Case File: Bright Sun (Case Files of Newport Investigations)

by Pat Price

  "You are enjoying yourself aren't you James?" Mendoza said, looking uncomfortable. Jimmy smiled, nodding his head. Mendoza reached into the inside breast pocket on his suit and pulled out a thick business size envelope and laid it on the table.

  "Ok, James," he said, "are we going to be interrupted?"

  "No," Jimmy replied, "we have the patio for thirty minutes. What have you got for us?"

  Mendoza became all business. "We were not able to make a case but we think the fuel could have been stolen by the same group responsible for derailing an Amtrak train in Arizona about four years ago. Some of the nutcases in that militia group are real hard core."

  I interrupted, "What makes you think the perps are right wing nut cases and not left wing nut cases or radical fundamentalists acting on orders from God?"

  "Because my little white friend, we have plants in most of the major Jihad groups in this country and we would have heard something in the wind if that had been the case. The liberal groups, that are left wing to you, have too much trouble keeping a secret. For my money the only groups with the discipline to keep a secret are the militias."

  "And you haven't been able to infiltrate them?" Jimmy asked.

  "We thought we had a man planted in a group located in Kingman, Arizona and a man in a group located in Taos, New Mexico"

  "What happened?" Jimmy asked. I already knew the answer to that one.

  "Both of them stopped reporting back. We watched both groups, made flyovers with aircraft and satellite surveillance for weeks with no sign of them on the property. We believe they were both killed or sold to other groups."

  "For their information value?" I asked.

  "That's what we believe," Mendoza said. "Personally, I hope they just killed the poor bastards because the middle-eastern groups can be real hard in interrogations considering they post videos on the internet of them hacking off people’s heads."

  Mendoza paused for a few seconds. I guessed his slick agent exterior cracked a little because his chin wrinkled up.

  "If one of the militia groups has the material and makes a bomb they'll blowup some Federal Building. If one of the fundamentalist groups has the goods they'll pick a civilian target like the Twin Towers again or Wall Street."

  "Or the White House, the home of the great Satan," I added.

  "Right," Mendoza said. "The point is right now the militia groups are our best bet and one of the two I have profiled here," he said, indicating the envelop, "is the most likely."

  "Which of the two is the most likely?" Jimmy asked, his chin was resting on his cupped palms and every thing Mendoza said was being reordered in his brain, available for replay.

  "The group in Taos is the most radical but they are also the most isolated and the easiest to watch. We listen to everything they say over radio. They don't have access to a telephone line," he added almost as an after thought.

  "They can't be stupid," I said, "so why are they using radio?"

  "They actually use spread spectrum packet radio and encrypt all of their communications. They think it's secure but we monitor every transmission and our friends at NSA decrypt the transmissions for us."

  "Do they actually know about the fuel?" I asked.

  "There have been six references to the stolen material over the last year. Most of the references were questions requesting information."

  "What about the group in Kingman?" I asked.

  "That group is only slightly less militant than the group in Taos. The nut case who runs the Kingman group is an old bastard named McClintock. He started out in the late seventies as part of the so-called tax movement. When we put most of the national tax rebels in prison McClintock got caught up in the Second Amendment movement and dropped out of sight for a few years. Five years ago he resurfaced with his own militia group on their own retreat outside of Kingman running a Second Amendment movement."

  "The Second what movement?" I asked.

  Jimmy stepped in to fill the void. "He's referring to the group of people who believe the government is trying to take away their right to bear arms or to arm bears. I can never remember which it is."

  Mendoza laughed when he heard Jimmy’s explanation.

  Jimmy continued, "We're talking about the Second Amendment to the constitution. It basically says, and I'm quoting here, 'a well regulated militia being necessary for the preservation of a free state, the right of the people to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed upon'. Basically the Second Amendment groups they feel that they have the right to carry weapons and own weapons, you know, like you do."

  "Anyway," Mendoza interrupted, "I have an identity for you that was worked up by our friends in the Federal Marshal's office."

  He pulled another rather thick business envelope from the inside right breast pocket of his suit jacket. I was impressed by how well his suit concealed what was in the pockets.

  "These guys," he nodded toward the stark white envelope lying between us on the table, "administrate the Federal Witness Protection Program. Your bio background, a driver's license, and two credit cards are inside. There's also a number you need to memorize then destroy. It's hooked to a phone in Kingman if you are in the 602 area code and to a phone in Taos if are in their area code. Both phones are monitored 24 hours a day. If you need help, call us."

  "So Mike," I said in my best game host show voice, "tell us what is in envelope number one?"

  "We have, what we believe is a fairly accurate organizational chart of each of the groups along with a photo of each of the major players and their bio's. We also have multicolor topographical maps and some aerial views of each compound. And last but not least, a list of where the top guys normally go when they are outside of their respected compounds. Anything else?" he asked, looking up at me.

  "Yeah," I said, "what do I do if I find the," I struggled for a second for a word then blurted, "The stuff?"

