by Jim Hallaux
“Well,” Tom said. He felt stupid, but had to report what his friends were planning. “I didn’t say they were intelligent. But they’re serious, sir.”
“Look. This is the FBI. We take all threats seriously. But it challenges credibility. Why a small bank in a small town in nowhere, Oregon?”
“It’s Astoria. The first town established west of the Rockies.”
“Spare me the ‘Rah-Rah.”
“Sorry.”
“Look. I’ve got the guys’ information and yours. I’ll put someone on it. Don’t worry. We’re the good guys.”
“But we don’t have a lot of time, sir.”
“Are you suggesting we are inefficient, son?”
“Well, no, but I—”
“Let us do our job, okay? Thank you for being a good citizen.”
“You’re welcome,” Tom said. He hung up the black phone handle on its base and looked at the receptionist at Job Corps. “Thank you for your help.”
“You have called the Police, the Sheriff, and the FBI. You’ve done all you can.”
She smiled, and Tom left.
33
December 8
Securing the explosives hadn’t been all that hard. There were certain logistical problems but getting two blocks military-grade C-4 only took Pete three days on the phone. He followed a lead from a guy who had been in jail with a guy who had experience with black market explosives. Both guys were back in jail again.
After the fateful meeting with Mr. X in the basement, Pete, Bill, and Joe decided to get the explosives in Southern California and bring them back to Astoria. Mr. X supplied money for the C-4 and provided a used Chevy truck of dubious ownership.
The hard part would be getting the C-4 from San Ysidro, CA to Astoria, OR. And Mr. X wouldn’t be doing any of that.
The drive to San Ysidro, one stop away from Mexico, was long, boring & hot, but without incident.
As the deal first went down, the batch offered was weeping nitroglycerin through the protective coating, creating a dangerous situation.
Mr. X had warned not to take the first offering. And they didn’t.
After a brief but pointed discussion, two M112 demolition blocks of C-4 were laid in front of them. Each about a foot long, they were wrapped in an olive mylar-film container with a pressure-sensitive adhesive strip on one side. Just as Mr. X said.
The actual buy was like every drug deal the guys had been in. A lot of mistrust on both sides; not much civility and no lack of guns.
On the return trip to Astoria, Bill took the lead drive while Joe crashed. Pete stretched out sideways on the bench seat in the back. A stale burnt smell permeated the cabin. Bill pulled to the side of the freeway.
“What’s goin’ on?” Joe questioned in a groggy voice.
“Not sure,” Bill replied. “I’ll look.”
Bill popped the truck’s hood and ducked, steam blowing out from all sides. As the vapor cleared, Bill saw water spewing from the radiator and from two rubber hoses feeding the engine. He closed the hood which jarred Joe awake again.
Returning to the cab, Bill sat in silence, mulling their options.
Joe slapped him on the arm. “Everything all right?”
“No,” Bill replied, “It’s not. The truck gave up the ghost. We’re sitting ducks here on the freeway with a load of C-4 in the back, and CHP might pull over any second.”
Joe scanned the side of the freeway eyeing a strip center a hundred yards away. He leaned his head right, pointing out to Bill the myriad of cars in front of the shops. With a big smile and experience in the matter, Joe opened his door to go get other transport.
“I’ll be right back.”
Joe headed down the embankment lining the freeway and jumped the chain link fence with ease. Standing in low brush, he took a leak before heading toward the parking lot. He meandered through the vehicles until he found what he was looking for: a set of keys hanging from the ignition. Was it stealing when an owner leaves his keys like that? It’s like an invitation! Scanning the lot for witnesses, he jumped into the VW van, turned the engine over, and, hearing a satisfying rumble from its engine, put the van in reverse and returned to pick up the guys.
Joe pulled up behind the truck. Bill rolled down his window as he approached.
“Let’s go while the getting’s good,” Joe said.
The desperados grabbed their things and, more importantly, the C-4 and piled into the VW. As they pulled away, all looked at one another but said nothing. They were still in control.
Joe had taken over driving and exited the freeway at its first off-ramp.
“I want to swap these plates,” he said. All understood the reasons so did not question him. They found a car in a less visible area and, deed done, were heading North again in a few minutes.
After three hard days of driving, stopping only to pee, for coffee and gas, in that order, they arrived back in Astoria.
34
The guy’s idea of where the C-4 was to be stored changed many times. It turned out a remote, abandoned cabin wasn’t abandoned, just neglected and to make matters worse, owned by a deputy sheriff. Next, an empty warehouse was too near a busy fish station. Finally, through yet another friend of very mixed character, they chose Tongue Point.
Tongue Point is just that. A point of land jutting North out from shore into the Columbia River. It is two miles in length and a half mile wide hemmed in on the western shore side by the US Coast Guard. On the eastern shore by 75 moth-balled Liberty ships from WW ll. In the middle was the sprawling Job Corps campus. The Job Corps was new, but the campus buildings were all repurposed Navy Quonset huts, staff buildings, and even a brig. All from WW II.
