The Gate

by Bob Mayer

  Starry removed a large glass jug from the foam rubber interior of the case. Lake estimated the jug could hold about five gallons. The outside was painted bright red and had Japanese characters stenciled on it. The way he handled it told Lake that whatever was inside the glass scared Starry. That bothered Lake because he sensed Starry didn’t scare easy. Starry placed the jug onto a platform on the side of the sprayer, then levered down a steel hose that had a pointy spout until it rested just above the metal lid. He locked the jug in place, then suddenly looked up at Lake.

  “You said you’re airborne qualified, right?”

  “Eighty-deuce at Fort Bragg,” Lake replied. He mustered a semblance of enthusiasm. “Airborne all the way!”

  Starry wasn’t impressed. “Uh-huh.” He flipped open the lid to another crate that Lake hadn’t been able to look into. “Here. Put this on.”

  Lake stared at the MC-1B parachute that Starry had handed him. Even though he knew better, Lake had to ask. It would be too far out of character not to. “Are we going flying?”

  “Just put the chute on. And this,” Starry added, handing him an inflatable set of water wings that would fit around the parachute rig.

  Lake pulled out the waist strap of the parachute and unbuckled the leg and chest snaps. He checked the sizing on the harness. It was a large, which was fortunate because he knew from experience a medium would be a tight fit.

  Lake was a big man, not so much in height—although he did top out at six feet, one inch—but in width. His shoulders were broad, his chest well muscled from daily workouts. His body didn’t taper into the waist, but just continued in straight lines down to his thick legs. His stomach was smooth and flat, not rippling with muscles like those male models who spent their life doing crunches in pretty gyms, but solid from time spent working in the outdoors. Lake was thirty-eight and his face indicated many of those years had been spent out in the elements—and not the gentle elements of California. His face was dark, the skin creased. Rough lines flowed from around his eyes, intersecting with those coming up from his mouth and jaw. His dark hair was cut short except for a small wave of curls in the back and liberally peppered with gray. His green eyes were the best feature in the beaten face.

  As Lake shrugged the parachute rig over his shoulders, settling it in place, the bandana that he normally kept tied around his neck slipped, revealing old scar tissue encircling his throat like knotted red rope. Starry and Preston had seen the scar before and they hadn’t asked in the way that men avoided the uncertain obvious when gathered together. Not that Lake would have told them.

  Starry walked behind Lake and reached. “Left leg,” he said, passing a strap between Lake’s legs. “Left leg,” Lake instinctively replied, taking the strap and hooking it in place. “Right leg.” They repeated the process.

  “No reserve?” Lake asked as he squatted and pulled the straps as tight as he could make them.

  Preston giggled again. “Won’t need one, man, if that main don’t open. Ain’t no time for a reserve.”

  Lake ignored Preston, pulling the waistband tight and making sure he had a quick release in it. He put the water wings on and sat back down, watching Preston and Starry rig each other.

  The scenario didn’t fit, and that bothered Lake. These two were still one step ahead of him. The chute indicated they were going up high. Lake ran through the options. They could go to an airfield and get on a plane, but then why had Starry already rigged the jar on the sprayer in the back of the van? Unless they would get on a plane after leaving the van and use that route to escape. Fly, put the plane on autopilot, jump, and let the plane crash. Not bad, Lake thought, but also not likely. It was too complicated and men like Starry and Preston needed simple plans.

  There were places to jump from other than a plane, Lake knew. Maybe the Transamerica Pyramid in downtown San Francisco? But why the water wings then? San Francisco was surrounded on three sides by water, but even if they jumped off the top of the Pyramid, it was less than a thousand feet high. There would barely be time for the chutes to open, as Preston had indicated, never mind float over to the harbor.

  And why were they rigging now? They certainly wouldn’t be inconspicuous getting to the top of a building wearing the parachutes. And again, Starry had already set up the sprayer in the van. And the Japanese angle, not just the label on the sprayer and jar, but Lake had seen a bilingual map—English and Japanese—of San Francisco in the front of the van. What was that for? Lake took the pieces he had: the van, the sprayer, the parachutes, the water wings, and slithered them through the recesses of his brain, trying to think nasty thoughts.