  "Call one of the numbers. We will take care of the actual retrieval. We will have nuclear capable HAZMAT teams on alert."

  "What's your gut assessment of our chances of actually retrieving the material?" Jimmy asked. I noticed that he did not have trouble finding the right word.

  Mendoza thought for a few seconds looking first at Jimmy then me and back to Jimmy again. He pulled his brows together and his forehead wrinkled.

  "I'd give you about 20%, tops. Everything we have is based on guesswork. We have no actual hard data to work with. Even the material in the envelope is only about 80% accurate at best. This is going to be a tough nut to crack."

  -10-

  We returned to the office after Mendoza drove away from the parking lot. Both of us were interested in looking at the pictures of the militia leaders. Jimmy opened the thick envelope and dumped the contents on the desk. We sorted the material into two piles, the group residing in Kingman and the group at the retreat located outside of Taos. The photographs of the men in both groups looked about the same, weekend warriors standing around in small groups wearing black outfits or cammies. All of the pictures were grainy and almost to a person, everyone in them was wearing sunglasses. All in all, the pictures were as close to worthless as they could be. I remember seeing intelligence photos in the Gulf during the war that had been taken from a plane at twenty thousand feet and you could read the nametags on the shirts the troops were wearing. I guess the domestic warriors don’t have the same equipment we had ten years ago in the military.

  Jimmy and I studied the supplied material for four weeks and I slowly slipped into my cover, embellishing the bio and changing it here and there with pieces of my own background so I would sound convincing in casual conversation, which is where you tend to stumble when questioned. I also read everything I could on the internet concerning the militia, the tax protest movement, the second amendment groups and anything dealing with government conspiracies. After a month I was well versed in almost any subject dealing with the government and my typing speed had increased from the number of hours I spent sitting in front of the keyboard a
nd screen which made Jimmy happy.

  My new name was Edward, Ed to his friends, K for Kenneth, Duran. I was 32, an ex-Army Ranger, specifically a sniper. I saw action in Granada and on special assignments in Central and South America. What that meant to the trained ear was that I was probably a shooter, a nice word for an assassin or in less than genteel company, a killer. The cover was not far off considering the work I did in the Army in ‘91.

  I visited several “hangouts” in the Orange County area that were home to ex-vets, mercenaries, militia people, and general outcasts. I learned more than I ever wanted to know from this questionable group of people about constitutional law, the tax resistance movement, survivalists, and the militias scattered around the country. Jimmy even arranged a visit to a tattoo parlor in Seal Beach where I received a semi-permanent tattoo of the Army Ranger patch, this being a deep cover operation and all. I was told by the so called artist that the tattoo would come off with little if any scarring because the ink used was biodegradable in sun light. Left to it self, the tattoo would fade out completely in 3 to 5 years or a Dermatologist could remove it sooner with a laser. The only amusing thing that happened during that time period was when I asked the tattoo artist, who looked like a refugee from the Hells Angeles, if getting it was going to hurt. He looked at me and said, “have you ever been in prison?” When I said no, he said, “It’s going to hurt.”

  We decided I would first try to worm my way into the Kingman Militia. We chose the Kingman group only because they were closer geographically. We decided on a date and then began outfitting me for the trip. We bought an older low mileage Ford V8 4-wheel drive pickup truck with a good air-conditioner. A trip to our favorite garage resulted in new tires, an additional fuel tank and air adjustable shocks. I also had a metal ramp built that allowed a motorcycle to be wheeled up onto the bed of the truck. I normally ride a four cylinder Suzuki road bike. The only problem with it is that the Suzuki is made by the Japanese. America first guys, like the militia, would be more attuned to someone riding American iron. So, the last major purchase was a used 1200cc Harley Sportster with raw hide covered grips with strings hanging down and the package was complete. Jimmy called Mike Mendoza and gave him the license plate numbers of the truck and motorcycle. Mendoza took care of having the Department of Motor Vehicle records altered showing that my persona had owned both of the vehicles for several years.

  I packed three bags, all of which looked like gym bags of one type or another. Everyone in Newport Beach owns one or more of these bags to carry towels and sundry other things to the beach or to the health clubs. The first of the group was about two feet long and 18 inches wide and high. My clothing and the bulk of the money I would carry went into this one. I packed six pair of jeans and my thrift store pullovers, tee shirts, jockeys, socks and running shoes.

  The second bag got stuffed with a pair of black modern styled 'Nam boots that have a sole more like a running shoe than a stiff rubber sole common to military boots. Next to the ‘Nam boots went a pair of old cowboy boots. I hoped that pointed toe cow chip kickers would allow me to “blend” in cowboy country. I also packed a field expediency kit containing medical supplies like compresses, sutures, scissors, tape, and a few other odds and ends like a pair of sage green Nomex flight gloves. I topped off this bag with a hand made ghillie suit I had put together several years ago. The suit is constructed of netting I purchased from a local marine supply house and completely covered with random strips of different colored burlap that hang from it. There is nothing funnier than some weekend warrior wearing an army tiger suit or a set of army desert cammos trying to blend into the background. I stopped going to paint ball shoots because the clowns who showed up were wearing surplus cammos and would have cammo tape wrapped around their paint ball guns. When they tried to hide in the brush they looked like a bush shaped like a man and their long guns looked like green leafed guns. They took the sport out of the sport.

