All my effort, and I actually accomplished almost nothing.
Sunday, Perez wants every detail of my Thursday, and I tell her the truth up to the point of seeing four guys get into the van, then lie to her and tell her I went home after that until coming back about five, saw four others get dropped off, then went home to bed.
"Hell of a risk, Air Force, hell of a risk. What would you have done if eight special forces guys had seen you and decided to take you out?" She's shaking her head, the thick black hair relatively stationary above it.
"Called you and let you come kick their asses." I smile weakly. I could tell her that I would mop the floor with them, but I'm never going to do that. If I spill the secret, Jen is the test driver. And that's if I spill the secret.
"I'm serious."
"Me too. How about we test whether or not someone is reading your email?" Job related change of subject to distract her. Works.
"How?" Just like Jen, you can see the intelligence in her face when she's on.
"Tuesday, send me an email saying that we need to get "it" out of my locker at Mountain Pacific, and to meet you there at midnight, after the place is shut down. Don't say what "it" is so that we can't get in trouble for it later."
"You've been watching too much television." Her eyes are saying something else though. I need to get them to argue with her brain.
"What other direction do we have to investigate? Either we follow the men, which you don't like, or we get them to come to us. Yes? To us is more controlled."
"Let me think about it, Air Force, let me think about it." We head back into the living room to join the discussion of what to do for Christmas.
When I get to Kona on Monday, there's a voice mail from Perez saying that she gave Johnson the video of our buddies, and he's off to Spears to try one last time to get him to open something official. I know it's not going to happen.
What is going to happen is me taking out a North Korean nuclear weapons site. I'm 10 days past six months into this adventure, have barely 900 days left, and what have I done? Screwed up. I have to try something real one more time.
I hide my clothes up the Kohala coast again, and haul ass westward. This time, I need to start in China. Security is always about the threats you perceive, and the way to beat it is to do something unexpected. I think flying over the fence and lifting a rack of bombs out with my bare hands constitutes unexpected.
The base is surrounded by low rolling hills full of trees, making escape without being detected a possibility. I wait until the one roving patrol has just passed, then pray to the molecules and swoop in. My feet never touch the ground as I grab the bomb rack, lift and push against the air. It is surprisingly easy, but my brain reminds me not to get over confident. Remember the last time is my motto.
Now I discover flaw number one. How do I make the bomb go off? Will it detonate on impact? Is there a timer? I decide I need to test. By now, I am 10 miles from the hopefully still unsuspecting airbase, so I slow to nothing and land behind one of the hills. There is writing on the bombs, but not readable by me. There is also a red flag on each one, attached to a metal rod that enters the nose of the bomb. Logic was never my strong point, but I'm betting I need to pull the flag out to activate the bomb.
I take the flag nearest me and yank. The flag and rod exit, the bomb does not detonate. I take the bomb, which off the rack turns out to be about my height, but much heavier, and throw it northward as hard as I can with just my right arm. It lands maybe five miles away, and detonates on impact. Not bad. I learned I can heave 2,000 pounds at least five miles, and that I can make the bombs go boom.
I need to get out of here before someone comes to investigate, so I grab the rack with it's remaining ordinance and head south toward the nuclear site, 6,000 pounds of bombs in my right hand. I hide the bombs in thick clump of trees, with a hill between it and the building they need to dismantle. I'd like to run more tests, because I'm guessing that they won't be enough against the thick concrete walls of the facility, but I would quickly run out of bombs. I need to open the building up, and I only know one way to do that, but first, I need to make it dark.
The electrical lines running into the complex are on the other side of the enclosure from me and my hill. I am not totally stupid. Sliding off to the west, I find a couple nice sized boulders on the side of another hill, and, using my best pitching motion, I hurl them all toward the spidery structures holding up the power lines.
The first one hits the left leg of the X shaped support, which causes it to sway just enough that the second boulder misses. The third hits just as the support spans back to the right, and takes it down. It is instantly dark throughout the complex, though horns are sounding and people are running. Within 10 seconds, about half the lights are back on, and not as brightly, a sign that they are on their generator.
Three more rocks fly, these from another hundred yards west, and the supposition on the Internet that the brick building is the backup power generator is confirmed. The horns go silent, the lights go off. I go up a thousand feet, then crack straight down at the concrete roof, feet first, shattering it. I had hoped to open a hole, but instead it has broken into chucks and a large number of jagged openings of different sizes are visible. I think they need to sue their contractor for construction defects, because there seems to be a lack of rebar. Everyone in the building appears to be fleeing.
I flash back into the air, looping down to the bomb rack, waiting until the flow of people from the building stops, then working one by one, toss bombs into the air, and watch them drop down on the cracked concrete. The first does nothing visible to my naked eyes, the second collapses more of the roof. The third and last one hits, and the building groans. A series of sounds start inside it, the snapping, bending, twisting, sounds of torture of metal on metal.