The Coast Guard, Job Corps, and Liberty ships took just a small bit of Tongue Point, all near the mainland. The actual point of Tongue Point, stretching almost 1¾ miles, was not used. Heavily forested, fenced off. ‘No Trespassing – US Government’ signs everywhere. Dark, mysterious, and foreboding.
Bill and Pete had never been on the Point and didn’t know of anyone who had. There were rumors of tracer bullets racing out from Tongue Point at fishing boats that had come too close during WW II.
Pete had a friend, whose name was never really known, who claimed to have been on the Point several times and had seen pillboxes, bunkers, and underground passageways. All perfect spots to hide and store explosives.
The fact that all the pillboxes, bunkers, and passageways were old, damp and in some areas downright wet did not appear to have been noticed.
On a moonless night in mid-December, with rain blowing sideways, Bill and Pete paddled hard towards shore in a leaking rubber raft. A fishing boat dropped them off 100 yards from Tongue Point. $100 to the skipper; no questions asked or answered.
The Columbia River at Tongue Point is 8 miles wide. Just off the Point is a 100 feet deep hole. Prized by fisherman, they say it is where the big sturgeon live. The Columbia River off Tongue Point nears the end of its 1,300-mile journey from British Columbia. At low tide, the river screamed by the Point, angry and crazed in its fury to get to the Pacific.
Bill and Pete were interested in the big picture, not the details. They hadn’t checked a tide book and found it amazing that what should have taken minutes had taken an hour and a half of desperate paddling. They shot by the east side of the Point, their original destination, and had only beached on the west side when the raft hit a floating snag and the log took them to within 50 feet of shore. Swimming the rest of the way, dragging the raft behind them, they made the rocky beach.
Now in the dark and the cold, they needed to find the pillboxes and bunkers and hide the explosives. That took an hour. It involved crawling along the shoreline; slippery and mean. Then a climb of 150 feet up a very steep hill to the top of Tongue Point. They found the bunker by falling into the below-ground entryway.
Finding the driest place in the bunker, they placed the C-4 on wooden pallets left in the bunker; covered this with a tarp they dragged with them from t
he raft and topped the whole thing off with branches gathered from above ground. Mission accomplished, the two guys headed backed down the cliff and across the beach to the other side of the Point.
By a miracle, they found the deflated raft and got back on the Columbia heading down river towards Astoria. The tide had changed to slack, so while it didn’t help them, at least it didn’t work against them.
Exhausted, they pulled out at the old Ferry Landing at 14th Street and walked to their basement squat in Uppertown Astoria. All in all, a wet, cold, miserable night for Bill, Joe, & Peter.
But one that would make them famous for a long time.
35
December 8
Merri sat on the park bench all morning trying to figure out what to do. She decided to go to the Clintons, the couple she had worked for as a nanny. By the time she made it there, they would be home from their jobs. She reached down for her suitcase, but it was not there. Merri turned, shaken. She looked under the bench. Around the area. Nothing.
She dropped to the bench. Could it get any worse? She carried what money she had left in the pocket of her blouse, but everything else was in the suitcase. She laid her head on the back of the bench and wept. Cowboy Joe just watched.
When she ran out of tears, she regrouped, went to the bus stop, and boarded the bus that would take her to the Clintons’ home. They would help her, she knew. As she gazed out of the bus window, she noted the sky filling with ominous dark clouds. Before her stop, the roof of the bus pinged with raindrops. Two blocks to the Clinton’s. She ran. By the time she stood on the porch of their home, her clothes dripped water. Her hair hung wet. Her skin showed streaks of dirty water marks. The streets had taken their toll.
There was no turning back. She rang the doorbell. Merri saw movement behind the half-glass door covered with frilly curtains. The porch light came on. A woman, not Mrs. Clinton, pulled open the curtain.
“May I help you?” the unknown woman asked.
Merri thought for a second.
“Well, I—” she hesitated, “I’m looking for the Clinton’s.” She checked the address. This was the right house.
“They’re not here. Go away now.” The woman was uncomfortable with Merri’s presence. She looked like a street urchin.
“When will they return?” Merri yelled through the glass.
“They do not live here anymore. Now, go away.”
“But they HAVE to live here. I must talk to them. They’re my only hope.” Desperate, Merri dropped to the floor of the porch and started to cry.
“Go away, I said. If you don’t, I will call the police.” The woman was active in the community and the homeless situation in the area frustrated her.
“Please, how can I reach them? It is important that I talk to them.”
The woman inside let the drapes fall, walked to the table phone, and dialed ‘0.’
“Yes, I need a squad car to come by the house. I have a vagrant harassing me at my door.” She gave her address and reminded the dispatcher she was a sister-in-law to the chief. She returned to the door and opened the curtain. “Lady, I have called the cops. I suggest you go home before they get here.”
“I have no home,” Merri mumbled.
“What?”
“Never mind.”
“Go on now.”
Merri, still on the porch floor, shuffled over to the corner next to a potted rose bush long in need of water. She curled up in a ball.