  Then Lake had it. The whole plan was laid out in front of him in his mind, except of course for some of the details that would develop, but he knew exactly where they were going and pretty much what they would be doing. He still needed to know who was pulling the strings on this, though, and for that he would have to play it cool. Also, the Japanese angle didn’t quite fit, but that wasn’t important right now. Maybe somebody would let something slip.

  “Passenger seat,” Starry ordered, pulling aside the curtain. Lake squeezed through and took the seat while Starry took the wheel. Preston remained in the back. Starry started the engine and they rolled out of the parking lot. Lake sat back and relaxed as much as the parachute on his back would allow as they turned onto Route 101 and headed south toward San Francisco.

  It was early Sunday morning and they made good time, passing the last exit north of the Golden Gate Bridge at a quarter to five by Lake’s watch. There was no toll for southbound traffic and that explained why they’d stayed on the north side of the city last night.

  Starry’s head was swiveling, checking the rearview mirror constantly, looking out and up through the open side window, as if he expected helicopters to be hovering overhead.

  Starry was in the right lane and at exactly the midpoint of the bridge, 260 feet above the water; he stopped the van, and turned on the blinkers. “In the back,” he ordered Lake, who was not surprised in the least at this course of events.

  Lake slid into the rear. He noted that Preston had already hooked his parachute static line into a large eyebolt in the roof of the van, just in front of the two back doors. Preston kicked the doors open and stepped out, weapon at the ready. “Hook up there and join Preston on security!” Starry yelled.

  Lake did as he was ordered, slipping his static line hook over the eye bolt and insuring it slid shut, pushing the safety wire through the small hole in the hook and bending it over to make sure it couldn’t open. He carefully stepped out, making sure his static line wasn’t tangled, and joined Preston. A few cars drove past, but the drivers didn’t seem interested in checking out the van with two armed men standing behind it. Somebody might be making a cellular call to the cops, but they would take a while to respond. Too long, based on how quickly Starry was working.

  Lake knew Preston and he were here on the off chance a police car happened by. But he knew that wasn’t going to happen. He glanced behind. Starry was extending the large nozzle of the sprayer up and out, over their heads, tilted toward the center of downtown San Francisco two miles to the southeast.

  As Starry reached over and lowered the pointy spout to puncture the metal top of the glass jar, Lake shot him with the M-16, the high velocity bullet entering in a tiny black dot squarely between Starry’s eyes, and taking with it most of the back of his skull on the way out along with assorted brain matter and blood.

  “What the fuck—” Preston began as he spun about.

  Lake used his left hand to simply snatch Preston’s AR-15 right out of his hand just like a drill sergeant would take a rifle out of a trainee’s hands for inspection, which Lake found ironic as he tossed the weapon into the rear of the van on top of Starry’s body. Preston’s AR-15 wouldn’t have fired anyway, as Starry’s wouldn’t have, but Lake didn’t have time to play around. He jammed the muzzle of his own weapon into the soft spot under Preston’s jaw, twisting about so that the back
of Preston’s legs were against the bumper of the van.

  “Who’s paying for all this? Who’s giving you the orders?”

  Preston was shaking. The man had sat in on all the meetings in dirty halls and campsites and raised his open right hand in the hard core Patriot salute. Probably even stomped a Jew or a black in some dark alley in the company of others of his kind, but Lake doubted that he’d ever seen someone’s brains blown out or had a gun shoved up against his chin and had to face someone down while all alone.

  “Talk or you’re dead,” Lake said.

  “What are you doing, man?” Preston’s voice quivered. “Why’d you do that to Starry?”

  “I’m asking the questions,” Lake said, emphasizing that by a sudden shove of the barrel. He could hear Preston’s teeth clash together. “Who gave you the orders to do this?”

