by D W McAliley
"You keep them," she said firmly. "I don't need them anymore."
Again, Mike wondered why she had a fresh pack of men's socks, but rather than pursue it, he decided getting out of the house and well away from it before people started waking up was best. He had to leave his rifle and all of his supplies behind, and he wasn't a fan of that at all. He certainly didn't want some lucky passerby to see them leave and take the opportunity to loot what he and Alyssa been so careful to protect. The M-4, the medical bag, and most of the food was tucked away in a corner of the attic, buried beneath blown insulation with their clean water and the extra ammunition.
Mike had already convinced Alyssa that they needed to leave some things downstairs and easily accessible in case someone actually did break in. If they saw the place sanitized, they'd know that Mike and Alyssa had hidden the bulk of their supplies, but if they saw the half-eaten cracker packs and a few bottles of clean water, they might take the easy pickings and move on.
Mike pulled his boots on and laced them up quickly. He pushed a small pair of wire cutters far enough down in his right boot that anything short of a strip search wouldn't find them. He had a thin box cutter in the other boot, along with a pack of paper matches wrapped in plastic cling wrap. Other than that, Alyssa and Mike each carried two bottles of water with them, and nothing else. They were trying to move fast and seem desperate, so travelling light was a plus.
It felt good to Mike to be out from under a pack for the first time in days. He rubbed his raw shoulders and stretched his arms as they walked down the dark street. The sky overhead was a steely gray blue that seemed to glow faintly with the kind of light that was just on the edge of darkness. Outlines were visible, but details on anything more than a few dozen yards were still obscure. Water dripped off of everything, and the air was cool enough to feel clammy. Late August was beginning to show early signs of the coming fall and cooler weather.
When they reached Highway 160 again, Mike turned north and walked at a brisk but sustainable pace. They hadn't gone far when he spotted a deadfall cedar with sun-bleached wood that stood out like a beacon in the dark shadows along the highway. He hopped the narrow ditch and checked up the trunk until he found a branch that suited him. It was about six feet long and a little thinner than his wrist. It was straight for the most part but a little knobby in a few places. Mike tested the wood and it was aged but not rotted. He kicked the base a few hard times until it snapped away from the trunk.
"Why are you getting a walking stick?" Alyssa asked, half confused and half sarcastic. "Are you getting so old you need help walking?"
Mike grunted. "If someone comes up on us and doesn't shoot us outright, I'd like to have something to swing. Also, there are coyotes around here, and I dang sure don't want to go hand to hand with one of those nasty little critters. I can't get the blade out of my boot fast enough, and I'd really rather he didn't get that close anyway."
"Do I need to get one too?" Alyssa asked, the sarcastic edge now gone from her voice suddenly.
Mike just smile and shook his head. "No," he answered, "the plan is to let you run while I'm busy being a diversion by getting either shot, stabbed, bludgeoned, or eaten. You're safe."
"Oh, good," Alyssa said, actually sounding relieved.
They walked on in silence for a while. Somewhere far to the southwest, an owl called and another answered. Mike missed hearing those calls regularly in the park at Crowder's Mountain. One of the first things Claire had taught him was how to tell the different animal sounds at night. Ninety nine out of a hundred calls they received from some scared camper could be easily explained away as a deer grunt or an owl's screech. The terror wasn't in the sound itself, but usually in its unfamiliarity. That knowledge had helped Mike soothe the worries of hundreds of campers over the years, and it was a comfort now. Right now, though, Mike was just glad to know that an owl calling like that meant daylight wasn't far off.
The sky had lightened to a soft gray beneath the low ceiling of clouds that stretched from horizon to horizon, and by the time they reached the intersection where 160 crossed Highway 49, Mike paused. He looked at Alyssa for a moment before he spoke. "Odds are they're going to ask for your name when we get to the refugee camp. Don't give them your real one, no matter what. You need to have a name in your head by the time we get there. Say it over and over again out loud so you get used to it. If they ask for your ID tell them you lost it. Odds are there will be a lot of people trying to get in, so if we're processed through, they won't have the time to really ask questions and dig deep for the answers; they'll just move us a long. Just remember to be vague and look terrified, not angry."
