“I’m not going to sit here and fucking argue with you two. I’m going with the sergeant here, you two are going back west, end of fucking story.” Tim tossed the empty packet into the fire. “Sam is right about one thing, Taco is going to need you both to help with Robyn and Izzy.”
“Are you sure they’re alright?” John asked.
“We haven’t heard from them in a few weeks, but that doesn’t mean anything. We haven’t heard from the sailors coming from the Pacific in a while either, so I can’t say for certain either way. At this point I am choosing to think that no news is good news.”
The wind had picked up, and they could no longer hear Colin’s screams from where he remained cuffed to the guardrail. Tim thought that he’d probably already died in the cold. It was well below freezing now, and no one could have survived in that with no clothes on.
He wondered why Jimenez had not contacted them in the last few weeks. He had a deep, sinking feeling wash over him all of a sudden, and frowned.
“What is it, Tim?” Sam asked.
“I’m used up, Sam. I’m done,” he said, “I want you guys to get the fuck away from here, head back west.”
“What about you?” John asked.
“I said I was done. I meant it. Don’t worry about me anymore. Once you get back there, try to finish what we started, alright?”
Neither of the other men responded, just looked at his face in the firelight. Tim stared back at the men, a cold wave of despair washing over him. Try as he might, he couldn’t shake it. He didn’t know why, but he felt his life was nearing an end, getting to Washington was the last thing he needed to do. Everything else he’d ever cared about and loved was now gone forever.
He had nothing left to live for now. Deeply saddened, he sensed that something terrible had happened back in Arizona.
He just had one more task to do before it was truly over…
* * *
Jimenez woke with a start in the darkness, bathed in sweat. He didn’t know how long he’d slept or what time it was. The only thought in his mind right now was the horrible dream from which he’d awakened.
Over and over again, he saw the image of the big C-130, smoke trailing from its engines, slamming into the mountainside in a plume of red flame and black smoke.
He felt out for Robyn in the darkness. He touched her arm, and felt an icy bolt through his hand that ran all the way to his heart. He gripped her wrist and leaned over to her, placing his ear to her chest.
“Robyn! Are you okay?”
“Taco, I was asleep,” she said, in a barely audible whisper.
“Oh shit, baby. Robyn, I thought you were dead!”
“I dreamed I was Taco. I’m back now.”
“Back?”
“I was back in West Virginia for a while. I was running through a meadow, chasing after Geoffrey. Now I’m back,” she told him in the darkness.
“Who’s Geoffrey?”
“Someone from a long, long time ago, Taco. Daddy was there in the meadow too.”
“Yeah, baby?” Juan asked, snuggling back up to her. “What did the Sar’ Major do in your dream?”
“He told me to tell you not to dick around anymore, and do that chore he asked you to do.”
Jimenez had another icy chill run down his spine and shivered involuntarily. His mind raced, and he remembered what Tim had told him about fear and how to overcome it.
“He told you to tell me that?”
“Yeah, he said to stop dicking around, and just do it. Hold me Taco, I’m so cold.”
“Alright, baby.”
“In the morning do what Daddy told you to do.”
“Alright.”
“Promise me, Taco. Promise me you’ll do it.”
“I promise, Robyn.”
“Good. I love you, Taco,” she said, sounding more like her old self.
“I love you too, Robyn,” he said softly, hearing her breathing rhythmically, already fast asleep. He lay there for quite a long time, hoping it wouldn’t have come down to this.
He knew it was over. He just had to do what Tim had asked.
Chapter 26: The End of the Line
It had been a long, harrowing journey around Cape Horn and Tierra del Fuego into the South Atlantic Ocean. The SS Jeremiah O'Brian, had sailed northward through pounding seas between the Falkland Islands and the Georgia Islands, slowly but surely making her way towards their final destination.
Eight weeks later, they were only a hundred and fifty nautical miles south-southeast of the mouth of the Chesapeake Bay. Seagulls were circling the ship and it sailed westward, the sky a dark gray that threatened more snow squalls.
