Down Among the Dead Men

by Ed Chatterton

  Additional cops are on hand but they are mainly there to facilitate the movement of people. Local Lions Clubs and Veterans Associations have set up tents at the base serving hot dogs, coffee and soda. Almost half the guests are children from the surrounding areas belonging to church groups, schools and environmental groups with junior memberships. The rest are local dignitaries, representatives of climate groups, veterans, academics and press. Although the main gig is going on in Los Angeles later that day there are a lot of TV stations covering the picnic.

  Noone's pleased to see that there is some national TV there in addition to the locals. Driving Hoy's mini-van with a prominent disabled sticker on the windshield, he's directed to one of the designated parking spots close to the tramway station.

  As he pulls into the slot, a cop approaches. 'You need a hand with anything, buddy?'

  'Thanks, man,' says Noone, 'but I like to do things myself.'

  'I hear you,' says the cop. He holds up a hand and disappears.

  It takes Noone a few minutes to get settled in the chair. He opens the rear gate on the van and a ramp descends to the floor. Noone rolls the chair out into the sun. It's cooler here than in the valley but still warm; on the road up from Palm Springs the signs advise drivers to switch off their aircon as they climb the two thousand feet to the base station.

  Noone's sweating in the leather flying jacket so he takes it off and places it across his knees. He'll need it when he gets to the summit. Up there it's forty degrees cooler.

  The crowds part as he moves the chair towards the disabled ramp. It's like being Moses. Noone almost thinks it could be worth being disabled if this is how it works. The veterans badge on his cap adds to his aura, more than one patriot slapping his shoulder as he passes. At his age there's only one conflict where he could have picked up his injuries and, this close to the Marine Combat Center, there are friendly faces everywhere. Noone tries to keep his head down. He doesn't want to meet anyone who knows Kenny Hoy. This is the biggest risk in the whole scheme but it can't be helped.

  Inside the ticket office to the cable car Noone shows his invitation at the first checkpoint. A Parks Service agent, a stocky woman in her forties, smiles broadly and waves him through. In the chair he's fast-tracked to the front of the queue. At the final check before the cable car there are two policemen scrutinising invitations against ID. Noone fishes out Hoy's wallet and shows the cop. He takes off the cap and sunglasses without being asked.

  'You're good, Mr Hoy,' the cop says. 'You enjoy yourself, up there, y'hear?'

  Noone nods and replaces the cap. 'I aim to,' he says. He slips the sunglasses back into place and moves into the holding room for the next car. When it arrives he is allowed on first and directed to a spot at the back of the car.

  'Don't matter where you are,' says the operative. 'The cable car rotates 360 degrees every few minutes. You'll get a good view. Just make sure your wheels aren't crossing the gap.'

  Noone sketches a salute and locks the wheelchair in place. He tries to shift his weight in the chair without appearing to use his legs. The gun under the seat is uncomfortable and Noone's back is already strained with the effort of keeping his legs motionless. Behind him the car fills up with the remaining passengers. Noone's pleased to note there are no other disabled travellers. For some irrational reason he fears they would know he was faking. Exactly why this would be, Noone's unsure, but the feeling's there.

  The cable car closes its doors and moves upwards. There is a cheer from a group travelling together and a few squeals from a bunch of schoolkids. Noone sits quietly and watches the desert move away from him. Palm Springs stretches across the valley floor, shimmery in the August heat. The car bumps over the first stanchion and there are more squeals. Noone's point of view swings round to face Mount San Jacinto. The terrain below is steep and unforgiving.

  They're nearly there.

  Forty-Six

  They decide it's too risky to call on Dooley which means they're on their own and that leaves both Frank and Koop feeling vulnerable. It's one thing to give the appearance of not caring about the consequences. It's a completely different thing actually doing it.

  After the call with Searle, Frank knows that the only option he has is to do as his superior officer ordered. On the basis of the evidence Searle's right.

  Except he's not.