A black Dodge with white doors and a PPD logo pulled up to the curb, lights flashing but without sirens. A fifteen-year vet, Sargent Hanson, exited the passenger side door while an eager rookie sitting behind the wheel reported in. Hanson approached the door expecting it to open by the man of the house as usual. Instead, the curtain opened, and a pair of large eyes peered out. He looked down at Merri who did not move.
Hanson motioned for the woman to come outside.
“Is it safe?”
“I believe I have the subject under control, ma’am.”
“Okay then.”
She opened the door staring at Merri, a broom in her hands. She held it as if a weapon.
“You won’t be needing that,” the officer said.
“Okay.”
The rookie joined the Sargent on the porch.
“Ma’am, what happened here?” Hanson asked.
“Well, this person was looking for the previous owners. I told her they do not live here any longer, but she would not leave.”
“And?”
“And, what?”
“What else happened?”
“Well, I demanded she leave but she kept asking about the Clinton’s.”
“And?”
“And, what?”
“What else happened?”
“Well, that’s about it. I don’t like her kind around here. This is a nice community. We want to keep it that way.”
“So, she didn’t threaten you? Hurt you? Break your property? Anything?”
“Well, no, I guess not.”
Hanson sighed.
“Should we take her in?” the rookie suggested. He got a hard look and the young man backed down.
To the woman that owned the house, Hanson said, “Ma’am, you can go inside now. I’ll handle it from here.”
She nodded a firm confirmation feeling proud she had done the right thing.
Despite a bad knee, Hanson knelt.
“Hey, what is your name?”
“Merri,” she said looking up.
“Mary. My mom’s name. How can we help you?”
“I’m lost.”
“You mean you need directions?”
“No. I’m lost.” She repeated louder as if that helped him understand.
The police officer stared at her wet cheeks.
“You mean you have nowhere to go?”
Merri hesitated, then nodded.
“No family? No friends?”
She shook her head.
“Well, there’s a shelter down a way. We could take you there.”
“I’ve been there. They made me leave.”
“I see.” He thought a moment. “Tim, you were right. We need to run this woman downtown.”
The younger officer reached for his cuffs. The elder held up his hand.
“That won’t be necessary, Tim.”
“Right.”
“Help her into the car.”
“Yes, sir.”
As they walked into the precinct, Hanson winked at the Desk Sargent. Merri would not be formally processed. Nothing would go on her record. They led her to a cell and left the door ajar. She got free room and board. It was justice. She was obviously not a street person.
Merri enjoyed the bed and food, but it was too soon for her to appreciate the officers’ act of kindness.
PART SEVEN
Burnt Money
36
December 19
Andre, that’s what the asshole’s name is, why does everyone call him Mr.X?
Bill sat at the counter of the Coffee Shop at the John Jacob Astor Hotel. Pissed.
Andre treated Pete and Bill like slaves. So bad that Joe stopped helping. They entered the tunnels every night for three weeks. Looking for the right place to hide the explosives they needed to implode the JJA Hotel.
Andre had been in the tunnels once in those 3 weeks. He determined the spots where the charges should be placed, marking each with a red spray-painted X.
Which was a damn dumb idea. Like we’re the only ones down in the tunnels. Jesus, every kid over 15 has been down here. Somebody’s gonna figure out what the X means.
Bill had a dozen other reasons for mistrusting Mr. X.
‘Dammit now I’m doing it, the guy’s name is Andre.’
It was Bill & Pete’s job to get the explosives from Tongue Point to the tunnels and then hide them close to the Hotel.
Of course, Andre won’t be involved. Like the bastard can’t get his hands dirty. Can’t do any actual labor.
The work on the t
unnels and the whole People’s Army thing consumed both Pete & Bill. They had no time for any side jobs. They needed money and Andre seemed to have it.
Andre spent a lot of time at the First National Bank across from the hotel. He almost seemed to work there. The night Andre went into the tunnels, he spent more time looking at the foundation of the bank than he did at the hotel.
Andre kept wining and dining Pete like they were going steady. Bill could have gone to these dinners, but the political rants went on way too long. There was to be some big payoff for Bill, Pete and to a lesser degree, Joe, after the bombing. Like a reward for starting the ‘Revolution.’
Bill wasn’t as hell-bent on starting a revolution as Pete. He needed walking around money right now. So, he went to Andre and pretty much demanded it. In the end, Andre gave him $100.
And that’s another thing, almost all the bills are burnt. Some more than others. It’s weird. Can I pay for stuff with burnt money?
The waitress finally got around to taking Bill’s order.
“Double cheeseburger with bacon, fries, and chocolate malt. And a beer to start.” It made Bill mad they always asked for his ID.
The burger was the first real meal Bill ate in a while. It made him feel better.
The tab came to $3.10. Bill laid a $10 bill on the counter.
“I can’t take that.” The waitress looked at it like the bill was on fire. “It’s burnt.”
“It’s not burnt, just a little charred on one end. There’s nothing wrong with it.”
“I’m not taking it, give me some other money.”
Bill took the other bills from his wallet, hoping to find one in better shape. The best-looking bill was already on the counter.
“Are you telling me all of the money you have is burnt?”
“Charred a little not burnt. My wallet dropped in a campfire.” Even Bill didn’t believe himself.