The wind was picking up, the seas were swelling six to eight feet, and the bow of the ancient Liberty Ship rose and fell drunkenly. All hands on board were still motivated, though morale was dwindling, as the long trek had started to take its toll. Johnson, who was now at the con, was glad they were nearing their destination. Everyone needed a rest, and soon.
He sat back in the captain’s chair looking out of the forward windscreen of the bridge over the ugly gray of the Atlantic. The helmsman was fighting to keep the ship on course, and Johnson could hear his muttering curses under his breath. Johnson had a splitting headache, and the two Tylenol he’d taken hadn’t eased the pain.
Suplee, who’d had the con over the midnight shift, had decided to stay up and stick around on the bridge to help Bill as they neared port, and had just come in from the wing bridge, shutting the hatch behind him with a loud bang. He removed his oilskin overcoat and hung the wet coat on a peg on the rear bulkhead.
“We’re almost there, Skipper,” he said.
“That we are, Harry. We should be picking up Cape Charles on the radar in about an hour,” Johnson said, checking his wristwatch.
Suplee pulled out a pack of Marlboros and lit a stale cigarette with a Zippo lighter, exhaling a cloud of smoke in the overheated bridge. “You still want to bypass Norfolk and Portsmouth?”
Johnson answered, “Yes. Jerry wants us to try to get him as close to DC as possible, so I’m going to try to get as far north into the Chesapeake as possible. Annapolis will do us nicely.”
“We can always sail back south to refuel and provision at Norfolk.” The cigarette hanging from his lips, Suplee walked over to the windscreen and frowned, his back to Johnson. “You still having those bad feelings?”
“For a few days now. It’s like something is trying to tell us this was a very bad idea. That and I’ve got a bear of a headache.”
“I’ve got one too. Had it since last night,” Suplee said. “I think we’ll be alright. We’ll tie up at Canoe U, unload Jerry’s equipment and men, and get the fuck outta Dodge,” Suplee stated, taking another drag off his smoke. “What do you think of the strange message we got the other day on the Ham?”
“Beats me. I did do what the guy asked, and forwarded the message to Tim. He seemed to know who the guy was, but was really, really surprised to hear from him. It was almost as if he’d heard from a ghost,” Johnson said, shifting in his seat as the ship took another powerful hit from a large wave.
“It did seem kinda’ odd. ‘Dan Kruger from Korotonga sends him best wishes.’ Did you ever find out what he meant?”
“I asked Tim, but he never elaborated. He knew the name, that’s for sure.”
“What’s ‘Korotonga?”
“I had to look it up on the charts. It’s an island in the South Pacific, Northwest of Fiji.” Suplee turned on the wipers on the front windscreen as the ship entered another snow squall, the bow almost disappearing in a white cloud. He took another drag. “And the other news… that’s pretty bad. I can’t believe they’re all dead out in Arizona.”
“I know,” Johnson said with a sad nod. “Tim let us know yesterday.”
“Those fuckers in DC have a lot to answer for,” Suplee spat angrily.
“We’ll let Jerry take care of that from here on out. We’ve done our job.”
“I guess som
e things never change. A royal fucking by the fuckers in DC, yet again,” Suplee said. “When will it ever end?”
“I’m hoping soon, Harry.”
“Did Tim say anything more?”
“No,” Johnson answered. “Only that he reckons he’ll be in DC today sometime.”
“You’d think after everything that’s happened, people would at least try to be nice to each other,” Suplee said, walking over to the old vacuum-tube radar set and peering into the hooded eyepiece.
“I don’t think that’ll ever happen, Harry. Not in our lifetime. Maybe our kids will finally learn about how to—”
“Holy shit!” Suplee shouted.
“What is it?” Johnson asked, spinning in his seat.
“I’ve got something on the radar. It’s big!”
“It’s too soon for us to pick up Cape Charles,” Johnson said, walking over to the radar.
“It’s not Cape Charles. It’s the wrong direction. It’s big, and moving, and to the northeast,” Suplee said, his voice excited.