  All coppers live their lives making compromises and seeing the guilty walk free. Frank's no exception. He's not some newborn mewling infant who expects everything to work out exactly as he wants.

  But this one is different and Frank knows that he is incapable of doing nothing about Noone, even if that's just heading out to Mount San Jacinto to see if they can spot anything. Nicky Peters and his parents won't let him. Dean Quinner won't let him. Warren Eckhardt won't let him.

  'Searle doesn't need to know,' says Frank. 'If I'm wrong about Noone then we get on the flights tomorrow and no one is any the wiser.'

  'And if we're right about Noone?' says Koop. 'Won't it take some explaining how you happened to be on the spot? Or how about if we're wrong and we get mistaken for terrorists?'

  'I thought you were all Bruce Willis about this?'

  They're driving back to the apartment through the relatively traffic-free streets.

  'I think we should go,' says Koop. 'But all that action hero stuff is just talk. I think the best we can hope to do is spot Noone. If he's there we'll know something's up.'

  'And what then?'

  'Fucked if I know,' says Koop.

  On Wednesday they go to the library to dig a little deeper into the six names from Twentynine Palms. They don't get far. Even discovering the addresses is problematic. After almost two hours they have two addresses and they decide to switch tactics and concentrate on the location.

  'We come at it from the south,' says Koop. He points at the screen. 'This road takes us within eight kilometres of the top cable car station. It's tricky terrain but it's got trails that can be followed, even by us. Given the size of the area there is no way for the security forces to be able to seal off access on the wider perimeter.'

  As with most potential security threat assessments, the biggest factor stopping a determined intruder is pure luck. Which doesn't mean it will be easy.

  'We just walk in?' says Frank. 'That doesn't sound right.'

  'I don't have a better idea.' Koop turns back to the layout of the park. 'And unless they've got most of the Army patrolling the mountain there has to be a way in.'

  He hesitates. Frank's not going to like the next bit.

  'There is something else,' says Koop. 'I think if we can get past the first level of security there's a way round to the plateau they won't be watching.'

  'Why?' Frank's been around Koop long enough to know when he's hiding something. 'What's the problem?'

  Koop zooms in on a section of the mountain. It's hard to tell from the satellite images but it's clear that this is the edge of a steep drop-off.

  'Just here,' says Koop. 'There's a gap. Quite a well-known one. There are photos.' He clicks a side panel and an image appears.

  'Fuck me,' says Frank. He looks pale.

  'It's not that bad. We can jump that easy.'

  'Are you fucking mental? It's impossible.'

  'We'll talk about it tomorrow,' says Koop. 'But it's what we should do.'

  'What's this place called?'

  'Er . . .'

  'What's it called, Koop?'

  'Gallows Drop.'

  Frank feels sick.

  He's got a thing about heights.

  'No way.'

  'We'll talk about it,' says Koop.

  In the afternoon, back in the apartment, the discussion about Gallows Drop suspended, Frank books flights for himself and Koop to England and Australia. They keep the talk to discussions of return plans. Frank emails MIT to update them on his return. It'll be enough – he hopes – to keep both Charlie Searle and Sheehan's goons off their backs. On Wednesday evening they pack before going to eat at a
grill around the corner. In hushed tones they go over the details of tomorrow's plan.

  Leaving around six on Thursday, Frank and Koop head towards the airport before losing any tail they may have. Once sure they're unobserved they head east and get to the turnoff at Banning by eight-fifty. They stop at an outlet mall en route and buy hiking gear at a sports and camping store. Koop picks up a compass and a detailed map of the San Jacinto trails.

  They take the car as far as it will go and park it just off a trail road leading up from Idyllwild. They change into their new gear and start the climb towards the peak. Hot as it was at the mall it's almost cold this high up the mountain.

  'Jesus,' says Frank. 'I didn't think it'd be as cool as this.' He's glad of the fleece jacket that seemed such a ridiculous purchase at the mall.

  'We're climbing to almost ten thousand feet,' says Koop. He checks the map almost constantly, glad he bought the most detailed he could find. It would be easy to get lost up here.

