Fog Bastards 2 Destination

by Bill Robinson

  The four men are out cold on that floor before they can react. I know I broke some bones of the guy with the sword, crushed his hand, also his jaw. Don't think I killed him. Take a quick trip for the weapons, bending the sword into six inch folds, mangling the guns.

  The three remaining men are standing now, trying to untie themselves, and I help them with that. Wanting to throw up, I also help them gather up their buddy's remains, and get the four of them into the truck.

  It's a house. I know what to do with it. I implode the stone walls, and make a pile of rock surrounding the four evil men. My three are debating the merits of killing their captors. I put an end to the debate by lifting the truck above my head, and then into the air.

  I'm about 5,000 feet up when I level off, not sure how high I have to be to avoid the anti- aircraft fire from below, but betting that the sight of a flying truck will bother them enough not to shoot. Half way back, two F-15's come to check us out, waggle their wings, and fly formation. Might make a funny commercial for the truck maker, except for the dead guy in the back.

  The pilots seem to want me to follow them to somewhere, but I'm not going. I take the truck to the building where this all started, landing outside the front door, but inside the security perimeter. At least 20 people are there instantly, dealing with both the living and the dead.

  The general came down too, and I surprise him by asking for my blanket. He tells me they've already given it back to the street vendor. I nod my thanks, and turn to leave.

  "Thank you," it sounds official coming from a general.

  I turn back to him. "I think I'm supposed to say something noble here, but you're welcome is all I've got. I'm sorry I lost one." I crush the molecules and start to head home, then correct myself and come back. The light is puzzled and then pleased when it figures out my intentions.

  We sweep up and down every road we can find looking for hidden explosives and detonating them. At least a dozen go up. We find a couple big caches of weapons, and one building that might have been a bomb factory. It's a pile of debris now.

  Satisfied, we turn for home, my new Army duds burning away on the down slope, leaving me naked once again. And, once again, I wake up a sleeping Perez in the parking lot.

  "I am going to shoot you next time you do that." I laugh, sort of. "Didn't work?"

  I tell her. Three for four. No more than five minutes too late.

  "Are we going to have to go through the it's not your fault stuff again? If not for you all four would be dead, gruesomely, painfully, terribly dead. Be happy for three moms who get to see their kids again. The fourth will be happy for the other three, and proud of her son."

  I don't say anything, except the obvious.

  "Let's go home Perez."

  Chapter 12

  Kiana drops me off at home, and heads off for a nap and clean clothes before she has to spend a day at LAX. I am off until tomorrow. Halloween wants to eat, so I feed her and we watch the news together, waiting from the new SportsCenters to start.

  Though there are happy interviews with three moms, and complements from the fourth, just as Perez predicted, the news is mostly about Syria. I was right there, I should have stayed and done something. The light kicks me in the ass. I do, in fact, have 27 hours before I need to be at work, but I remind it that I have a golf date with Taylor.

  I pick her up about 9:30, let her know how much I approve of her basically too small golf outfit, and we go play the executive par 3 course, which requires a great deal of hands on attention to form. Then a nice lunch at the club house, where she talks about me and about him, which means me.

  She thinks he should have stayed home and not gotten involved in overseas adventures. I disagree. Our first argument is over him. What would she do if she knew? I drop her back home, and there's enough warmth in the kiss to make sure I know the argument isn't serious.

  Would she still think that if she knew I was driving out to Colton as soon as we finished? That I got naked behind a restaurant, then risked some serious daytime exposure (me and my salami) to go back to the Middle East?

  As I am falling back to Earth at 12,000 miles an hour, it occurs to me that I probably should have done some research before striking out, to make sure I don't strike out. From altitude, I recognize the geography, and try to adjust the landing zone south toward Israel. The light thinks I'm stupid for trying.

  Eventually, we end up in a small town, which I think is in Jordan, but I can't be sure. Doesn't matter, because I probably won't be able to return the clothes I steal. There is a bazaar in town, but I am currently standing naked in the shadow of a building a couple blocks away.

  I get myself back into the air, circle town, realize that everyone has clothes hanging out to dry, find the most likely looking pair of pants, swoop in, grab them, and fly off. I'm sure no one saw, and the pants sort of fit. Too small really, but intended to be baggy so that they are wearable.

  I turn north, steal some molecules, and go looking for whatever. This is the difficulty of not planning ahead. Where do I go? How do I know what to do? I can find the capital, but no one appears to be shooting at anyone else. With only a couple more hours to work, I don't want to go home empty handed.

  Then I have a thought. The middle of town is easy to find, and I float there, then start to fly in circles, looking for tanks. Bad guys have tanks out here, good guys don't. That's my theory at least, and I'm sticking with it.

  Did you know that the turret on top of a tank isn't actually attached to the tank, it just sits on it? I didn't. Do now. I grabbed the barrel of the gun on the first tank I found, thinking I would use it as a lever to lift the tank, when I'm suddenly holding the barrel and turret, and three guys are staring at me from their 50,000 pound steel camo convertible.

