An Anaheim cop, well out of his jurisdiction by now, and two highway patrol cars are a hundred yards or so behind a four door nice German car, probably stolen. The parade is headed east, most, but not all, of the cars on the freeway getting out of the way, and another 10 or so civilians following the pursuit at equally high speed. In all, more than a dozen cars 20 miles west of Interstate 15 and closing fast. At least the traffic's not too bad at 10 pm on a Sunday night.
Without slowing down, I dive for the surface, making sure to pass over the top of the lead patrol car so that they know I am there, then it's a small push to put me directly over top of the bandit. Stretching out, my hands go onto the edge of the roof on both sides and I lift the vehicle into the air, intending to make it stop. It gets about a foot off the ground when the sheet metal gives way and a newly convertible BMW is speeding away.
Throwing the portion of the roof I'm holding off onto the shoulder, I catch back up, parallel, two feet off the ground and a foot to the left of the car, then punch the rear tire right where the rim meets the rubber. It's instantly flat and the car squirms, straightens out and continues on its way, much noisier but not slower than it was a minute before. I punch some molecules, and punch some tires, three more flats in two seconds, until finally the driver has had enough and pulls over. He starts to get out of the car, sees me floating there, apparently looking mad, and settles back into the driver's seat until the CHP arrives.
I head for home, wondering if I'm going to be sued or applauded by the owner of the car.
Chapter 5
I spend a fun two hours with Taylor Mankat Monday morning, first hitting balls at the driving range, and then practicing putting. She wears a nice white golf shirt and blue short shorts, all of which show off her curves and her perfect copper colored skin. Her hair reaches all the way down to the shorts, thick and wavy. The sight of her swinging the club, her body moving with it, her hair going the other way should totally end my depression, but doesn't.
We have lunch in the club house, salads both, and then head out to our respective vehicles, both proud Honda owners. She unlocks her door a few feet from the car, and I open it for her. She stops, body between the door and the car, hands on top of the door, and looks at me.
"You're not ready yet. Everyone told me how great your girlfriend was, I should have known it would take longer." She pauses for a second, and I think about whether or not she expects me to say something. Before I decide, she starts again. "You're a great guy, Simon Packer, but let's wait to do this again until you can bring your head along with you."
I just nod in agreement, she slips into the car, and I close the door. I watch her drive across the gravel parking lot, kicking up dust, now the official sign I'm going to do something stupid, and, in fact, I walk back into the clubhouse to check something I saw on the TV while we were eating.
One screen of the many over the bar is showing the news, and it is a special report about a mine explosion in Chile, and 20 miners trapped 2,000 feet underground. I jump into Starbuck and head for home.
Chile is in our time zone, and, for me, a short flight naked or a long one with clothes. I have 18 hours before I am due at work, so the answer is I have to fly there naked, figure out something for clothing, save some miners, and get home before the sun comes up. I also decide I am willing to take some risks to make that happen.
It's a cool January day, there are a few people on the beaches, but not many, and no life guards in the nearest tower due to budget cutbacks. I put my swim trunks on and head for the ocean. There are a half dozen people there, wandering and sitting. I slip into the cold surf, enjoying the feeling while I can. The surf pounds toward the shore, and I dive into it, surface, and paddle out a few yards, then turn and head down the coast.
Counting on my fog powers to keep me clear, I wait until I think no one is watching, take off my trunks, then grab the light and say, "miners." The ocean holds in the normal flash of light, and I am him. I dive now, heading for the bottom, stow my clothing under a large boulder, and head out to sea. A mile or so off shore, I grab some salty molecules, tilt my head toward the sky, and explode upward.
I break the surface of the water and increase the pressure on the molecules, hurtling toward the clouds and slightly south, breaking the sound barrier, then up to suborbital velocity, miles above the coast. I can see the outline of Mexico and Central America, and the beginning of the South American continent in the same breathtaking eye full. Within minutes I am heading earthward again, past the Amazon, wondering again why I have done this so few times. (And if I should have brought my Kindle – Amazon – Kindle – OK, back to the story).
The light has directed me well, its flight management computer better than the one I use on my metal bird. I am a mile or so off the coast, somewhere in Chile, a busy beach before my eyes. Slipping into the water feet first, I swim to shore, still naked, until near the beach I stop and crouch in the water, only a couple feet deep, relatively calm on the surface. This must be the private beach of a high end coastal resort, with only a few sunbathers despite it being summer here, and a cart with a big stack of towels half way between ocean and buliding.
When as few people as possible are looking, I run at more than human speed out of the water, up the beach, grab a towel and hide the salami. Caught by surprise, the attendant at the cart jumps when he sees me. I ask him in Spanish where I can get a swimsuit and he points me to the shop just inside the resort. I thank him and start walking, he follows, wanting his towel back, I ask him to be patient.
He walks with me all the way to the shop. I find the suit I need, XXL, solid blue, drop the towel and put it on. The clerk in the shop screams at me and as I run out the door of the hotel, two middle aged men are running after me yelling very unkind things in Spanish. When I hit the sand, I grab some molecules, raise myself a dozen feet into the air, and floating there, turn to talk to them.
