Made in the U.S.A.: The 10th Anniversary Edition

by Jack X. McCallum

  Sitting on the sofa, Will felt sleepy. Hungry, but sleepy. He also felt warm and comfortable and safe, despite all the odd things he had seen.

  I wish I could stay here forever, he thought, as his eyes closed.

  Within a year Hometown would be ravaged.

  Within a year Will would be back in the Compound.

  9

  Don’t Bother To Knock

  Al’s patrol car was flying down an empty stretch of road. Carlos was riding shotgun, eyeing the speedometer uneasily as the indicator needle trembled over the 100 mark. Half of Al’s head and his left eye were covered in bloody gauze.

  “Now let me see if I have it straight,” Al said, glancing at Carlos. “You and the girl worked at In the Shade. The guy in the T-shirt showed up, argued with a guy at the counter, and the guy at the counter died. You say that guy may have poisoned himself—”

  “The guy was blue,” Carlos said, “and his tongue was sticking—”

  Al held up a hand. “You aren’t a doctor. Okay. Two men and two women show up. Two go around back and two come in front and start harassing the woman—”

  “Jeannie—”

  “—and they pull guns. There’s a struggle, you maim one with a cleaver—”

  “I know he’s dead—”

  “—and then the guy in the T-shirt—”

  “Will—”

  “—shows up and he has a gun. There’s shooting, and when it’s all over only you three leave the place alive.”

  Carlos nodded.

  “The guy in the T-shirt—”

  “Will—”

  “—thinks the guy at the counter was after him, and yet the supposed government operatives with the snack-food names say they were after the girl, so you hit the road, get shot at by another carload of strangers—”

  “More suits—”

  “—and after disabling that car you have a run-in with the Taurus and the red and white haired individuals. And that was where I came in.”

  “Yeah,” Carlos said. The car was still holding steady at 100 mph.

  Al was pretty sure the car this Will fellow had shot at and put out of commission was the same one he’d passed on the road earlier. He was hesitant about calling dispatch with all the details. If what Carlos was saying was true, he’d passed the diner after the big shoot-out, and hadn’t noticed a damn thing. Now he was hearing all kinds of crazy stuff, had been shot at, and wanted to get things properly sorted out in his mind before he got on the radio again. He’d already called in a description of the Taurus and had received yet another confirmation that his back up was out there, somewhere, so now all he had to do was find the car that had taken the man named Will and the waitress named Jeannie.

  And there it was up ahead. The Taurus was just off the road, lying on one side. There seemed to be bodies all over the goddamn place.

  “Jee-zuss,” Al whispered. Al had seen the dead before and lots of them, but rarely as bad as this in his own United States of America. Christ, he was just a small-town cop. The reason he took the job was to get away from stuff like this.

  “Hey,” Carlos said as they pulled off the road, “That’s the guy. Will. That’s him over there.”

  “Who are the well-dressed and shooting victims near him?” Al asked. Carlos shrugged.

  Al quickly radioed his position, asking again for back up and requesting paramedic units while wondering for a moment if anyone was even listening at dispatch. Jesus, was he the only cop on patrol in the entire Mojave today? “Stay put in the car,” he said to Carlos, still wondering what the kid’s role was in all this. “And don’t touch anything.”

  “Okay, dad,” Carlos said, wondering why the big cop hadn’t tossed him into the back seat.

  Al cracked his door open and hunkered down, making his way over to Will, fragments of plastic and glass from the Taurus crunching under his shoes. He felt for a pulse, found one, and then made his way to the two suits. He recognized both of them. The woman was one of the secretary types who had been leaning against the black Pontiac he’d checked on after passing the diner. She was dead. The man he didn’t bother to check, since it appeared that most of his brain matter had spilled out onto the ground, accounting for the drying stain encircling the man’s head. The nametag was gone, but this was Freddie Speckle Jr., the guy who’d been taking a piss as Al had pulled over. Opportunistic flies were already going to town on him. Brass casings were strewn all over the place.

  When he was sure it was safe to do so Al stood and walked closer to the car resting on one side, his sidearm at the ready. There was a guy in the wreck of the Taurus and another lying outside the vehicle. Al recognized them by their hair. One of them had shot at him. Both men were still alive.