  They yell, they shoot their handguns at me, they throw something. I just ignore them, turn the turret into a lump of junk, and go back to circling. Twenty five tanks and six helicopter gun ships later, I'm bored and heading for home.

  I feed Halloween, and we just watch sports, no news, before I leave for the airport and Kona. Taylor gives me crap about him (that is me) being out of control, I try to avoid the restart of yesterday's argument as much as possible.

  Captain Amos, on the other hand, is ecstatic that someone is honestly trying to do something, not let people die because of politics, and spends the entire trip out telling me what he (me) should do next. He gets so outlandish, I actually ask him to talk about something else while we're on the course trying to putt.

  I spend the night in the hotel, listening to the commentators. It's now 65 countries that have banned me and 18 offering some incentive, such as citizenship or free accommodations. I try not to take the disparity personally. Once again, there are as many opinions of me as there are commentators, adding to my confusion. I'd always thought there was some actual right and wrong in the world, but I guess I was wrong.

  Back to LA late Wednesday, get a text from Taylor cancelling Saturday (not the actual day, just our date) for family obligations. Tells me something that she doesn't want to take me to meet them yet. I spend a few hours flying around, but don't find anything worth hassling over.

  Thursday is quiet at LAX as well, giving Perez ample time to give me crap over my latest international incident. She asks me when I'm going back, I tell her tonight. The violence hasn't let up at all, and now I find out that they have nerve gas stockpiles.

  I'm betting my General is having a heart attack about now, and he has no way to contact me since I am not scheduled to meet Celeste for another week. Might drop by the bank tonight, just in case.

  We go eat at Ariela's restaurant, as is customary, discuss the drug busts this week as is customary, and Perez sends me off into the night as is customary. (That's ‘don't do anything stupid' if you didn't have that down by now.)

  I have no where to be for two and a half days, but I don't spend nearly that long. By Friday afternoon America time there is no longer a Syrian Air Force, no tanks left that I c
an find, no helicopters either, no artillery, and I know where the nerve gas is. Once again, those fools at the Internet are pretty damn smart.

  The only problem is that the nerve gas is in a bunch of artillery shells, aircraft bombs, and spare containers, and no easy way to move it all. Research tells me (that Internet thing again) that heat will destroy the gas, and there are steel mills in Turkey and Iran within easy reach. Takes me until Saturday afternoon, but the gas is gone. At least the gas I found. Not impossible that they got some away from me, but nothing I can do about that today. Worries me though.

  Hopefully, no one is dumb enough to really use the stuff. Except, of course, that I already killed a guy who was trying to take out Pasadena with it.

  I get authentic sleep Saturday night, a little visit from Fog Dude, planned I think to be no longer than a congratulatory remark. He's gone before the ball strikes, and I'd swear there was music playing in Fog Land.

  Run Sunday, then watch more commentators talk like they know something useful, head out early to mom and dad's, and eat too much. Perez asks me to check out Dallas and Houston later, since the snitch in Dallas claims that, once again, there are no incoming drugs for LAX.

  He's truthful, it turns out, but there's the usual missing piece. Drugs headed to LAX from Houston on Monday, and in a surprise repeat appearance all the way from Kona, I find more on Tuesday (Monday night/Tuesday morning middle of the night thing), flying the Houston to San Francisco to LA path.

  By the time I get on my aircraft to fly home Tuesday morning, we've broken the $25 million barrier in drug busts. I have a great flight back, even with Don the Perfectionist at the controls. Not sure why, but I seem to be enjoying the fact that I have pissed off people on virtually every continent in the past two weeks.

  The news is on in the terminal when we get back, something bad is up. Turns out to be a problem in China, nuclear problem of some kind, supposedly unsolvable problem of some kind, a problem for Superdumbass? A chance to make amends? Maybe. I'm going home to study before I make another dumbass move.

  It's after 10:30 when I get to my apartment, so I decide not to call Perez. The coverage on CNN is pretty extensive anyway. Underground nuclear reactor, going critical, no way to get the nuclear material out before it does the melt down thing. They are evacuating a couple million people, whose homes are threatened. Nanjing, where the reactor is located, has a population of almost seven million, and is located near the Yangtze River Delta, meaning serious environmental damage will result if the radiation hits the water.

  I definitely think it's a job for superdumbass, the light, usually gungho about such things, doesn't think we need to go, but it's up for the flight. So it's off to Colton, change into my birthday suit, hide my underwear by the trash can behind the restaurant and my key on the light fixture, cruise off shore, then rocket engines to full, parabolic arc arcing, and in under an hour I am off the coast of China, naked (though unlike going to Chile, I don't speak the language).

  It's late afternoon here, still daylight, sunny. There is a large city directly to the west of me, which I assume is Shanghai, due east of Nanjing. If a cloud of nuclear debris rises in Nanjing, it will come this way. There might be 20 million people total in its path.

