Dream State

by K. Z. Howell

  Tillerson keyed his radio and told the squad outside to free the rest of the NSA team and give them their equipment back.

  Indianapolis Indiana

  Special Agent Art Simms stepped into the FBI surveillance van and slid the door shut behind him. The interior was a crowded mess of monitor screens and audio equipment. The blinking lights and the smell of unwashed bodies and spilled coffee gave it a thick, unpleasant atmosphere. Only two of the four seats were occupied. The four man surveillance team rotated twelve hour shifts and the night shift was thirty minutes from being relieved. Simms hated stakeouts. Especially the ones that are arranged in a hurry from assets pulled away from other sites. This team had been watching a local militia leader who was suspected of trafficking weapons to a Jihadist group in Michigan. Simms boss, Assistant Director of Operations Robert Hall had commandeered the crew less than an hour ago and had them retasked to Simms team.

  Tymauf had been under the NSA’s watch for over a month, ever since Director Mills had somehow managed to get permission for a domestic surveillance. One of the electronic intelligence agents had managed to gain access to her apartment once to plant audio and video devices but the womans boyfriend had been suspicious of the agent. Posing as a cable repairman was a bit cliché. They had only managed to place one microphone in Kathryn Tymaufs apartment and that was in the living room right beside a half dozen electronic devices. The audio was sketchy at best and the microphone had a bad angle on the rest of the home. That trip had been useful in one way. It got the name of the boyfriend.

  Justin Powell. When he saw it on a report, Simms recalled a Ranger he had worked with by that name. As it turned out, this Justin Powell was the same one Simms had known in Afghanistan. When Simms had been ordered to take the girl he knew it would have to be done very carefully. Powell would not appreciate having someone take his girl. Rangers are known to get testy when strange people try to take away their things. Simms had planned an operation that would avoid any interaction with Powell.

  The woman, Tymauf, worked at a television station and Powell worked for an intelligence and security consultant on the other side of the city. Simms had sent three men to the T.V. station and one to Powells office. Once they were sure the two were physically as far apart as they would get, his men would snatch the girl and have her on the plane in less than twenty minutes. Powell would never know what happened or where she went.

  Simms sipped his own coffee, or what passed for coffee in the corner deli he had stopped at before arriving. It tasted like warm pee with a hint of creamer. He perched the disgusting brew on the already overfilled wastebasket and turned his attention to the lead surveillance technician.

  “What have you got for me?” Simms asked the skinny audio technician.

  “The television is on Fox News and I can’t hear jack shit over it. Whoever put one mic in the place is an idiot, and he’s extra idiotic for putting it next to the biggest noise and interference source he could find!” replied the exasperated technician.

  “So, you have nothing? When did the tv come one? What happened before it was turned on? I am reasonably certain they don’t sleep with it on!” Simms asked.

  The tech just shrugged “It was on when we got here an hour ago. There have been no other sounds that I can detect so I really don’t know if they are there or not.”

  Simms looked at his watch, 7:03 a.m., there should be sounds that could be heard over the tv noise by now. Tymauf had an 8 o’clock start at her job just as Powell did at his.

  Turning to the other technician, a video specialist named Jacobson, he asked if the cameras had been rolling since they had arrived.

  “Yes, sir. I turned them on to cover the building entrance as soon as we parked. They’ve been on constantly ever since.” He replied.

  “Have either of them come out since you got here?”

  “I wouldn’t know sir. We were pulled off a militia stakeout and sent here with no information. I don’t even have a picture of or even names.” He said.

  For a full minute Simms just stared. This operation had been put in place from the highest level at the very last possible moment. Assets across the government had been deployed to get his team here from Virginia. Teams from other agencies had been retasked without any warning or specific instructions. Exactly what was he supposed to do with this clusterfuck?

  Snapping out of his mental gymnastics Simms said “Rewind the video to the start.”

  It took twenty minutes of fast forward and rewind but Simms finally spotted the couple as they came out of the building. The time stamp said 0636 hours. They had been gone for an hour. Speeding through the rest, he realized they had not just gone for a lovers stroll in quiet morning. Both had been dressed for the day, not a quick jaunt around the block. Simms keyed his radio and ordered the two men he had waiting across the street to go to the apartment and check. While they did that, he called his men at the tv station and at Powells office, neither target had shown up yet. The agent was beginning to get a bad feeling about the situation. Uncoordinated and complicated operations had a history of going really bad really fast whenever Mills was involved. Despite the fact that his orders had come from Ass. Director Hall this time, he knew from the targets and the lack of planning that Mills was the source.

  “Looks like they’ve flown the coop, Simms.” Special agent Sanchez said over the radio “T.V. is on, coffee is still warm in the pot, there is a packed bag by the bedroom door and a small safe open and almost empty in the closet.”

  There was a short pause “Bad news boss. There is an empty box of .45 cal. Hollow points on the shelf. Powell is armed and it looks like they knew something was up. The cups on the table still have coffee in them but this place is spotless. They left in a hurry.”