“It’s only about a thousand yards off starboard!” Johnson said. He and Suplee grabbed their binoculars and went out onto the exposed starboard wing bridge. Through the tapering snowfall, they saw the shape of a huge, gray-sided warship emerge, its bow slicing through the swells, sending out sprays of white foam. ‘D97’ was painted in black on the hull amidships, the way the British Navy did—unlike the white numbers, closer to the bow, as the US Navy had done— the White British naval ensign flying proudly from the mast to the rear of the main superstructure.
As the warship approached, the two sailors saw an aldis lamp start to flash from its bridge. Suplee, the faster of the two with Morse code, read the message aloud: “Ahoy SS O’Brian. This is the HMS Edinburgh of the Royal Navy, prepared to heave to.”
Letting his binoculars hang from his neck from the strap, Johnson said, “Isn’t this just wonderful.”
* * *
Tim drove the battered and rusting old Buick down Wisconsin Avenue, through Chevy Chase, Maryland, and slowed when he approached the intersection of Wisconsin, Western Avenue and Military Road. He was having a difficult time keeping his thoughts in order because of a terrible headache he’d had since right after he’d gotten word from Jimenez about Izzy. Try as he might, he couldn’t shake it, along with his building feelings that this was about to come to an end.
He wept inwardly about Robyn and Juan, alone out there in Arizona, but he knew there was nothing he could do now for them. He’d failed both of them so terribly. He shook off that feeling, but the pounding in his head remained.
To his right, there was a shopping mall, its parking lot now completely overgrown with weeds and short trees, cars parked forever in the asphalt lot, gradually being swallowed by the returning forest of weeds and trees.
He had reached the border between the State of Maryland and Washington, DC proper, and knew for certain he’d reached the end of the line. A pair of dirty Metro buses had been pushed together, forming a roadblock, and several Hum-Vees and military trucks were in the area, well-armed men milling around in the cold.
Tim stopped the car a few yards from the roadblock, and saw that several men had their rifles trained at his vehicle. Tim turned to the sergeant, who had said nothing all morning. He was turning a pasty gray and didn’t look well at all. Tim figured his shattered ankle didn’t tickle one bit.
“So, this roadblock?” Tim asked, pointing at the buses. “Is it here to keep people out, or to keep people in?”
“What do you think, Flannery?”
“Oh, you don’t want to know what I’m thinking,” Tim replied. He faced forward, keeping both his hands on the wheel as not to spook the armed guards approaching his car. He reached over with his left hand and rolled down the window, letting in a blast of frigid air. A man holding an M16 came to the window, pointing the muzzle right in his face.
“Who the fuck are you?” the man demanded.
“I think the proper question should be ‘halt, who goes there?’,” Tim said.
“I think you’re a smartass,” the sentry said, and thumbed off the safety.
“It’s better to be a smartass than a dumbass,” Tim said, smiling in spite of his splitting headache.
“Outta the car now!”
Tim moved to comply, but the other guard, who had come up to the passenger side, shouted, “Hey, it’s the sergeant!”
“Yeah, it’s me. Let us through, will ya?” the sergeant said.
“What happened to the major and the rest of your guys?” the guard by Tim’s window asked, leaning in.
The sergeant looked over at the man and replied coolly, “He killed them,” pointing at Tim.
“How did he do that?” the man asked, wide eyed.
“I used my secret magic powers, asshole. Now let us through, the president wants to see me,” Tim said.
“It’s you!” the man gasped. “You’re the one!”
“I see my reputation has preceded me,” Tim replied.
“Listen, soldier,” the sergeant said, “I’m not fucking around, okay? Let us in. The president wants to talk with this man.”
The sentry stared at the sergeant for a few seconds, blank look on his face, and then spun on his heels and made a motion for the man to open the roadblock. Several men manhandled the buses out of the way, making room for the old Buick.
A Hum-Vee with a man standing at the .50 caliber machine gun mounted on the roof started up and drove through the opening. Tim put the still running car into drive and followed, ignoring the silent stares of the sentries at the roadblock.