  I dive under the water, and cruise inland down the Yangtze. Every time I see a big boat, I pop to the surface, until finally I see a yacht heading toward the ocean, with a nice beach towel drying off the on railing.

  From that point on I fly about 10 feet above the river, covered by my newly stolen towel, searching in earnest for some clothing. And, strangely enough, there is an outlet mall next to the river bank. I thought those only happened in America. I pop inside, grab some Nike running shorts and a t shirt from the Nike store, leave them my towel, and exit stage left.

  I go ahead and cruise on up to a couple hundred feet, and fly the 200 miles to Nanjing. The roads are packed, it looks like the whole city of Los Angeles stuffed onto one freeway, except that only a fool would drive a car that small on an LA freeway.

  Once I'm in the neighborhood, it's easy to find the spot, just like it was in Chile. The sound and the smoke point the way. And, once again, the air is full of dust, drifting like a curtain of disaster in front of me. And, once again, I ignore it and fly in.

  There is a small group of buildings, one and two stories, that seem like the kind of office buildings you'd find anywhere. They surround a larger structure the size of a barn, no windows, one giant door facing south. There are two men in funny white suits, otherwise the place looks deserted from the sky.

  I make a giant loop out to where the road blocks are on the way in and land next to a couple soldiers, praying they speak English. They don't, but that doesn't stop them and they point east and hold up three fingers. Miles, kilometers, intersections, road blocks, whatever, that isn't much help, but I head off in an easterly direction.

  Probably meant kilometers, because I'm about that far when I see a much larger road block, and an array of military equipment. Landing, I encounter one civilian and lots of folks in uniform headed my way. They all speak some English, though only the civilian speaks it well. The message is simple. The reactor is going critical, it's 1,500 feet down in a tunnel, and I need to remove a portion of it, which will be radioactive, and get it somewhere safe. Then I need to leave the country, thanks for the help.

  They have a photo of what to take, and a map of where to take it. It weights 2,000 kilos. Is that a problem? I think for a minute, and tell them I believe I can handle it. They give me another map of the tunnel system, make sure I understand that the entrance is through the barn, and thank me.

  Off I go, neither the light nor I think we got the whole story. The light wants me to go home. I'm going to the site anyway. The barn is empty, the two guys in the white plastic suits I saw earlier are wandering around outside, but I don't stop to chat. I'm into the door, and looking around.

  There's lots of equipment of various kinds scattered on tables against the walls, but mostly the space is open with a large elevator shaft in the middle. The elevator is at the surface, not obviously damaged, but to me it's not needed, only an obstruction. There are flashlights on the tables, a variety of sizes, including the big yellow ones with rectangular bottoms, large lights, and lunch box style handles. I land, test a couple of those, pick one, and walk over toward the elevator.

  I stir fry some molecules and rise gently, reach out with my free hand, and rip the elevator car off its cable. The rest of the supports stay steady, so I put the car down a few feet away, take a deep unnecessary breath, and dive into the shaft.

  It's dark, but there's a light at the bottom. The tunnels are not the dark and dirt filled tunnels of Chile, they are clean, open, tiled tunnels that look like the Lakers should be using them to enter Staples Center.

  The map says down the main hall til the third intersection, make a left and follow that hallway until it ends. I fly to the intersection, stop and hover. It's a trap, I know it now, the light mad, not at me, but at these fools for thinking it would work.

  Except maybe it does. An explosion rips the wall behind me, sealing the tunnel and filling the air with dust, exposed now only in the meager light from my flashlight. As I right myself and start to think about the easiest way to dig out, the ceiling explodes downward, a blast of rock, red flashes, and white light. The sound is deafening, first from the explosives, and then from the falling debris. When silence comes again, I am encased in dirt and stone, 1,500 feet below the surface of the earth.

  Chapter 13

  Dumbass. I knew it was a trap and should have gotten out of here. But noooo, I had to be the hero. The light is laughing at me, it never wanted to come in the first place. Trust the light. I should know better.

  At the moment, I am extremely uncomfortable. I can't see a fucking thing. I can't move very much. While there might not be 1,500 feet of rock sitting on top of me, it's got to be close, and that's a little heavy, even for a Mental Fucking Midget Man like me.

&nbs
p; The light, in his infinite wisdom, suggests dancing. I comply. I turn my body left and right, hard, hard as I can under the circumstances. It works, sort of. The earth around me is compacted, forced away from me by my force, and I have a little room to move.

  Now what matters is direction. I was facing the tunnel toward where the fake reactor accident was supposed to be. Not the way I want to go, so I try to visualize the area above. The main tunnel ran north to south. The side tunnel ran off to the east. South of the compound were a bunch of farms, the other directions led into the city. The Yangtze is to the south, and not too far, maybe three miles. South is where I want to go.

  Before I can start, the dirt collapses back down on me, pinning me once more. Annoyed, the light starts singing again. I hold off a second, thinking. I can take this slow, the light just wants us out, I don't want them to see us leave. I bring my hands up in front of me, the dirt three inches from my face, and start digging.