I tell them I am going to go help the miners, and I will return the suit cuando haya terminado. They say nothing, staring. Twisting around, I discover everyone on the beach heading my way, and interested in limiting my YouTube exposure, I rip into some air molecules and trust the light to find the mine.
As I get closer, it's easy, and not comforting. The mine is surrounded by a cloud of floating dust, a slight shiver going through me. Fighting the impulse to go home, I fly low over the site until I spot what I think is the command center, and drop to the ground next to a small group of men, not worrying about looking cool. Expletives fly from most of their mouths, as do references to deities. I am closer to an expletive than the other. I ask, and they confirm that they are the bosses, two from the mine, and the rest from the military, there to attempt a rescue.
Using my accented Spanish, I ask them to explain the situation to me. They tell me that there was a collapse in the main tunnel, they are still not sure how far into the mine. The elevator collapsed as well, so they cannot get down to the mine. Bringing out a map, they show me where the men are trapped in a secondary tunnel, the main tunnel that would normally be used for them to exit, and the nearest air duct, which is in the main tunnel, too far away to be providing air to the trapped miners. There is no way they can survive the night.
I ask them what their options are. The answer is go in through the tunnel once they get the elevator back on line, and pray the air holds out. Muéstrame, por favor. They take me to the elevator shaft in a small wooden building that looks as if I could blow it over despite the fact I don't have super breath.
There is an open shaft about 12 feet square, black as night. I ask for a helmet with a light, put it on, and drop down into the darkness. The tunnel is 2,000 feet down, but I don't quite get there. The elevator and what I assume to be its equipment stop me part way down. With only my little helmet light, it's hard to be sure, but I think I can extricate it.
It's an open elevator, with a cab that looks like one of those shark cages, steel edges with essentially chain link fencing for the walls. As carefully as I c
an, I shift and straighten the main steel supports and then lift toward the surface. When I get there, I realize that there is no place to put it, so I ask permission to go through the wall of the building. They agree, and exit the space as quickly as they can.
I knock the closest wall down, the rest of the building falls backwards and out like a house of cards. The aluminum roof falls in one piece over the shaft, and after putting aside the elevator, I pick the roof up and toss it toward what looks like a garbage heap a half mile or so away. It lands with the clank of metal on metal.
Then it's back down the shaft, looking for the tunnel. There's light down here now, nothing blocking the sun from entering, and it is much easier on descent. When I reach the bottom the tunnel is open, though again some floating dust which makes me wary. I need the light on the helmet now, because the light from above does not make the 90 degree turn too well.
I fly into the tunnel, dark and damp, scary to me, but not to him. There is debris, mostly rocks and dirt with some six by six wood chunks which probably were once wall or ceiling supports, getting heavier until finally it fills the entire tunnel. I walk back to the entrance, counting my steps, then entice some molecules into returning me to the surface.
My new friends bring the map, and we calculate where the men are relative to the tunnel collapse. It's likely 100 feet from the point where the debris makes passage impossible to the side tunnel.
In the comic books, I'd simply spin really fast and become a drill bit that would bore down to reach the trapped men. Aside from the obvious dust cloud that would result, the light frowns every time I conjure up that mental image. It wants me back in the tunnel. Trust the light.
What I try is simple, and rather boring. I fly over to a backhoe sitting with other heavy equipment to the side of the mine entrance, rip the bolt holding the shovel to the end of the arm, and detach it. With a half hop, half flight, I am heading down the elevator shaft and into the tunnel. There is 100 feet or so from the shaft entrance to the debris, and roughly 100 feet of debris to the miners. By my simple stupid math, I should be able to turn a tunnel which is zero percent full for half its length and 100% full for the other half into a tunnel that is 50% full for 100% of its length.
I use my improvised shovel to move a couple cubic feet of dirt with each stroke, and a half hour in I am nearing my target. I take only one brief break, that to get a new helmet with another light. For the first 80 feet, I encounter almost all dirt, with a few boulders rarely more than a foot in diameter. Then I find myself staring at a boulder six feet high, reminiscent of those I used to toss for practice so many months ago.
I clear away the dirt around it, and rather than move it, hit it hard. Once, twice, on the third hit it shatters, and there is a grumbling rumbling sound from the tunnel. For a second, I am afraid it will be another cave in, but nothing happens that I can see. I throw the pieces of the boulder back down the tunnel, making sure they do not block the escape path.
Five minutes later, I throw a shovel full of dirt behind me, and the side tunnel is open to the air. I can hear the men inside, and see their emergency lights, still glowing softly in the otherwise pitch blackness. I widen the space, and without being told, they start climbing out and crawling backwards toward safety, my new tunnel only three feet high. Two of them are injured, but their comrades work with them, and all I have to do is watch.
The last one exits, and tells me that he is. I only counted 17. I put my hand on the last man's shoulder, and say "Veinte?"