  Simms thought for a minute, his targets had no way of knowing they were coming. He hadn’t even known until about five hours ago.

  No. He didn’t have the luxury of assuming this was just an innocent atypical day for them.

  “Come on back to the car. I’ll meet you there.” Simms called.

  Dream State

  Chapter 11

  What you see. What you feel. What you know.

  It is all illusion, a dream of the waking mind.

  Professor August Bench

  Oil Field #17

  Southwest Oklahoma

  Benji had been driving for nearly two hours along the battered gravel track. It seemed to him that the road had gotten even worse since he come the other way less than twenty four hours ago. He knew that was an illusion of his sense of urgency and of the growing fear of being found alone this far any possibility of help. Still, each passing second brought the NSA closer to catching him.

  Slam! He almost lost control of the truck on that one. His right side had dropped into a particularly deep rut and caused the heavy vehicle to lurch violently to the right. He steady the big pick up back onto the track but slower now. He was only about five miles from the main highway and a quick sprint back to the Elk City field office. If he didn’t manage to destroy the company truck on the poor excuse for a road before he got there.

  Crap! He had gone less than quarter mile when he heard the thumping. Had he managed to break something on that last rut? He slowed a little more to lessen the noise of the gravel and hear better.

  No. The noise was still there. It didn’t sound like a flat and the truck was running fine otherwise. It must be something else. It was growing louder too. That wasn’t right.

  He started to stop as he reached the top of the rise. Only a few more miles to go before the highway. As he crested the hill and slowed he could see the asphalt ribbon in the hazy distance. Something made him glance at the passenger side mirror. What he saw made his blood turn to ice and a huge cold know form in his belly. He froze for a moment, staring at the distant shape of the helicopter , then it disappeared below the rise and he focused back on the gravel track in front of him. His hands shook on the steering wheel. He had almost made it.

&nbs
p; Almost. But like his uncle always said ‘ Almost is for horseshoes and hand grenades’ .

  Benji knew that he had no chance of outrunning the military helicopter, but he was damned well going to try.

  Indianapolis Indiana

  Kathryn stood at the doorway of the auto storage building while Justin pulled the cover off the old Baracuda and poured fuel into the tank from a 2 gallon can he kept on the shelf. She and Justin took the old muscle car out for drives about once a month when the weather was good but he rarely left much to spare in the tank in case they didn’t get a chance. The can was there just to make sure they could get it started and to a gas station for their little pleasure drives. Despite the dire situation Kathryn couldn’t help but grin a little at how those trips out to the country usually ended with her and Justin acting just like the 60’s teenagers had when the car was new. The backseat saw almost as much action now days as the front.

  She glanced back up the driveway, no one should be around at this time of day, still they wanted to avoid any curious eyes that might remember them or the car. She turned back when she heard the powerful motor fire up without a hitch. Justin shot her a thumbs up and a smile before putting it in gear and easing out into the drive. Kathryn quickly lowered the door and replaced the lock, making it look as though no one had been there in weeks. He leaned over and opened her door allowing her to slide into the passenger seat and buckle up before driving out into the street as though it were any other day.

  “Where can we go Justin?”

  “I don’t really know, Sweetheart” Justin admitted, “If the NSA wants you they will eventually find us no matter where we go. All we can really do is stay off their radar and hope they decide it’s not worth the effort or that whatever Mills wants she gets elsewhere.”

  “How do we stay off their radar? Don’t they have satellites that can see us anywhere?”

  Justin laughed at that one. “Sure. They just have to know where you are to aim it at you. Continually scanning every face in a country of 340 million is a myth they use to sell movie tickets. Still, they can access practically any web connected video in the world. That will be an issue if they can narrow us down. That’s why we are going over the bridge before we stop for gas. The White River bait store is old fashioned and it’s the only place I can think of that won’t have cameras on the pumps.”

  “Okay. But after that? What then?”

  “We stay low and we move. As long as they don’t know what we are driving they can’t track us as easily.” He said. “Don’t worry, once we get past the city we can take to the backroads and get as far as we can before we stop.”

  Indianapolis, Indiana

  Simms stood outside the gate to the Westside Auto Storage. Sanchez had found the bill for a car storage unit when he jimmied the apartment mailbox. Since the SUV Powell owned was still in its spot at the apartment, the two them must have had something else within walking distance. The gate required a personalized passcode to open but Simms had noticed the traffic camera at the corner. The FBI techs were already busy getting access to the cities camera system.

  He considered the possible actions his quarry would take. They couldn’t use their credit or bank accounts, Simms already had those under watch. That limited their funds to whatever cash they had on them when they decided to run. Whatever vehicle they were in was not registered to either of them, but neither of them were thieves so it must be a relatives car. They would need fuel first. Powell would be cagey enough to realize that any modern gas station would be under video surveillance, so that left old stations, preferably well off the beaten track. The FBI video technician yelled out from the van parked across the street, he had access now.

  Simms dialed his phone as he walked over to the van, he would have a State Police chopper in the air as soon as he had a description of the vehicle.

