Chapter Twenty-Four
The next morning, Mike and Andy checked Huber’s email. The paramilitary RSVPs were already flooding in from Arizona, Oregon, Texas, Idaho — even as far as Michigan. There was a lot of excitement over seeing Goebbels’ and Himmler’s medals and decorations — and sheer ecstasy over what appeared to be Hitler’s own uniform! These right-wing freaks really knew their Nazi gear. There was no way they were going to miss the big show. It looked like Mike would have a full house, or a full barn, for the big bash he had planned.
With less than forty-eight hours to prepare for the party, Mike and Andy packed his van with the necessary supplies, including all the explosives, Mike’s TEC-9, and a fully loaded AR-15 from Andy’s arsenal with four additional 30-round magazines. “I got this baby when the assault weapons ban ended four years ago, like a lot of those militia nuts did. If things get out of hand, you’ll need the extra firepower.”
“Good idea, Andy. But drive extra careful. We can’t get stopped with all this stuff in your van.”
“Relax, pal. I’ve got handicapped plates. They always get me out of trouble. Cops don’t like to mess with an old guy in a wheelchair. What are they gonna say? ‘Step out of the car, mister?’ It’s too much of a hassle with the ramp and everything.”
“I get it, Andy, but stick to the speed limit and don’t run any red lights, okay?”
“Okay, dad.”
Andy observed all the traffic laws as they drove back up to the deserted farm north of Goleta. Just as Andy expected, there was nobody there. They parked near the closed gate and Mike used bolt cutters on the padlock so Andy could drive in and park behind his dead buddy’s abandoned farmhouse. Mike pocketed the broken lock, replaced it with a new one, then closed the gate and locked it. This farm didn’t need any surprise visitors today.
Mike went to work. He knew his way around explosives. Though not trained in the Marines as a sapper or combat engineer, he’d been pressed to help those guys blow up roads and bridges when they’d taken too many casualties to handle the job on their own. He knew where to place the charges for maximum effect, how to hide them, and how to wire them for detonation.
As he prepped the old barn to explode with a maximum loss of life, a nagging thought entered Mike’s mind. Was he any better than the Nazis with their death camps? Or the Japs in the Pacific, ruthlessly killing tens of thousands of civilians and prisoners of war?
Hell yes, he reassured himself. Hitler and Tojo’s armies murdered innocent people. They and their minions were guilty of war crimes. The assholes Mike was targeting were just as bad: racist killers who’d already started slaughtering blameless, unsuspecting Americans who weren’t like them. The other. Like the Jews, Gypsies, homosexuals, the mentally retarded, intellectuals, and everyone else who didn’t conform to the Nazi’s perverse Aryan ideal. Or the Chinese, Filipinos, and other Pacific islanders sacrificed on the bloody altar of Japanese imperialism.
But still, Mike wondered, should he just alert the cops to this gathering? Stage a police raid, and hand all these militia bastards over to the authorities? Leave them to justice?
No way.
As a cop, Mike had seen all too often how bad guys would lawyer-up and get away with their crimes. Even now, he was hearing right wingers on TV and radio making pathetic excuses for the rash of mass shootings. The killings were regrettable, but the shooters were aggrieved. “We’ve got to understand why these militia men feel the way they do. They’ve been ‘radicalized’ by changing demographics in what they feel has always been their country – ‘alienated’ by a loss of white privilege.” To the apologists it was all about economic anxiety and “cultural dislocation” among the white working class: too many immigrants from Africa and Central and South America taking away their jobs.
Mike was calling bullshit on all that claptrap. None of these jerks were ever going to spend a single day in the hot sun, bent over row upon row of lettuce or strawberries. Their teenage sons weren’t going to clean hotel bathrooms or wash dishes or mow anybody’s damned lawn but their own. These gun-loving militia yokels were just fascist stooges, easily led by soulless men who preyed on their hatreds, fears and insecurity. Mike and his GI pals had defeated creeps like these in the war – and he was ready to, once again, send them all back to hell.
Before the sun dropped below the Pacific Ocean’s western horizon, all the explosives were in place. Tomorrow, it was down to Mike to play his part.
He and Andy camped out overnight on the farm. Siting in Andy’s car, they watched as the excited email chatter continued to pour in on Huber’s iPhone. The top militia boys had clearly taken the bait. Mike figured there’d be at least forty to fifty of these bastards at the big event tomorrow night. The plan was for this secret shindig to end with a big bang. But before Mike could set it off, he had to start the show on the right note. He had to keep these lowbrows in suspense. They were expecting something spectacular.
