“This feels surreal,” Riley said, crouching down behind the hill, out of sight from the guards. “We’ve been watching this fence in the middle of nowhere for hours. How long are we going to spy on the gatehouse?”
Emerson was lying down in the grass, using his backpack as a pillow. “Until we can figure out a way to get past the sentries.”
Riley looked through the binoculars again. Two guards wearing khaki uniforms and campaign hats manned the station. One had an automatic rifle slung over his shoulder. “There’s no way to get past those guys without being seen and/or getting shot. We should find another way.”
Emerson shook his head. “We walked the fence line for half a day. This is the only entry point.”
“It’s going to be dark in an hour,” Vernon said. “We can’t make a fire without being seen, and without a fire we haven’t got a lot of protection against the bears and wolves on account of I’m dehydrated after getting electrified.”
Wayan Bagus was sitting under a tree. “They’re wearing the same uniforms as the men who forced me off my island. If they’re anything like those men, they won’t be good hosts.”
Emerson sat up. “I have a plan. Ten years ago, a crack commando unit was sent to prison by a military court for a crime they didn’t commit. These men promptly escaped from a maximum-security stockade to the Los Angeles underground. Today, still wanted by the government, they survive as soldiers of fortune. We need to contact those guys ASAP.”
Riley grinned. “Seriously. Your plan is to hire the A-Team?”
“I have another idea, but it’s kind of crazy.”
“Crazier than asking a bunch of geriatric actors from a TV show that was canceled thirty years ago to break into a government installation?”
“How do you feel about tattoos?” Emerson asked.
“I’m not letting you anywhere near me with a needle,” Riley said.
Emerson pulled a Sharpie from his backpack. “This is more the temporary kind of tattoo. Are you ready to join the Rough Riders?”
“You think a pen-and-ink drawing of two crossed sabers on our wrists will be enough to get us into the compound?”
Emerson uncapped the pen. “No, but I’m hoping it will buy us some time and let us get close enough to overpower the guards.”
“Shouldn’t you practice first?” Riley asked.
“Excellent idea. It’s harder to draw on a human body than on paper, what with all your nooks and crannies.”
“Never mind my nooks and crannies,” Riley said.
“Understood,” Emerson said. “I’ll get to your nooks and crannies later. How about if, for now, I practice on the flat of your back?”
Riley rolled up her shirt, giving Emerson access to her lower back.
Five minutes later, Emerson stood up, capped the pen with a dramatic flourish, and surveyed his work. “It’s quite good, actually. You may want to consider making it permanent.”
Vernon and Wayan Bagus came over to look.
“What do you think?” Riley asked. “Does it look like two crossed sabers with a number one above them? Do you think it will fool the guards?”
“It is most unlikely this tattoo will fool the guards,” Wayan Bagus said.
“Too big?” Riley asked.
Wayan Bagus nodded. “Yes, that’s it. It’s too big.”
“It’s nice,” Vernon said. “I like it. It’s a real conversation starter.”
Riley twisted and turned, trying to see her back. “What the heck is this?” she asked. “It doesn’t look like the Rough Rider tattoo.”
“It’s far superior,” Emerson said. “It’s an octopus smoking a cigar. And I’ve even signed it. Now that I’ve mastered more complex forms, I’m certain I can produce an excellent version of the Rough Rider image on your wrist.”
“I need a moment,” Riley said.
“To enjoy my work?” Emerson asked.
“To stifle the urge to choke you.”
“Is it the cigar? It was a last-minute decision.”
“It’s temporary, right?”
“ ‘Temporary’ is a relative term,” Emerson said. “It should fade away in no more than two to three weeks.”
Riley decided if after two to three weeks she was still alive and not locked away in a dungeon, she’d be so overjoyed that she wouldn’t care about an octopus smoking a cigar on her back.
“I suppose you’re now going to violate my hand,” she said to Emerson.
Emerson nodded. “I’ll do my best.”
Ten minutes later, Emerson was done with the tattoos.