"When do I look angry?" Alyssa asked, rounding on him and planting her feet slightly apart, her fists on her hips.
Mike barely managed to keep a straight face. "I didn't say you did, just warning you not to, okay?"'
Alyssa glared at him for a moment, but she didn't say anything. Instead, she stomped back to the highway and looked first one way, and then the other. Not sure which direction, she turned to Mike, her eyes narrow and suspicious. "Which way?"
Mike nodded his head left as he faced her. "That way about a mile and a half," he replied. "Stay close to me if we see anyone else on the road. Hopefully it will just be us."
Mike didn't wait for Alyssa to reply. Instead, he started walking, and after a few strides Alyssa caught up to him and bumped him with her shoulder. He smiled, but neither of them spoke. Mike watched her walk for a while until she looked over and caught him. He looked down at his feet and tried to find something to take his mind off the fact that he was blushing ridiculously. He blurted out the first thing that came to mind.
"So why did you have a random pack of socks?"
Alyssa didn't look at him, but for a brief flash her face softened and she looked almost wistful. "I wanted to bring something that I could look at and touch and think of my husband, but I couldn't bring myself to bring anything too personal. I didn't want something that might hurt, just something small in case nostalgia struck."
Mike stared at his feet and tried to process her answer as he walked. He wasn't sure what he'd expected, but a deeply personal confession definitely wasn't on the list. Finally, he looked over at her and found her watching him. "And now?" he asked hesitantly.
Alyssa's eyes never left his. "The more I think about it," she said softly, "the less I want to think about him. He made his choice to leave a long time ago, really; he just didn't have the courage to tell me. And I didn't have the courage to make him."
Mike wanted to reach out to her, to pull her closer to him and wrap an arm around her shoulders. He wanted to whisper to her that everything was going to be okay, but he couldn't bring himself to make a promise that he most likely couldn't keep. So instead, they walked the rest of the way in silence.
By the time they reached the entrance to McDowell Park, the sky was light enough that they could tell for certain that the sun was up. In the strange soft sunlight that filters through a thick blanket of clouds, Mike and Alyssa were met by a patrol of four men in black and blue uniforms with FSS embroidered on the right shoulder. There were no names on the uniforms and no badges or indications of rank visible anywhere. Three of the men stood back in a rough semicircle, hands resting nonchalantly on their rifles.
One of the men stepped forward and nodded to them. "I'm tactical team leader Stevens. Can I help you folks?"
Mike nodded. "Our house burned out a couple of days ago and we lost everything but the clothes we were wearing. We heard there was a refugee camp here, and we came."
Stevens looked them both up and down with a thoughtful frown. "You don't have any soot on you. And you don't smell like smoke."
Mike shrugged slightly. "Rain was coming down hard last night and washed most of the soot off us while we were looking for cover. Found an abandoned house with the door open. Called out a few times so we didn't get shot walking into someone else's spot, but we didn't get an answer."
"These
clothes were in the house," Alyssa said hesitantly. She stared down at her feet as she spoke. "We took them to get dried off. He didn't want to, but I said whoever owned them probably wouldn't ever know. I guess if they're in there too, they probably will, but it was so cold."
Stevens took a deep breath and thought for a moment, then nodded. "We're getting tight on space, but I think we can take you two. Go on past the park sign and around the bend. You'll see the guards standing by the camp gates. Stop and give them your names; they'll enter your information."
Stevens paused for a moment, looking a bit uncomfortable. "I'll have to pat you both down for weapons."
"Understood," Mike said, and he raised his hands. Alyssa did the same, and Stevens quickly ran his hands down their arms and legs, across their torso and back.