  As they climb Frank feels his lungs struggling to extract enough oxygen from the thin air. It's not unpleasant but already everything is taking just that little bit of extra effort. After an hour hiking he feels like a smoker. Poor old Warren, God rest his cig-gobbling soul, would have needed oxygen just waiting in the car. The air is crisp and the thickly forested mountain seems a world away from Los Angeles. If they weren't tracking a dangerous killer, Frank would have enjoyed it.

  By eleven they're within a mile of the plateau. Ten minutes after that they're stopped by a parks ranger standing next to a 'trail closed' sign.

  'Sorry, folks,' she says. 'No access to the cable car today. Invitation only.'

  'That's OK,' says Frank. 'We're just hiking.'

  'Where's that accent from?' says the ranger.

  'England.' Putting on another accent is beyond Frank. It's easier just to tell the truth.

  'You sound like the Beatles.'

  Frank smiles but doesn't reply.

  'What's the best way back down to Idyllwild from here?' says Koop. He unfolds his map and pretends interest while the ranger points out some good lookouts on the way down.

  They retreat a few hundred yards down the way they came until they are out of sight of her.

  'Why isn't there more security?' says Frank. He gestures at the two of them. 'Why didn't Noone come in this way?'

  'Maybe he didn't come at all.' Koop takes a long look around. He points up the mountain. 'I think the main security will be focused on being close to the president's family. You know what it's like.'

  Frank does know. Protection – complete protection – of anyone is an illusion. For the president, cocooned inside the house in Los Angeles and transported inside a rolling convoy every time he moves, there is a level of security that would stop most attacks. But when the president presses the flesh, or attends a rally, the risk appreciates steeply and anyone who has ever been involved in any sort of protection plan is aware that that's all it is: a plan. Frank's been involved in security preparations in Liverpool at various times and knows that much of it is conveying the idea that to attempt an attack is too risky. That's why the visual is so important. Armed officers, black uniforms, dogs, high visibility.

  In the case of the First Family, at an event such as the Mount San Jacinto picnic, full protection is simply not an option. With an unfenced outside location there are too many entry points, too many variables, for even the heavily resourced White House to plug with the help of local agencies.

  Locating the event on the plateau helps. Access via the cable car from the Palm Springs side means that they can at least control the majority of the visitors. Anyone coming in uninvited from the west will be turned away.

  If Frank had been in control of security he would identify the easiest trails first and close them off, just as had happened a few minutes ago. That would be the first level; park rangers, local patrol officers, perhaps even volunteers from local organisations to pad out the manpower. At the next level there would be agents stationed at possible entry points. You may not be able to cover them all but you could have a presence. Anyone found at these entry points would be treated as hostile. The third ring would be on the plateau itself, where the concentration would be on establishing a perimeter around the central point. The final level of security would be the immediate vicinity of the First Family.

  It wouldn't be easy. If Frank's right about Noone, he had come to the same conclusion. He must have found a way in but exactly what that is, Frank doesn't know. Unlike them, he's been planning this for some time.

  They'll just have to walk in.

  On the map Koop points out the trails that wind towards the plateau. 'They'll have people here and here and here,' he says. 'And then I'm guessing that there'll be agents in the forest but there's too much ground for them to protect it all. It'll be bad luck if we run into anyone.' Koop's finger traces an off-trail route. 'This is our route.'

  'The fucking Gallows Drop one? No fucking way. We'll have to find another one.'

  'TINA,' says Koop, setting off along the trail.

  'What?'

  'There Is No Alternative. Get moving. It'll be a doddle.'

  Forty-Seven

  Coming off the cable car, the whole damn thing almost falls apart when Noone's wheelchair grinds to a halt on the motherfucking exit ramp. The car attendant and a couple of cops push Noone and the heavy chair to one side as the rest of the passengers stream past. The attendant pats him on the shoulder and returns to the cable car leaving Noone with the cops.