  The idea behind the ghillie suits is to break up your image so you look like your surroundings. The Marines run high intensity sniper schools to teach the talent. I acquired some of my skills in Ranger school, some from Jimmy, and some from an old Marine sniper who survived Viet Nam. He taught me how to shoot prairie dogs just for the practice of sneaking up on them. When worn, the suit is draped over the head and hangs in the front and back. Bat Man's cape allows him to be concealed in dark alleys and on roof tops at night. The Ghillie suit allows snipers to conceal themselves in the open, provided they are in the field and not in a city. In the city, snipers just look like everyone else. On my suit I tied loops made from one inch webbing around the inside perimeter and pockets on the inside of the corners. When I'm flat on the ground and crawling along, trying to look like the landscape, I can keep the netting in place by hooking my fingers through the loops on the inside front and the toes of my boots in the back inside pockets. That way the netting supporting the burlap completely covers my body. I topped off the bag with a water bladder drinking system I normally wear on my back when I ride my bicycle. The bladder has a plastic tube with a bite valve that allows me drink water without raising a bottle to my mouth. I learned the hard way that you can dehydrate yourself in the desert wearing a ghillie suite, lying in the sand, and having the sun beat down on you all day long.

  The last of the three bags contained my weapons, body armor, climbing gear, K-Barr knives, binoculars, and other assorted instruments necessary to the business of staying alive. The bag was just over three feet in length and had a hard bottom allowing it to keep its shape. I did not pack my big 44 magnum revolver I normally use for long range handgun shooting because it was the only registered weapon I owned. I did not want anything on this operation that could be traced back to me. I threw in my Colt Combat Commander auto-loading pistol because it has to be one of the best handguns on the planet. The Colt Commander comes in 2 flavors; the normal Commander that has several major parts machined from aluminum and the Combat Commander is made entirely of steel. It is a little heavier but I prefer a weapon that is a few ounces heavier but more reliable.

  I included my Heckler and Koch 7.65 millimeter sniper rifle inside its hard shell carry case which is just less than three feet in length allowing it to fit in the soft sided bag. My rifle has a bipod to support the barrel for long range shooting, a 1,200 meter iron sight, and a variable 30 power sniper scope. I have at various times had an aim point device and a laser target designator fitted to the rifle. I love toys but I stopped playing with exotic high tech devices on my guns about two years ago because they all have a tendency to stop working when you really need them. I included six extra magazines for the H & K and six for the Colt plus boxes of ammunition for each of the weapons and a stock of targets.

  -11-

  Jimmy and I rolled the Harley up onto the back of the truck and tied it down to the cleats on each side of the pickup bed rails. We made 1 last pass through everything in my gear bags and my pockets to make sure I had nothing on my person or in my possession that could be tracked back to me in Orange County. I had my life neatly tucked inside a ballistic nylon wallet. It contained my new driver's license, the two credit cards Mendoza had given me with my new name, two gas credit cards and an additional VISA credit card I had applied for under the new name. I had ten thousand dollars in old twenty-dollar bills tucked away in one of my kit bags and a thousand dollars in the same currency denominations in my pocket. I intended to pay cash as much as possible. I had rented a mailbox at one of the many services in Orange County to complete the cover. As far as I could tell, I was all set to go find something the FBI thought I only stood a twenty percent chance of finding.

  Jimmy threw the three kit bags with the clothing, money, and weapons into the cab of the truck. He walked over to one of our workbenches and came back with a somewhat small and beat up tool box. He opened the door to the Ford and slid the toolbox behind the driver’s seat.

  “Since you are riding a Harley now, you are going to need some tools,” he said with a smil
e.

  I climbed up into the truck cab and started the engine. Jimmy keyed the electronic pad of the roll up door at the back of our industrial suite and nodded his head as I pulled out and turned to the left, up the back alley of the complex toward 16th St. I glanced at the outside mirror on the driver's door and saw the door rolling down. I thought it would be at least two weeks before I saw Jimmy again.

  I stopped at the end of the alley and turned right, driving south toward Newport Boulevard.

  I had a feeling of déjà vu as I passed the old industrial park on the left. The park was older than dirt and it was made up of small Quonset huts, all painted the same depressing light muddy brown color. The only business I visited in that complex on a regular basis was the Thrift shop. The wealthy ladies from Newport Beach and Corona Del Mar run it as a charity. I mostly buy cut crystal glass pieces, old books, and my requisite jeans and pullovers. All in all, a fun place to spend a rainy morning. I did not know if the feeling I had was a good or bad sign of things to come.