  It took only ten minutes to identify the car. A silver 1969 Baracuda. Simms immediately sent the description and a screen capture to the State Police aviation wing along with a request that they begin searching along Interstate 74 toward Saint Paul. He had no real intelligence pointing him in that direction, but it is the way he would go if he wanted distance out of town and a good place to get off the highway and into almost limitless back roads. I-74 southeast to highway 421 did exactly that.

  “Load up!” he told his men. “Were headed toward I-74 southeast.”

  Justin paid the clerk for the gas and the snacks they had picked out. He now had a full tank and could go for hours without stopping. He pulled the silver ‘Cuda onto the 465 and sped toward the I-74 exit. Kathryn rolled the window down a little, she always loved the sound of the powerful V-8 engine thrumming down the road and the feel of the wind in her hair. With Justin she didn’t feel scared now, it was almost like an exciting adventure. She closed her eyes and held his hand, imagining that they were on their way to visit his cousin again in Kentucky.

  She had loved it there in the rolling hills. He and his wife had a big cabin right on a lake, she and Justin had fished and swam and cooked over a fire. They had had such a fun time. The reassuring hum of the tires and the warmth of Justins hand lulled her into a near sleep as they made the turn onto the Interstate. She felt the car slow as they found more traffic now on the much busier main artery but once they got merged in Justin picked up as much speed as he dared and she drifted back toward her near sleep trance.

  They had gone southeast nearly twenty minutes when Justin suddenly pulled his hand away from hers. “Shit!”

  The curse brought her to full wakefulness. Justin rarely ever used coarse language in front of her. He called it battlefield words, not suitable for ordinary life.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, looking around and seeing nothing wrong.

  Justin glanced out his window “Over there to my left. There is a police helicopter.”

  Kathryn leaned near him and saw it in the distance, it was nearly a mile away at least.

  “They patrol the bypass all the time, babe.”

  Justin looked at her with a strangely sad expression. “They’re not patrolling, Sugar. They are clocking us. He has been staying in the same position and matching our speed for over five minutes.”

  “Are you sure?” She asked in a frightened voice.

  “Pretty sure. We are about to find out. There is an exit coming up. I’m going to go off there and then get back on from the other side. If he flies on, he is tracking someone else. If he lingers…” he let the implication speak for itself.

  He eased over two lanes and slipped down the off ramp. He got lucky and caught the caught the red light, having to wait several minutes would just about guarantee the helicopter would be gone unless it was tracking them. He pulled straight across when the light changed and went up the on ramp. Once he merged he stayed in the right lane keeping a large tractor trailer between him and where the chopper would be if it was after them. They had gone less than a mile when they heard the familiar whump whump of a helicopters rotor.

  “Justin! He’s right behind us!” Kathryn exclaimed.

  He looked into his mirror, sure enough. A State Police helicopter keeping pace with him less than 500 yards back. That’s when he noticed the black van. It had the same logo as the one that had been across the street when they left. Maybe there it was coincidence, the logo was for a telephone company that had dozens of them around the city. Justin wasn’t buying it as happenstance though.

  “Hang on baby!”

  He floored the old beast and let the horses run. Nothing short of a pursuit car had any chance of keeping up with the 400 horsepower that screamed under the old ‘Cuda’s hood. Justin wove in and out of the traffic, losing the van in seconds. He knew losing a helicopter was impossible, but the helicopter couldn’t stop him. He ran as hard as he could in the traffic, despite knowing it was futile. He saw the sedan coming on behind him. Dark black, plain as sliced bread and moving just as fast and deftly as he was. That was a pursuit car and a driver that knew what he was doing. Justin dod
ged in and out of the traffic, he could see a long clear section ahead. Most of the traffic was keeping to the interstate but he could straight shot off onto the 421 and see if the heavier sedan could keep pace on the straightaway.

  He was too busy watching the sedan to notice the Highway patrol car parked just off the interstate on the 421. Kathryn screamed as she saw an officer toss something into the road just before Justin drifted off the interstate and onto the 421 highway.. They were moving at well over 100 miles per hour when he hit the spikes. The explosive decompression of all four tires at that speed was catastrophic. When the front end collapsed the steering rods instantly shattered, turning both destroyed wheels sideways under the chassis. Three thousand pounds of steel moving 100 miles per hour doesn’t just stop. They rolled for over 300 feet. End over end, bouncing again every time they slammed the asphalt. The car mostly came apart around them, Justin saw Kathryn as she was launched out of the car in her broken seat when her door disappeared. He saw her fiery hair as she careened over and over until she hit the guard rail. Three flips later and he was tossed out as well.

  Simms watched in horror as the Highway patrolman assigned to watch the 421/I-74 junction tossed what could only be a spike chain into the road ahead of the speeding Baracuda. His own driver saw it as well and suddenly stood on the breaks throwing Simms and his men forward painfully into their seat belts. They would all be bruised by the action but as they slowed, they also saw why using the spike chain was a last resort in high speed chases. The government sedan was going far too fast to stop but they had slowed enough that when they hit the spikes and all four tires were pierced, the run flats didn’t come apart.