“I have to admit, it looks pretty realistic,” Vernon said. “But what now?”
“Riley and I are going to walk up to the guardhouse like we own the place and tell them we caught two trespassers walking in the woods.”
“Vernon and I are going to be the trespassers?” Wayan asked.
“Correct,” Emerson said. “There are four of us and only two of them, so if we can fool them into thinking Riley and I are Rough Riders, even for a couple seconds, we should be able to get close enough to distract and overwhelm them.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be in some kind of uniform?” Vernon asked.
“We’re plainclothes Rough Riders,” Emerson said.
Riley followed Emerson out of the brush and onto the Jeep path.
“This is never going to work,” Riley said.
“You have to believe.”
“I do believe. I believe it isn’t going to work.”
Emerson motioned Wayan Bagus and Vernon to get onto the path and walk in front of them toward the gatehouse.
“Hold your hands up as if you’ve been arrested,” Emerson said. “Look ashamed that you’ve been caught breaking the law.”
“It is difficult for me to look ashamed,” Wayan Bagus said, “but I can look humble. I believe it might appear similar.”
“They’re pointing at us,” Vernon said. “They see us.”
“Hello,” Emerson shouted. “We found these two miscreants trespassing in the restricted area.”
“ ‘Miscreants’?” Riley whispered. “Who says ‘miscreants’?”
The first guard took the rifle off his shoulder and pointed it in their direction.
“What are they saying?” Riley asked. “Can anyone read lips that far away?”
“They’re confused,” Wayan Bagus said. “They’re saying that there are rangers assigned to reconnaissance in the surrounding woods, but they don’t recognize you.”
“Are you sure?” Vernon asked. “I can’t hear a thing. You’re not just making that up, are you?”
Wayan Bagus steepled his fingers. “Altogether, there are eight types of illusions. Magic, a dream, a bubble, a rainbow, lightning, the moon reflected in water, a mirage, and a city of celestial musicians.”
Vernon stared at the guards. “Those guys sure aren’t celestial musicians, and I noticed you didn’t mention assault rifles in that list.”
“Only one way to find out for certain,” Emerson said. He turned to Riley. “Hold up your wrist so they can see it.”
“We’re the new recruits,” Emerson shouted, pointing to the ink tattoo on his wrist. “Tin Man assigned us to recon.”
One of the guards got out a pair of binoculars and looked in their direction. He said something to the second guard, and lowered his gun.
Emerson waved at the guards as he approached. “Don’t worry about a thing,” he whispered to Riley, Vernon, and Wayan Bagus. “I’ve read several books on improvisational acting so I know what I’m doing. The most important thing is not to break character. Just follow my lead and wait for me to give the signal before we jump them.”
“Let me see your identification,” the first guard said.
Emerson waved his hand in front of the guard’s face. “I am Park Ranger Kenobi. You don’t need to see our identification.”
“Protocol is to require identification.”
“It’s critical that I get these droids to t
he commander,” Emerson said.
“Say what? Are we getting pranked? Billy put you up to this, right?”
“Let me try this again from the top,” Emerson said. He shook his hands and rolled his neck. “Red leather. Yellow leather. Red leather. Yellow leather. The tip of the tongue, the teeth, and the lips. The tip of the tongue, the teeth, and the lips. Okay, I’m ready.”
“What are you ready for?” the guard asked.
“To give you my identification,” Emerson said. He reached into his pocket and rooted around. “It’s in here somewhere.” He pulled his hand out and gave the guard the stiff middle finger.
“I reckon that’s the signal,” Vernon said, jumping on the back of the nearest guard and wrestling him to the ground.
Emerson punched the other guard in the temple, temporarily disorienting him. He flipped him around into a sleeper hold, and in a matter of seconds the guard lost consciousness and slumped to the ground.
Riley stepped in and disarmed both guards.
“We need to get these guys into the guardhouse and secure them before someone comes along,” she said.
