among the bushes and tried to get some sleep. As the sun came up, he realized east was not where he thought it was, and he’d gone further south than he had planned. He’d correct that after nightfall, but he had to hide during the day.

  Chapter 46: The Limits of Power

  “Hauerstein admitted the whole thing,” said Torres to Carson Stahl as they rode in their golf cart, with Secret Service now close behind them. “When I pushed him hard enough, he admitted all the money printing, and by extension all the bailouts, are to preserve the privileges of the powerful. If we were to let things collapse, there would be new owners who owed nothing to the old order and might just decide to prosecute us.”

  “The old order likes to take care of itself first,” said Stahl. “To the extent they admit new members, it’s after they’ve beaten the system, and made it impossible to ignore them. And as you can guess, there aren’t too many who fit that bill. But it’s pretty remarkable that you got such a frank admission from him. You’re starting to show the first signs of quality leadership.”

  “I just don’t see it, Carson. I’m still trapped doing someone else’s bidding. How can I exert any leadership?”

  “You have options Jackson. That’s what I’ve been trying to get across. For instance, you’ve managed to get Hauerstein to declare the game openly. Now you have something to leverage. You’re within your rights to draw lines, and not let the owners push you beyond them. You should be the mediator between the owners and the masses, not simply the servant of the owners. But it requires pushing back when they want too much.”

  “You have to understand the masses to be their mediator. I don’t think I ever did. When I think of standing up to the owners, all that comes to mind is JFK.”