  “I don’t know. Starry didn’t know either, man. We got it off the web. The money followed. Then we were told where to pick up the gear.”

  “You did all this just cause someone on the Internet told you to?” Lake asked.

  “They were with the cause. There was a notice, man. Four months back. On the Patriot newsletter, looking for volunteers for a special, secret mission. We responded. I don’t know why we got picked.”

  Lake wanted to rub his forehead. He’d hoped that the orders had come from the Patriot organization in California. But he believed what Preston was saying and not simply because he was holding a gun on him. The Patriot movement was very fragmented and paranoid. There was no overall leadership and each group did its own thing. If there was one thing that held it together, it was the Internet. At least he could try to follow this lead on the Internet website where the Patriot filth piled up and fermented.

  “What happens below?” Seeing the confusion in Preston’s wide eyes. Lake amplified the question. “After we jump. What happens?”

  “Boat picks us up. It’s supposed to be waiting. That’s what Starry said. I don’t know nothing else, man.” Preston blinked. “Why’d—-”

  He never finished, as Lake squeezed the trigger. He’d fine-tuned the trigger tension. He’d had nothing else to do for the past couple of days and it didn’t take much work.

  The top of Preston’s head mingled with the gore inside and the body flopped back. Lake threw the legs up and tossed the AR-15 on top of the two bodies, then wedged the doors almost all the way shut. His static line kept them from latching.

  He then pressed a button on the side of his watch, checked to make sure the pager had activated, then he stepped over the railway onto the walk. He reached inside his shirt, ensuring the High Standard silenced .22 was secured in the shoulder holster, then crossed the walk. He made sure his static line was clear as he stepped up on the outer railing, balancing himself with one hand on a steel cable. The water below was a sheet of black. There was a stiff breeze in his face, something he knew that Starry’s plan had called for to carry the contents of the glass jar toward the city.

  Lake paused as tires squealed and two blue vans with dark tinted windows screeched to a halt, one behind, one in front of the parked van. Men in black combat gear flowed out of the vehicles, weapons at the ready, the red dots of their laser sights flickering over the scene, a pair fixing on Lake’s head.

  Lake kept his grip on the cable and his other hand away from his side. “I’m Lake. Two bodies inside,” he called out. “Their getaway boat is below. I’m going down to take it out.”

  A thin old man dressed in a long black raincoat stepped forward. “Lake, hold on—”

  Lake pointed with his free hand. “I think they have bio-agents in the glass jar in the sprayer inside, so don’t break it, Feliks. I’ll meet you at the Coast Guard station on the south shore.”

  “Lake!” Feliks’ voice threatened. “Take backup.”

  “They’ll just get in the way.” Lake threw himself out into space, then immediately tucked into a tight body position as he’d been taught on the thirty-four foot towers at Fort Benning what seemed like a lifetime ago.

  Lake counted, knowing it would take longer because he didn’t have the added speed of an airplane to get to the end of the static line. One thousand, two thousand. At five thousand he felt a tug, then a jerk as the chute blossomed open. Just in time as he hit the water three seconds later, still pulling the quick release he had put into the waist belt.

  The shock of the cold water caused Lake to gasp, expelling what little air he had in his lungs. He didn’t panic even though he was completely submerged. He’d been in this situation in the past and he calmly felt for the small knobs for the water wings. Locating them, he pulled and they inflated, popping him to the surface. The chute settled down into the water off to the side and Lake struggled with the chest release, then each leg release.

  Lake kicked to get away from the chute and was promptly entangled in the web of parachute line. He immediately stopped kicking. Drawing a knife from inside his left boot he carefully began cutting the 550 cord to clear himself before the chute became soaked and sank.

  As he was doing that, he heard the mutter of a boat’s engine. Small, maybe sixty-horsepower, Lake estimated from the sound. It was coming from the southwest. He cut through the last line as the sound of the boat came very close. He kicked as a wave rose him up and looked. The silhouette of a zodiac with a man in it was about forty meters away. Good thing there wasn’t much of a swell, Lake thought, or that zodiac would be in trouble. He glanced up. The current had already pushed him well away from the bridge toward the ocean.