The building gives one final sigh, and then collapses in on itself. It must extend several stories below ground, because first the rubble settles to ground level, then drops once and then again, until the debris is 20 feet below where it started. The air is filled with concrete dust. It's a bad omen. Remember the last time. Dust in the air.
Once again, I cannot wait around to see what happens. I push the pedal to the molecules, gun it, and rush for Kona. I can't shake the sight of the dust falling gently to earth. The building is gone, I'm sure of that, but what was the cost?
I find a cloud layer part way between Asia and Hawai'i, and zip through it to wash myself, even though none of the dust actually settled on me. I grab my clothes, get to the hotel, and adopt my strangely comforting pose of standing on the balcony, staring out at the ocean, and thinking about nothing.
Chapter 14
There's no mention on the Tuesday morning news of anything happening in either Korea or China. I wait in my room and watch until the last minute before I have to get out to Keahole. Nothing.
When I get to the airport, I make an Internet check, and there's an email from Perez. We have a rendevous with "it" at Mountain Pacific in nine hours. Johnson's mission was obviously a failure. I still can't tell about mine.
I'm a little worried that my flight could be delayed, but it's an easy "Mountain 4-6-2 cleared for takeoff" five minutes early, and a satisfyingly smooth touchdown on 24 left five hours later. It's only 9:15.
There are no out bound Mountain Pacific flights after 10 p.m., which means no flight crews come by after nine, except to drop off arrival reports. There are still arrivals up to 10, but the parking lot is completely empty by 11 on a normal night, and there is no one on duty in the office between 10 and four. To save money, they even ended the guard service during that time.
I get back to the office just as it's closing to hand in my paperwork. I hide around the side of the building until the last dispatcher is gone, then use the key I stole from my dad years ago to get in. There is no silent alarm, but a it has a fully equipped internal security system.
The parking lot is now completely empty, I text Perez to come over, and turn off
the lights. Starbuck is parked at the LAPD office, just in case, to keep her safe. By 10:45, we are sitting in the dark behind the pilots dispatch counter debating who's the bigger dumbass: me for the idea, or her for going along. We have each chosen ourselves. She's not in her uniform, changing into jeans and a black leather jacket over a black top to go undercover. I've changed into a polo and khaki's from my first officer's uniform.
Five minutes after midnight there are lights in the parking lot, and the sound of a vehicle. Our eyes end the debate, it's neither of us. Four men are walking toward the front door, and a casual observation says that they might be armed. Our eyes change their minds, we were both dumbasses. They get to the door before we move. One has his hand on the handle, his eyes sweep ahead and definitely pick us out.
"It's them," a heavily accented voice yells out as the door flings open, but it's Central or South American, not Russian.
The four assailants burst through into the dispatch area, more than four bullets from their weapons leading the way. Perez and I duck down behind the counter as the shells rip into the far wall, too high to hit us, just enough to keep us from fleeing. One of the men finds the light switch, and the harsh glare of the fluorescents fills the room.
"Come out, come out. We won't hurt you. You know what we want. Give it to us and we'll walk away." It's the same voice we heard before, though in our crouching stances, behind the counter, we cannot put a face to it. There is no question from the tone that he is lying, and he wants us to know he's lying. He's having fun with us.
Another shell whizzes past our heads and pounds into the wall behind us, ripping apart the plaster. Floating dust, now the official bad omen of all superdumbasses.
"Three," the voice starts, we know what comes next, "Two," a pause, then no words, but the side of the counter splinters three feet to our left as a large caliber bullet takes out the wood. Turns out it's particle board, and the dust cloud grows exponentially around us.
"The next ones go into you, unless you tell us where it is right now." I believe him. So does Perez. Only ‘it' is at my apartment, and neither of us thinks that telling them will get us out of here still breathing.
"Three," he's starting over.
Perez reaches around to her back, and pulls out her SIG. She looks me in the eye and whispers, "When I stand up, you run as fast as you can and call for help."
She's going to sacrifice herself for me. Her weight shifts, freeing her legs to move quickly, her gun hand shoulder tilting slightly higher than the other. She'll get one or two, but not all four. I can't let it happen.
My inner hand grabs the light and holds it, as my right hand reaches out and settles on Kiana's shoulder. She can feel the strength of it, preventing her from moving, not his full strength, but when I'm me and holding the light I am already much stronger than normal.
She looks me in the eyes again, puzzled. I hold the gaze, find my deepest voice, quiet so only she hears it, but as strong as I can make it.
"By the power of Greyskull." I know she's a cartoon buff, it might register somewhere inside in a good way. There is a brief shot of light through the room. The transformation is angry, protective, fearless.