  Al turned and saw Carlos easing Will into the back seat of the patrol car.

  “I thought I told you to stay in the car?”

  “Will’s hurt,” Carlos said, after discovering wounds in the front and back of Will’s thigh. Unsure of what to do, Carlos grabbed the first aid kit and wrapped gauze around the entry and exit wounds on Will’s leg. He stuck a bandage on the hellacious scratch across Will’s ribs.

  Will shook his head and mumbled, sounding punch-drunk.

  Al collected guns from the men in the blue and gray suits and locked them in the trunk of the patrol car, noting that none of the weapons appeared to have a serial number. He had a small cooler on the floor behind the driver’s seat, and he got a bottle of water from it. He gave it to Will, who sipped and sputtered and then slowly came awake.

  “Hey,” Will said to Carlos, who nodded in return. He squinted at the sun. Not too much time had passed. “We gotta go,” he said to the cop.

  “Easy now,” Al replied. “We aren’t going anywhere until you tell us exactly what happened.”

  “They took Jeannie.”

  Al frowned. Carlos looked at him and said, “He’s right. We should go.”

  Will sat up, holding his head. “They’re only a few minutes ahead of us. I know where they’re going.”

  “Now hold on,” Al said. “We aren’t going anywhere until we get a paramedic unit here. And even then I don’t think I should be driving with a head injury. Hell, I’m still trying to decide if I should cuff the two of you.” He eased the rear door shut on Will and Carlos.

  As Al settled behind the wheel the radio crackled. At last. It was a dispatcher telling him two black and whites and two paramedic units were already rolling out of Needles. Al informed dispatch that he was bringing two male suspects to San Bernardino. Al added that he wanted to get medical treatment for the white male and for himself.

  Will looked like he was going to puke. He leaned forward, his fingers hooked in the metal mesh of the security screen between the front and back seats.”If I have to take this car and leave you two here I’ll do it. I’m going after Jeannie one way or the other.”

  Al half-turned in his seat and gave Will a questioning look. “In case you didn’t notice, I have a gun, not to mention nearly a hundred pounds and a foot in height on you. You look shaky enough as it is. How are you going to wrassle me out of the car?”

  “I’ll find a way,” Will said.

  “And what about you?” he asked Carlos. “Are you with him?”

  Carlos nodded. “I worked with Jeannie, man. She’s a good person, you know? I wouldn’t want to see anything bad happen to her.”

  Will spoke up. “The people who took her were working for the Compound, same as the stiffs over by the Taurus.”

  Al looked over at Richards and Dicks, the duo who had identity cards issued on June 31st, and the man and woman who had no identification. The Compound. There were suits in Sunday Morning watching over the gang from UCLA, and Al could swear Fred Callan had mentioned a place called the Compound once or twice, usually in hush-hush tones. Al had found that a little weird. Now it seemed even weirder.

  “You said you know where they are going?”

  Will looked the Deputy Sheriff in the eye a moment. Could he trus
t this guy? Could he really get the cop’s sidearm? Could he even stand up at this point without puking? “The Compound itself is near D.C. There’s another Compound here in California, Compound West. It’s in Devil’s Playground.”

  Al looked skeptical. “I know this area, and I know Devil’s Playground. There’s nothing there.”

  “Do you know Big Blue Rock?”

  Al gave Will a nod. Big Blue Rock was a massive expanse of dark granite about a hundred feet high and big enough to cover two or three city blocks. There were no roads to it or near it, so he’d only seen it from a distance. It looked like the stub of an eroded mountain.

  “I’ve been there,” Will said. “The rock is a façade, nothing but a shell of carbon fiber polymer. You could crash a 747 into it and the people inside would be fine. Compound West is inside that shell.”

  Al now had no doubts that this guy was a nut. “Bullshit. I have a surveyor’s map at home dated nineteen fifty-nine. Big Blue Rock is on it.” He closed his door, started the engine and pulled onto the road. He’d take these guys to the Central Detention Center and say good riddance. All he wanted to do now was get his head wound properly treated and go home.