“I love it when a plan comes together,” Emerson said.
Fifteen minutes later the two guards were sitting on the floor, handcuffed to a woodstove in the center of the gatehouse and stripped down to their underwear. Vernon and Wayan Bagus were outside changing into the guards’ uniforms. Riley and Emerson were foraging for food.
“You boys don’t mind if we borrow your uniforms for a while, do you?” Emerson said. “We’ll return them just as soon as we find out what you’re hiding behind this fence.”
The guards glared at Emerson and struggled against their restraints.
“Screw you,” the older guard said. “We’re all dead men. Tin Man’s going to kill you, and then he’s going to kill us.”
“Then it might be time for you to reconsider where your loyalties lie, since your survival is predicated on ours,” Emerson said, confiscating a box of granola bars.
Vernon and Wayan Bagus walked back into the gatehouse. “I’m telling you right now, nobody better laugh,” Vernon said.
Vernon’s khaki pants were three inches too short and tight in all the wrong places. The khaki button-down shirt fit him even worse. Wayan Bagus had the opposite problem. He was absolutely swimming in his clothes, and was holding up his pants with one hand.
“And I thought I looked ridiculous with an octopus on my back,” Riley said.
Vernon cut his eyes to Wayan Bagus. “I told you we looked like a couple of grade A morons. But no, you think they fit great. Look at me. I can barely walk, and I can’t tell where my doodles end and my dongle begins.”
Wayan Bagus hoisted his pants. “You must look on the positive side. Vanity can create a very cruel space for you and, by extension, your doodles, if you don’t know how to manage it.”
“Lord Buddha?” Riley asked.
Wayan Bagus shook his head. “Lady Gaga. I’ve recently become one of her Little Monsters.”
Vernon rolled his eyes. “Lady Gaga never wore anything as stupid looking as this, and she wore a dress made of meat to the MTV Video Music Awards.” He turned to Emerson. “What now?”
“The plan is that you and Wayan will stay at the gatehouse. Riley and I will go inside the fence and investigate.”
“When will you be back?” Vernon asked.
Emerson gestured toward the two guards. “We need to be back before sunrise, when the day shift comes to relieve these two. I don’t expect there will be too many visitors through the night, but if there are, just ask anybody who comes to the gate for their identification and wave them through.”
There was the faint noise of an engine in the dark woods accompanied by a faraway glow of headlights. “Looks like we’re getting at least one visitor,” Riley said.
Emerson gagged the two guards and handed Vernon his campaign hat. “Just let them through. Riley and I will hide behind the gatehouse until they’ve passed.”
An armored Humvee followed by a heavy-duty military transport truck rumbled slowly out of the woods and approached the gate. “Well, that’s something you don’t see every day,” Emerson whispered to Riley from their hiding place.
Riley leaned into Emerson. “What’s an armored military transport doing in the middle of Yellowstone?”
“It’s a transport. It’s either making a delivery or a withdrawal.”
“Of what?”
“You don’t send an armored militarized truck to deliver a pizza,” Emerson said. “I want to get on that truck.”
“How the heck do you intend to do that?”
“Wu wei.”
“For once, I agree. There’s not a lot of downside to doing nothing in this situation.”
Vernon and Wayan Bagus walked outside to greet the Humvee. Vernon was carrying the assault rifle. Wayan Bagus was carrying a clipboard in one hand and holding onto his pants with the other.
“Namaste,” Wayan Bagus said to the driver. “May we please see your identification?”
The driver leaned out the window and handed Vernon his ID. “Why do you look like you’re waiting for a flood?”
“Wardrobe malfunction,” Vernon said. “Anyone else in there?”
The driver handed over two more ID cards. Vernon looked at all the cards and read them aloud for Emerson’s benefit.
“Miles Bemmer, Timothy Mann, Bartholomew Young,” Vernon said, slightly louder than necessary.
“Tin Man and the director,” Riley whispered to Emerson. “What the heck’s going on?”