"No," he says, "están muertos." They are dead.
The men are lined up near the opening, looking upward, expecting a rescue basket or elevator. I take the first man, one of the injured, tell him to close his eyes, and fly him up to the waiting rescue crews above. His comrades talk and the folks gathered at the surface talk, but I manage not to hear a word of it. Seventeen. I should be happy, but I'm not.
Sixteen times I repeat the trip, until all the men are safe. When I finish, they are standing with their families just a few feet away from elevator shaft shielded by a platoon of soldiers from the rest of the assembled crowd. I get myself back in the air, floating near them, apologize to no one in particular for not being able to save them all, and then rocket out of there, heading back to the coast.
It is still daylight when I reach the resort, and find the man who only two hours before was chasing me out of his store. I tell him I don't want to take the swim trunks off, but he only smiles and laughs at me, holding another pair in his hand.
"Senor," he continues in Spanish, "I will happily trade you those shorts that you wear for my entire store. Perhaps you would change into these," he holds up the new ones, "and honor me with a present of the ones you stole earlier." I happily agree, popping into the changing room and emerging in a colorful pair of new swim trunks. The store keeper takes my old trunks and carefully places them in a box, wrapped in paper. My guess is that he will quickly be selling those for far more than they are worth.
I nod at him and head off into the sky, turning northward and following the coast, no need to go suborbital, given that I still have 15 hours before I have to leave for work, and I've never seen the Andes close up. I'm off Long Beach in a couple hours, early in the evening, and reverse my previous trick. In the dark, too far out for anyone to see, I plunge under the ocean surface and head toward shore. Close in, I find the trunks I left on the ocean floor, then stick my head above water, grab the light and squeeze. The trunks I have on almost separate themselves from my suddenly smaller body, so I remove them and replace the trunks that fit. Holding the large trunks in my hand, I paddle for the beach.
The sand is empty when I get there, the air refreshingly cool, the wind across my wet skin a little brisk even for the new me that prefers cold to cool. I walk up the beach toward home, and using my hidden key, I am safely in the shower in minutes.
When I haul my naked butt out, I turn the television on, and see him rescuing the miners on every channel, happy that it is old school television quality, and there is still no clear picture of his face. The interviews are all wonderful, everyone so happy, everyone except me.
Perez calls, and we chat for awhile about my adventure. When we're done, she chastises me for being such a glass half empty guy.
"Air Force, you are the only man I know who can save a Los Angeles from a gas attack and be mad the terrorists are dead, or save 17 miners who were rapidly running out of air, and be mad that you couldn't save them all. Seventeen people got to go home to their wives today. Seventeen sets of kids have dads tonight. You should be the happiest man on Earth."
It doesn't help. She eventually wants to hang up, but I won't let her go until I tell her how much it means to me that I have someone to talk to about all this. She gives me more crap about there being two people, her and Celeste Nortin. Then she laughs at me again, tells me she'll see me Thursday, and hangs up.
Tuesday morning I am out early, running across the windy beach. Strong Santa Ana winds are coming down out of the mountains, warming up the LA basin, but putting a fine mist of dust into the air on the beach. A bad omen for another day.
Halloween and I watch SportsCenter together, no Celeste Nortin on today, then I shower and head in to fly out. Taylor Mankat is working the front desk, all smiles when I arrive, lets me know that our least favorite Captain, Matt, has found work at a charter airline in Eastern Europe and is long gone. My captain of the day, Ken Montara, is already there.
Normal takeoffs from LAX are toward the ocean, but because of the Santa Anas we're going to be backwards today flying inland to start, and then turning westward. And, with maintenance work scheduled on our usual runway, we will also be taxiing to the other side of the airport. Not a problem, but we make sure to have a little extra fuel on board just in case there are delays.
We are five minutes early when ground tells us "Taxi via Bravo and Echo to 7 Right" and we begin our trek to the far side of LAX. My job is to watch the right hand side of the aircraft, make sure we do
n't hit something with our wing, and take an occasional scan of the instrument panel in case some warning light decides to wake up. All is well until we reach the 40 gates, when my warning lights go off.
I can't call Perez, because she's spending the morning with the FBI again, which worries me just because I don't want her to go somewhere I cannot follow, and the feds like her a lot. They are trying to follow the money that our dead friend Ali used to pay his dead friends, and they are trying especially hard to find the missing members of his crew. Off chance that they still have some of the magic Russian chemical that turns methane and oxygen into nerve gas. And on chance that they helped Ali kill the four ex-Army assistants.
Reaching into my flight bag, which I am not supposed to do while taxiing, I feel around until I find my new untraceable phone, dial the main LAX police number, and simply tell whoever answers that container AA 38756 at gate 42 has a drug shipment in it. Then I hang up.
Ken is staring at me like I'm a crazy person. I lie to him that in my LAPD other life we were told to watch out for a man, drug smuggler, who I just saw standing next to the container. I'm not lying to him with my next sentence that I would like him to keep my phone call a secret.
Fog Bastards 2 Destination Page 5