  “The Compound has existed since World War Two,” Will said. They’ve got installations like Compound West hidden all over the country.”

  “That’s insane,” Al said flatly. “How the hell could they hide stuff like that from, say, Rand McNally? Or satellites?”

  “Satellites only tell part of the story,” Will said. “Boots on the ground tell the rest. Who has the final say as to what goes on maps? The Department of the Interior? The United States Geological Survey? All parts of the U.S. government. The Compound is also a part of the government. They are well hidden, but they have a finger in every pie. If they want something put on the map, or more likely left off a map, that’s what happens.”

  Carlos looked surprised. “Are you saying there are parts of the country not on any map?”

  “Sure,” said Will. “In Alaska, Utah, Washington, I’ve been to a few. One of them, in the southwest, is almost the size of Manhattan. The Compound has had a bitch of a time hiding that from American citizens and foreign governments. And then there’s the moon—”

  “The moon?” Al asked. “You need to stop listening to Art Bell.”

  Will thought a moment. “Look, the rock is what, less than a half hour from here?”

  Al nodded reluctantly.

  “Take us there.”

  “And then what?” Al asked with a sarcastic smile. “Do I just knock on the door?”

  “Nah,” Will said. “Don’t bother to knock. Once we get within two or three hundred feet they’ll be on us like cats on a spider.”

  Al was thinking that delusions can make a man dangerous, and Will’s delusions were big.

  Will let out an exasperated breath. “Look, take us up there. Lock us in the back of the car. When you’re within shooting distance of Big Blue Rock, fire a few rounds into it.”

  Al was getting tired of this, and he hoped he wouldn’t have to listen to this craziness all the way to the CDC. “What will that prove?”

  Will smiled. “When you shoot at an isolated mountain nothing happens. When you fire at a facade covering a United States government covert installation it’s like trying to drive into Lansdowne Flats. Expect an ERT.”

  “What the hell is Lansdowne Flats?” Al asked.

  “You’ve heard of Area 51? Groom Lake?”

  Al nodded. More fruitbat conspiracy theory crap.

  “When Area 51 and Groom Lake became part of popular culture they also became a little too exposed. All of the government’s extremely sensitive stuff was moved to Lansdowne Flats in Utah years ago.”

  “Sensitive stuff?” Al snorted. “Little green men and flying saucers?”

  “Yeah,” Will said. “Except the little visitors aren’t green or gray but pasty white, like albinos. And their ships aren’t saucers. They’re shaped like bullets. Big ones, with stabilizer fins. Turns out the goofy spaceships in the old Flash Gordon serials were pretty much on the money.”

  Al gripped the steering wheel hard. This was getting ridiculous.

  Carlos asked, “What’s an ERT? It doesn’t sound good.”

  “An Emergency Response Team,” Will said. “And believe me, if they get you, you’ll never be a nuisance to anyone ever again.”

  Al spoke up. “Why should I believe such a bizarre tale at all?”

  “No more bizarre than anything else that’s happened today,” Carlos muttered.

  “Where’s your back-up?” Will asked. “Where are the paramedics you called for? Where is the radio chatter that you should be hearing after your last transmission? If your people were concerned you would have at least heard something. Either you’re really despised back at the dispatch center, or your transmissions were intercepted.”

  Al didn’t want to agree with the guy, but Will had just made a good point. Why was the radio so damn quiet? And another thing that had been bugging him came to mind; when he had called dispatch to check on Dick Richards’ ID, who had verified the bogus card? Before he could think it over a news van complete with a roof-mounted satellite dish appeared on the road ahead, coming toward them.

  Even if the clowns who had taken the girl were Feds, Al wanted to know what they were up to. They’d left bodies lying all over the place, and he wanted to know who would put such a half-assed operation into action.

  As the news van passed by, a white guy with a familiar face gave them a quick look.

  “That tall guy with the hair?” Carlos said. “I’ve seen him on TV.”

  Al said nothing, keeping an eye out for the old road that he knew would take them close to Big Blue Rock.

  * * *

  “See that?” Brian asked.