  'It done this before?' asks one of the cops. He's a big guy, fat around the middle but with experience in his eyes. He bends low and speaks in a precise way. Noone's only been in the wheelchair for an hour and he's already noticing how patronising almost everyone is. He has a moment's empathy with Kenny Hoy before remembering that he'd stabbed him in the eye and stuffed his corpse in the freezer.

  'Sometimes,' says Noone. He lends a slackness to the tone, reinforcing the mistaken assumption that he is mentally impaired. It might be useful right now.

  'Let me see,' says the second cop, a younger Hispanic guy. 'I'm pretty good at electronics.' He smiles paternally at Noone and bends to the area below the seat which houses the workings of the chair. Noone wonders what will happen if they start poking around there. What if there's some fucking cable or something running into the cushion? He fights the urge to run and forces an idiot grin onto his face.

  'Hey,' says the younger cop from behind the chair. Noone can't see either of them. 'What do you think?'

  'Try it.'

  Noone feels something being pushed on the back of the chair and the machine gives a satisfying hum. He presses the control lever and it shifts forward.

  'Yeah!' says the Hispanic cop. He leans over Noone and gives him a cartoon thumbs up. 'Looks like you're all set, buddy. Just had a loose wire back there.'

  'Thanks,' says Noone. He shakes hands with both cops and pushes the control lever forward. To one side, next to the gift shop, is a lift which Noone takes down one level. From there he moves along a hallway to a set of double doors. An old woman holds them open as he approaches and Noone finds himself outside on a platform overlooking the plateau. The platform is thick with excited visitors, mostly children. Music is coming from somewhere below. A large green banner reading Welcome CCC Picnicers! flutters in the slight breeze.

  'You know which way to go, honey?' says the old woman. She points to a wide concrete path that zigzags down the side of the slope. 'Down that way. You can't miss it. If you like I can get someone to help you?'

  'That won't be necessary, ma'am,' says Noone. He salutes the old woman and turns down the path.

  At the end of the concrete Noone arrives at a wide expanse of rolling grassland dotted with pine trees and granite boulders. Three white marquees without walls have been erected close to the path and a temporary disabled access platform has been installed to continue the path into the tents. There are people everywhere and, on a low stage in front of the tents, a ja
zz band is playing. Noone turns away from a TV camera which swivels his way but the cameraman is only working out some sort of shot. Here and there reporters are interviewing people. Noone feels there is an air of Christmas Eve about the place although that may simply be the crisp air and Alpine setting.

  A group of children wearing some sort of semi-military uniform rush past in a blur of screams and excitement. A man with a bullhorn is calling out instructions to a group of organisers dressed in khaki.

  'You OK, son?' A large man in his late sixties with a red face and a silver moustache is right up in Noone's face.

  'Yeah, I'm good, thanks.'

  'Because I can get someone to help you, if you'd like. Always happy to help a military man. You get the, uh, injury, in Iran?'

  'You mean Iraq.'

  'Yeah, Iraq, right.'

  'No,' says Noone. 'Afghanistan.'

  'You're a patriot, soldier,' says the old coot.

  Noone can hardly wait to start shooting.

  Forty-Eight

  Gallows Drop must be close to a thousand feet straight down.

  Frank wants to be sick.

  They're so close to the picnic they can hear the music drifting in and out on the breeze. They have seen a couple of agents on patrol but by simply standing still and waiting until they passed by they are able to continue.

  'Come on,' says Koop. Just forget about the drop. Concentrate on the distance.'

  'That's what I'm fucking looking at, you fucking maniac!' Frank rubs a hand across his mouth and breathes heavily through his nose. 'Just look at the fucking thing! It's fucking massive! You'd have to be fucking . . . fucking . . . FUCK! Who the fuck is the fucking long jump champion?'

  'You'll be fine.'

  To be honest, now they're here, Koop's not sure they can get across. The gap is more like a chasm, a split between a monstrous cliff that effectively marks the end of this trail. From one side to the other Koop estimates the distance to be around two metres. Only an idiot would try to jump this.