Satisfied, he nodded and stepped back. "You'll get a blanket each, three bottles of water, and two ration packs. Supplies are given out each morning and evening, but only to those who show up at the gate for them. Don't miss the deliveries or you'll go hungry for a night."
Before either Mike or Alyssa could say anything else, Stevens gave a signal to his men, and they deployed with two to either side of the road. Crouched motionless in the shade of the trees, the men were difficult to spot, even knowing they were there. It gave Mike a chill to wonder how many more sets of eyes might be on him that he couldn't see. With a shudder, he put his arm around Alyssa and led her past the sign and into the outer perimeter of the refugee camp.
Ch.36
Name and Number
Marcus lay on his back and stared up at the dim ceiling of his quarters. He wore large stereophonic headphones to cancel the exterior noise. Vivaldi's Four Seasons played on a continuous loop, but he barely heard it as he wrestled with the puzzle before him. His brain inherently wanted to attack the problem like a piece of code logic that needed to be mapped out, but he kept running into knots that were too tightly wound to untie.
For instance, it didn't make sense to reveal the covert operative or operatives unless the situation was desperate—so desperate that they could not go on any further without an immediate action. Desperation like that implied that even though no direct action was being taken against them, their overall objectives remained uncertain and unachieved. Marcus could not fathom how someone could mobilize such an elaborate and ambitious plan without taking into consideration the fact that total and absolute success might not be achieved in seven days without immediate access to the data storage backups.
The only way he could make his brain see any of this from a logical perspective was to assume that more than one agent was involved, and therefore, the sacrifice of one agent in the operation was an acceptable loss if it meant achieving an important objective. On the one hand, having even one additional operative allowed for an initial failure followed by a subsequent attempt. There was little downside to Marcus’ reasoning other than the uncomfortable idea that there might be multiple covert agents still working within the facility.
A beeping cut through the soothing sounds of violin and cello, and Marcus sat up, instantly alert. He clicked off the audio player on his work station and brought up the feed from the tiny surveillance cameras he'd installed in Hamilton's quarters. The cameras had been automatically activated by motion and photo-sensors and had started transmitting and recording immediately.
The lights came on in Hamilton's quarters, and the door closed. A figure in a pair of dark coveralls closed the door carefully and quietly behind him and locked it. He checked his watch, and Marcus did the same. It was 1100 hours; the regular shift had been at duty stations long enough for even late arrivals to be well clear of the halls. The early shift would have likely finished evening meals and would be settling into their nightly routines as they readied themselves for bed.
The spy had picked the perfect time to move. He stepped away from the doorway and moved quickly to Hamilton's dresser and desk. The way he held his head and wore his ball cap made it difficult to see his face, because he didn't look up. With a small flashlight between his teeth, he rifled through the dresser and desk, then turned to Hamilton's foot closet and clothes cabinet. He moved a few things there and then ran his fingers along the bottom of the desk and back of the dresser.
He crossed the room again, and this time his face was in full profile to the camera on the back wall of the room. Marcus pressed the screen capture macro on his keyboard and captured instant images from the feed. He would examine them later. The man then lifted Hamilton's mattress and prodded his pillow carefully. Whatever he was looking for, he didn't find it. With a shrug, he went back to the dresser. He pulled a roll of electrical tape from his right pocket and a small white object from his other pocket. He pulled out the third drawer of the dresser and taped a small card on the back of the drawer, then pushed it back in place.
He glanced around the room one last time, flipped the lights off, and stepped out of the room.
The cameras kept recording. Their signal would be transmitted to the mainframe computers and stored in a pre-established secure folder for the next fifteen minutes. Unless something else moved in the room or another light source entered the frame, they would automatically power down. Marcus minimized the video window and called up the several still images of the man's face. He examined them closely, but was sure he'd never seen him before. He looked to be in his early thirties at most, medium height and slim build. His hair was hard to see beneath the dark cap, but it looked dark, maybe black.