  Ravi looked back at the road behind them and shrugged. He was bored and wondering how much empty desert they would have to cross before Brian wanted to turn back.

  “The cop. That cop looked like his head was bandaged. And one of the guys in the back seat didn’t look so good either.”

  Brian rubbed his chin, wondering if they should swing around and follow the patrol car.

  “He’s turning,” Ravi said.

  Brian looked over his shoulder. “Turning where? There’s nothing out here.”

  “They’re taking an old road we passed a minute ago. Probably goes a few miles into nothing and then craps out.”

  Brian looked in the rear-view mirror. This was turning into an interesting day. He said, “Let’s turn around.”

  Ravi nodded. “Okay, but there’s a car wreck up ahead. And a couple of bodies.”

  “Let’s go straight.”

  A Page from the Past

  Westwood, Los Angeles, California, July 3, 1976

  It was a Saturday night and Jeannie should have been happy, because she was alone.

  She’d gone to the dentist that morning afraid of what the man in the white smock might do to her and had been sent home after being told her teeth were in perfect condition.

  Passing through the waiting room, two men began shoving each other and shouting. Walking with Eicher to the car she had passed a cute boy, an older boy, and he had looked her up and down and smiled.

  In the car, as she put her small purse at her feet and pulled the shoulder strap of her seatbelt across her chest, she had seen Eicher looking at her blouse. No, she had told herself, he wasn’t looking at her pretty blue blouse. He was looking at her stupid boobs.

  The fabric of her blouse was held tight against her by the nylon strap and her stupid boobs looked like she’d grown two extra heads. She was embarrassed. Eicher had put the Volkswagen in gear, shifting roughly as he always did and making the car shudder. Jeannie had felt her stupid boobs wobbling around like Jell-O.

  They seemed to have erupted from her body overnight. One day she had been a skinny girl who wore T-shirts and jeans and no underwear and the next she had stupid wide hips that were always banging into tabl
e edges and door jambs and stupid wiggly boobs that got in the way whenever she did anything, and if she ran or jumped they hurt from bouncing around too much. She was probably going to have to ask Eicher to by her a stupid brassiere, which would be really embarrassing and she wouldn’t want to wear it anyway.

  She thought of the way the older boy in the parking lot had looked at her. At first she had felt good, thought it was neat that he liked her, but then she remembered what his eyes had done. He had looked at her stupid boobs first, then her hips, then her boobs again, and finally her face. He had only smiled after she smiled first, and when she looked behind her as he went into the dentist’s office, hadn’t he been looking over his shoulder, looking down at her stupid giant butt instead of just looking at her?

  When she was little people always looked at her face. Now they never seemed to notice it at all.

  They had gone home and Eicher had proceeded to get shit-faced. She had read that word in a novel and thought it was the perfect way to describe how Eicher got drunk. Shit-faced. During the week he only sipped at a drink or two over dinner, but on Saturdays he got shit-faced.

  From noon onward he had sipped wine and then port until it was dribbling down his chin, murmuring about his Zahl vier. Jeannie knew enough of his sporadic German to know he was calling her number four, but she didn’t know why he called her that. Eicher had lurched to his feet late in the afternoon and staggered into the living room where she was doing some homework on the floor. He had passed out on the couch, but not before looking at her butt and her stupid boobs in a way that made her feel dirty.

  She never thought of the man who called himself her daddy as anything but Eicher, a name she remembered from when she was very small, but he was still the person looking after her and she was pretty sure he shouldn’t have been looking at her like that.

  Once Eicher began snoring heavily she closed her schoolbooks and went down the hall to her room. She took off her blouse, turning her head away from the mirror because she didn’t like the way her stupid boobs hung off of her and bounced around, making her look like a freak. She pulled on a baggy sweatshirt. She could still see the bulges under it, but it wasn’t as bad as before. She pulled off her skirt. It was now too small for her and didn’t feel comfortable. Her butt used to be flat and normal but now it stuck out like her stupid boobs. She put on some loose shorts and big puffy socks. After going to the door to listen for Eicher’s continued snores, she took two folded pieces of paper out of her small purse.