They entered the deteriorating city, and Tim looked around at the dilapidated buildings, unchecked weeds growing, garbage everyplace, and shook his head with disgust. Further and further they drove onward, and he began to see how bad it really was. Whole city blocks of buildings had been burned, and now stood gutted, trees growing out of cracks in the sidewalks, branches sticking out of shattered windows.
It was simply a shell of the past, and nothing anyone could do now would ever bring back its former grandeur. It saddened him to the core, only helping to accentuate his pounding headache that now threatened to tear his head off.
Word must have spread quickly, Tim thought. As they made their way deeper into the dying city, people were appearing, first in ones and twos, then more and more came out of hiding, lining their route.
They were scarecrows; skinny shells of once proud Americans now brought down to their basic level by malnutrition and hopelessness. Clothes hung loosely on skin and bones, and hollow, gaunt eyes stared back at them.
These were once people who had survived what they thought was the worst, and had come to this city in the hopes of a better life, only to have those dreams shattered by reality.
It could have all been solved had not one man, the man Tim was about to see, thought of his people first, and not himself. But that was the way of all politicians, wasn’t it? Caring only of themselves and of their own luxury and wellbeing, not once thinking about their constituents, forgetting who they actually worked for.
He drove further on, following the Hum-Vee escorting them as they turned onto Pennsylvania Avenue and towards the White House. Tim tried to think of others ever since that terrible night everyone died, but it had gotten him nowhere and he was about to see exactly where it all ended in a few more minutes.
The Hum-Vee drove right into the White House grounds, past an empty guardhouse, and up to the West Wing portico, stopping under the cover. Tim pulled up behind the vehicle and shut off the engine, getting out. Two guards appeared from inside, came up to him and roughly frisked him for weapons.
They only found a Beretta M9 pistol in his waistband, tossing it onto the Buick’s roof. They spun him around and shoved him towards the doors.
“You better take your sergeant to a doctor. He’s got a bum ankle,” Tim remarked.
The two guards ignored him and pushed him through the doors into the West Wing lobby, and then to the
left down a dimly lit corridor. Reaching the end, they made another left hand turn; walking past the Cabinet Room until finally they reached the door leading into the Oval Office.
The door was guarded by another man, who opened the door and the two other sentries pushed Tim through, shutting the door loudly behind him.
Tim stood for a moment, taking it all in. He was actually standing there, in the Oval Office. He’d never in a million years thought he’d be standing there, and in spite of his raging headache, was awed.
He saw a balding, fat man, tie hanging loosely around his corpulent neck, eyeglasses propped up on his head, seated behind a massive wooden desk.
That must be the president, Tim thought correctly. He sure wasn’t missing any meals, unlike his people starving in the streets. Another man, who Tim hadn’t seen when he first entered, stood. He was a tall man, dressing in a threadbare US Army officer’s uniform that had seen better days. The silver general’s stars on his epaulets were polished though, and Tim had to laugh a little at the comic sight of these two characters.
The fat man stood, and motioned Tim forward. “Sergeant Major Flannery, I presume? Just the man I wanted to talk to.”
“Yeah, that be me,” Tim said.
“You should stand at attention, Sergeant Major,” the general spat. “This is the Commander in Chief.”
“Now, now, General. He’s my guest. Show him a little respect, won’t you?” the president said amiably. “Come now, Mr. Flannery. Have a seat.”
Tim walked forward a few steps until he was a few feet from the desk. “I think I’ll just stand, if it’s all the same to you.”
“Suit yourself,” the president said, and Tim thought again of the message from Jimenez the day before. Through his clouded thoughts, he thought again of the bizarre message from Jerry also, and of the name of a man he thought was long dead and gone. The pounding in his head was worse now, and he thought of its significance.
Dan Kruger. Thirty years ago, in a little hamlet in El Salvador. He could still smell the cordite, smell the death… see all the bodies stacked like cordwood. They called it ‘False Flag’; Tim called it slaughter. Slaughter for no reason, that was, except for someone else’s political gain. And why after all these years was this CIA operative from a time long past contacting him now? He certainly wasn’t a friend of Tim’s, and Kruger contacting him right at this time was more than a little bizarre.
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