Marcus closed out the secure folder and took off the headphones. He shut everything down in his quarters and headed straight for the Commander's office. The adjutant's desk was empty when Marcus got there, so he simply knocked on the door and was immediately told to come inside. Commander Price sat at his desk, his work station open in front of him. A frown creased his forehead and face as he waived for Marcus to come in and shut the door.
Marcus strode up to the Commander's desk. "Commander, I think you'll want to see the video just captured in Hamilton's quarters."
Commander Price nodded absently, and pointed to his screen. "I just saw it," he said. "I've already got the mainframe working on a facial recognition algorithm, and we should have a result within the hour."
Marcus frowned slightly. "How did you view the video, sir?" he asked. "I have it stored in my own private, secure folder."
Commander Price gave Marcus a look and motioned to the seat across from him. "You can't really believe that anything connected to this network is really private from me, Lieutenant Commander," he said. "I have the system monitoring everyone's input and access as a matter of normal operations. I do have some individuals under special scrutiny, however, for one reason or another."
"And I guess I'm a special scrutiny case?" Marcus asked, a bit indignant.
Commander Price nodded unapologetically. "You have access to almost everything I do, Marcus," he said simply. "You have knowledge of plans and information that I have literally shared with no one else. That level of trust and access requires a certain level of insurance, given our circumstances. If you don't like it, I apologize, but that's the way it has to be."
Marcus started to object but found that he couldn't. The Commander's argument made sense, and he didn't have anything to hide from his superior officer in any case. Still, it galled him to know that he was being watched, not on some merit or concern, but as a matter of general course. The fact that the same was true of all of his co-workers was little comfort. Still, the stakes were high enough that a bit of injured pride was a small price to pay.
Commander Price keyed in a few commands and turned his screen so Marcus could see it. The man's face was displayed on a personnel file with the name Morgan Edwards. His ID number was printed beneath it. The computer had taken less than fifteen minutes to make a ninety nine percent perfect match on more than thirty seven biometric values connected to the facial image. There was practically no chance that this Morgan Edwards wasn't their man.
Marcus stared at the t
raitor’s face and swallowed hard as a chill ran across his neck. He looked up and asked, "Now that we have his name, what do we do?"
Commander Price leaned back in his chair, his fingers laced behind his head. He looked tired, but not exhausted as he had a few days earlier. "We run a search through the system and find out everything we can about Morgan Edwards."
Marcus nodded. "Listen, Commander," he said after a moment, "I've been thinking about this a lot, and I think there has to be more than just this one guy."
Commander Price didn't hesitate even a moment before replying. "You're probably correct," he said without a trace of emotion. "Even if there are more agents, there's no way to know right now. All we know for sure is that Mr. Edwards is on the other side."
"Are you sure you still want him roaming about?" Marcus asked, his concern obvious. "He can clearly compromise locks and has certainly been trained in counter intelligence."
Commander Price nodded. "I'm impressed you saw that, Lt. Commander," he said. "Whatever he taped to the back of the drawer, he meant for it to be found. My question, though, is what did he think he might find when he checked the room first?"
Ch.37
Canning Tomatoes
Seven quart Mason jars lined the counter, ready for the ritual to begin. Blossom directed Christina to put a teaspoon of salt in each jar and then place seven lids in the pot of boiling water that sat on the back eye of the stove. The foam had cooked down, so Blossom knew it was time to pour the still-bubbling hot tomatoes in one jar at the time. After seventy years of canning, she knew how many tomatoes to fit in Great-Granny Ida's pot to yield exactly seven quarts.
"Christina, when I say, you fish a lid out of that hot water and put it on the jar, and I'll tighten down the ring. Don't you get burnt, now, you hear? Beth, you get ready to put the jars in the canner. When this batch is done, we'll start on the next."
In perfect harmony, the three women filled the jars, and as soon as Beth lowered the last jar into the canning pot, she checked the flame of the burner. Once the water started to boil, she would set the timer for thirty minutes. That final hot bath would almost guarantee that each jar would seal.