“Proceed,” Vernon said, returning the IDs to the driver.
The Humvee drove a short distance, stopped, and idled, and the transport moved up to the gatehouse.
“Namaste,” Wayan Bagus said to the transport driver. “May we see your identification?”
“What’s with the ‘Namaste’?” the driver said, handing over his ID. “Are you on loan from some other army?”
“Many apologies,” Wayan Bagus said. “You are correct to be confused. It is my understanding that it is customary to offer a salute in these situations.” He snapped to attention, raised his right hand sharply to the brim of his campaign hat, and his trousers fell down around his ankles.
“Cripes,” the driver said. “What kind of underwear are you wearing? It looks like a diaper. Is that what central supply is handing out now?”
Wayan Bagus looked down at himself. “I humbly accept whatever gifts the universe bestows on me. I found this in my laundry basket.”
“Looks like a towel,” Vernon said. “Little Buddy, when we get back to civilization we gotta take you shopping and get you some Calvins.”
The transport driver snatched his ID back, rolled up his window, drove through the gate, and both vehicles disappeared into the night. No one in the truck noticed the two hitchhikers who had snuck up behind and grabbed on to the rear handholds.
EIGHTEEN
Riley and Emerson held on tight as the truck rolled and bumped along the rough terrain, navigating around thickets of woods interspersed with bubbling hot springs and mud pots. The smell of sulfur filled the air, getting stronger with every passing minute.
“Do you hear that?” Riley asked. “It sounds like pounding.”
Moments later, the truck passed into a clear-cut section of the woods with a military-looking compound in the center dominated by a large Quonset-style warehouse. The hut was surrounded by what appeared to be at least fifty immense oil-drilling rigs and an assortment of heavy machinery. Pipelines ran from each of the drills to the Quonset hut, like some giant wagon wheel. Several soldiers dressed in the Rough Rider uniforms and carrying assault rifles patrolled the area, keeping watch over a variety of laborers in khaki jumpsuits working the drills.
Emerson and Riley jumped off the back of the truck at the perimeter of the clearing and dashed behind an unmanned drill.
Riley blinked and sniffed the air. The smell of sulfuric acid was so strong now that it stung her eyes.
“What the heck is this place?” she asked. “It looks like they’re drilling for oil, but I’ve never seen any rigs that big, and I’m from Texas.”
Emerson examined the drill. “I’d wager no one has ever seen a drill like this. It’s not even made from steel. If I had to guess based on the color and luster, I’d say it was constructed from something in the platinum family of metals.”
Riley ran her hand over the rig. “That would cost a small fortune. Why would anybody do that?”
“This could easily weigh fifty tons,” Emerson said. “Last I checked the spot price of platinum was twelve hundred dollars per ounce. That would make this one alone a two-billion-dollar piece of machinery.”
Riley raised her eyebrows. “But there must be fifty or so here in the compound.”
“That would be a total of one hundred billion dollars if my math is correct,” Emerson said. “Of course, there are cheaper metals, like rhodium, that resemble platinum and cost somewhat less. Still, there’s no way around it. Someone spent an obscene amount of money to set up this facility.”
Riley shook her head. “It just doesn’t make any sense. Why would they use platinum instead of steel?”
“Platinum has two properties that steel does not. It is extremely hard, and it has a melting temperature of about three thousand degrees.”
“Neither of which is important if you’re drilling for oil.”
“Exactly,” Emerson said. “They aren’t drilling for oil.”
“Then what?”
“We’re standing over the shallowest part of the underground lava lake. Magma has a temperature of around two thousand five hundred degrees. The only thing that makes sense is that they’re mining the magma, and they needed to build a machine that could withstand the heat without melting.”
Riley thought back to their conversation with Marion White at George Mason University.
“Why mine the magma?” Riley asked. “The professor said the magma contains osmium, but it’s only worth four hundred dollars per ounce. Other than that it’s just worthless silica and sulfuric acid gasses.”
Dangerous Minds Page 12