  “Over here!” Lake yelled.

  The zodiac turned head on and slowly puttered forward. Lake grabbed the safety line rigged around the forward pontoon and pulled himself up as a swell helped lift him. He rolled into the bottom of the zodiac.

  “Where are the others?” the man running the engine hissed, as if his whispering negated the sound the engine made. The man was holding a large pistol, one Lake knew he hadn’t worked on. He couldn’t make out the man’s features in the dark. It had only been Starry and Preston for the past several weeks, so this man was a new factor.

  “They’re coming,” Lake said as he pulled off the water wings.

  “You were all supposed to jump together! I only saw one chute.” The man looked up, over Lake’s head toward the bridge. Lake dropped the water wings into the bottom of the boat. As he did so he saw the man bring the pistol up level, muzzle pointing at Lake’s chest.

  Lake rolled right along the rubber bulkhead, drawing his High Standard as he moved. He heard the sound of a gun going off and the flat crack of a bullet. Coming to a halt against the right pontoon, Lake fired twice, aiming for the man’s gun shoulder.

  The man was startled by the impact, not sure what had happened as the slight sound of the receiver working on Lake’s gun was easily muffled by the engine. He looked at Lake, who immediately knew he was in big trouble. Either the small caliber rounds hadn’t hit anything important enough to immobilize the arm or the man was wearing a vest. Those thoughts flashed through Lake’s brain as the man brought the pistol to bear again.

  Lake swiftly fired two more shots, directly into the man’s right eye socket. There was no exit wound this time. Lake’s homemade .22 shells mushroomed upon passing through the eye socket into the man’s brain, making jelly of the gray matter. The gun fell to the floorboards with a clatter, and the man slumped over.

  “Fuck,” Lake quietly cursed. He checked the body and found that the man was indeed wearing a bulletproof vest. The .22 slugs had barely cut through the cloth on top of the armor. He looked at the face, ignoring the bloody eye socket. The man had slightly Asian features. Lake patted him down. No ID. Nothing other than the gun and the clothes.

  Lake pushed the body aside and took the engine handle. He opened the throttle and headed for the Coast Guard station on the south shore. The engine fought hard against the strong seaward current, but Lake kept on course, guiding off the massive south pier of the bridge, which he knew was over a thousand feet fr
om the south shore. He passed the tower by, just to his right, then headed in to shore, angling against the current.

  On the jetty for the Coast Guard station, Feliks was waiting for him with one of the blue vans and several of his men. The men secured the line Lake tossed them, then grabbed the body, taking it into the van. They hauled the boat up onto the jetty and began deflating it.

  As they were doing that, Lake held out a hand to Feliks. The older man reached into a pocket of the raincoat and pulled out a cigarette case. He handed it to Lake. Lake snapped open the battered metal top and pulled out a cigarette. Feliks lit it for him. There was a crest on the case. Lake had seen it the first time Feliks had given him a cigarette several years ago. He’d checked the crest and found out it was from the OSS, the Office of Strategic Services, the World War II predecessor of the CIA.

  Feliks had white hair and appeared to be in his mid-sixties, but Lake didn’t know for sure—the man could be a dozen years either way. Lake didn’t know much about Feliks other than the cigarette case. No one at the Ranch did. Feliks was as tall as Lake and his skin was very white, as if he spent little time out of doors.

  The first question Feliks asked was the one Lake knew he would ask. “Do you believe they were on their own?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Those bozos couldn’t plan a trip to the bathroom,” Lake said. “They also had plenty of money to spread around. You knew that when I picked up the weapons and sold them. Someone was financing them and making the plans. Before he died, Preston told me they were recruited over the Internet. Their specific instructions and money probably went directly to Starry in a dead drop.”

  Feliks nodded. “The Internet’s an avenue we can check. The FBI has been monitoring that and has records. What about the Japanese evidence planted in the van?” Feliks asked.