Perez screams, but I can't deal with that now. I gather the molecules under my mangled shoes and push with all the ferocity I can bring to bear. There is a big guy pointing a Glok at the counter, he goes down first, his head moving maybe a millimeter before I get there. My right hand closes on his gun while my left puts him out, and with a flip of my wrist that weapon is flying toward the forehead of one of his team as I close on the other two. And then I'm standing, watching, as the last of them hit the ground.
They are all local gang members, I recognize the tattoos from my training. Not one of them has been in LAX flying to Canada. Their nine millimeters and automatic Mac 10s are now scattered across the floor.
Perez is up, sees me standing, but only for an instant. The security office is two doors down the hall, and I am there, bursting through the locked door. Before you can count to three, I am back in the dispatch area, holding a ball of metal the size of a grapefruit that moments ago was a digital video recorder.
Kiana is halfway around the desk, as I squeeze the light and go back to being me, holding the metal sphere. She's pointing her SIG at me, shaking. At least she didn't do a Lois Lane and pass out.
"Perez, if you trust me at all, we have to get out of here. In two minutes the off site security company will recognize the local DVR has failed and automatically start recording video. We need to be out of the parking lot before then, or our lives are done." I'm pleading as best I can.
She doesn't move or say a word. I run over to her, grab the hand not holding her weapon, and she lets me lead her out of the building to her car. She's not doing anything but staring at me and holding onto her weapon for dear life. I slide my hand into her coat pocket, take out the keys, and hit the unlock button on the fob. She lets me put her in the passenger seat and I drive us out of the parking lot as fast as she could have done it, the crushed DVR in the back seat. By the time the recorder is on at the remote site, we're at the light at Aviation and Century. By the time the sirens go shooting past us toward the office, we're parked at your basic open all night restaurant, lights and engine off.
Her weapon is still pointed at my stomach. She hasn't said a word.
"You don't need that." I try to sound gentle, human. I flash to Fog Dude and wonder if this is why he sounds the way he does. She still says nothing. I reach slowly for the SIG, put my hand over the top of it, and push gently downward. She lowers it into her lap. Thinking it's not safe there, I pull on it. She gives way and the gun, safety now on, joins the ball in the back seat.
"What?" She finally says something, but it's incoherent. I make a decision, start the car, back up, and head for the freeway. She stares at me for the 15 minutes it takes to get to my place. I park the Mustang in Starbuck's spot, not caring if some little old lady rats me out.
Perez lets me lead her upstairs, into my apartment, and onto the couch. I forgo a wine glass, and just fill a plastic tumbler from a half finished bottle of red wine sitting on my counter. She drinks half of it in a couple big mouthfuls, then holds the glass with both hands in her lap, staring at it now, not me. Her hair's a mess, her jacket and shirt askew, remnants of the dust all over her, but she makes no effort to straighten herself out.
I sit next to her and reach for her closest hand, she pulls back.
"Sorry," we both say it together. It's the first coherent thing she's said in a half hour.
Whether it's the wine or time, I can see her relaxing a little. She looks at me, her eyes somewhat unfocused, I suspect not knowing what to say, so I speak.
"Let me tell you a story. It starts with a dream...."
I tell her about Fog Dude. I tell her about the light. I tell her about practicing, about a road in Hawai'i and a bank in LA, about learning to be together. I don't tell her about the drug lab, or about torching the house. I tell her about North Korea. And, I tell her about 909 days.
She drinks it all in without saying a word. Then she says just one: "Change."
I stand up in front of her, realizing for the first time that I still have the remnants of my polo and khaki's over my underwear. The light is eager, leaping into my inner hand. I look into her eyes, and say, "Kiana." Her name has intention now, though I say it softly. The room gets brighter, and when it goes back to normal, he is standing in front of her, his black irises focused on her brown ones. Somehow, the light kept me from feeling anything during the transformation, in itself a new sensation.
Halloween is there, and jumps into her lap. Perez strokes my cat behind the ears while she looks me over, head to toe, and finally back into the eyes. Then I reach inside and squeeze.
"Jen knows?" It's a question.
"No. Nobody but you. And I hadn't planned on telling you, I just couldn't let you get hurt."
"Thank you." She's still not 100 percent. Her voice is slow, and it's not the
wine. I sit back down beside her. She puts her hand on mine, resting on my thigh, and starts talking again.
"And you're really going to die?"
"Yes," I don't lie, "in about two and a half years."
She's quiet for a while, Halloween still there, nuzzling her and nipping occasionally at her fingers. I stand back up and walk over to my dresser. The top drawer is Jen's, and I take out a big nightshirt she sometimes wears with a three foot high Mickey Mouse on the front. I walk back over to Perez.
"Why don't you finish your wine, put this on, and get some sleep. We're due at Terminal 7 in a few hours, and we can talk as much as you need to then."
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