Perhaps the inconceivable arrival of the Fuhrer himself!
The sun finally sank behind the ocean. Maybe it was the cool ocean breeze, or the exertion of playing sapper again after all these years, but Mike had no trouble drifting off to sleep. As he slept, there were no challenging thoughts of the day to come. Just blessed rest. Much needed rest. Not enough rest.
The next morning, Mike woke up to a crowing rooster. Abandoned as it was, this was still a farm. As he shook off the fog of sleep, he considered calling Gloria, but he couldn’t use Andy’s phone. That could put Andy and Gloria both in hot water. And there was no way he could use his phone – Huber’s phone. At this point, Mike knew he should only use it for official business. Militia business. He knew just enough about these damn iPhones to suspect that the militia nuts might be able to track down Gloria somehow through his phone activity.
However the day turned out, Mike was determined to protect Gloria. If he somehow got out of this crazy situation alive, he needed her to be there for him. There were a lot of big ideas on the line — democracy, equality, freedom from fascism, and defeating racist hate — but Gloria was foremost on his mind.
Despite the insanity of their years apart, and the difference in their ages, he was no less in love with Gloria than on that day in ’51 when he disappeared down the rabbit hole. She was his point of focus. Do the right thing, take the right steps, make the right moves, and he might get back to the girl he loved. He might survive. That’s why so many Marine pals carried photos of their sweethearts into battle — and kissed them just before the shells started flying.
It was 10:00 in the morning. The meeting would start at 9:00 PM — only eleven hours away. There were many things Mike still had to do, but Andy was useless at this point. In fact, he was a burden. You can’t tool around a farm in a wheelchair. Especially when the shit is hitting the fan.
Mike woke Andy up and told him to drive back home and wait for his call after the show over. “You kidding, Mike? I should be standing by. You don’t know what’s gonna happen! I might need to come to your rescue…”
Mike stopped him. “You can’t help me now, buddy. You’ve done all you can do. You’re the brains of this outfit. This whole setup is yours: the plan, the pyro, the farm, the barn. It’s all you, my friend – and it’s all wired to explode. But I’ve got to greet these assholes and dazzle them for a while before I blow them all to hell. If I manage to come out alive, I’ll call you to come and pick me up. Go home, pal. I’ll call you as soon as I can.”
Andy was crestfallen, but he was no fool. He knew he couldn’t be much help in the madhouse situation Mike was facing. Instead, he’d wind up being a burden. “Okay, Mike. I’m driving out of here. But I’m not going far. Maybe I’ll get a motel room in Santa Barbara. Hell, I might even go wine tasting over in Santa Ynez. Drown my sorrows in Chardonnay.”
“Sounds good, buddy. A fine idea.”
“Better yet, I’ll toast your impending victory. At two or three vineyards at least!”
“You do that, Andy. And bring back a bottle or two for me. We’ll share them with Gloria when we get back.”
“Okay. I’ll wait for you in Los Olivos. Love that little town. I’ll hang out at Mattei’s Tavern. That way I’ll be close when I get your call.”
“See, Andy? You are the brains of the operation.”
Andy blushed for a split second, then recovered. “If you need me, call me. And fuck you if you don’t.”
“If I don’t call you, Andy,” Mike replied, “You’ll know I’m truly fucked.”
Mike watched his old buddy drive away and turn right on the 101, heading north toward the Gaviota Pass. It was now less than ten hours before showtime.
Mike had already set the barn to blow. The explosives were connected to a switch that would set off the blast. He hid that switch in a chicken coop located forty yards from the barn. Gritting through the searing pangs in his hip, he practiced running from the barn to the switch. The world’s best athletes could run a forty-yard dash in around 4.25 seconds. Mike was no Olympic sprinter, but even with his old, aching war wound, he covered that distance in a little more than five. Hopefully, that would be enough.
The chicken coop was twenty yards from the front porch of the farmhouse. Mike stashed Andy’s four AR-15 magazines and his loaded TEC-9 under the front porch. From that concealed vantage point, he’d have a clear field of fire between the closest barn door from which anyone might escape and their parked cars.
He was rehearsing an ambush. If anyone survived the blast, he wasn’t taking prisoners.
Next, to be certain of where any blast survivors might emerge, Mike made sure there was just one working door in and out of the barn. He boarded up the door facing away from the farmhouse and closed up any gaps in the walls that might allow for escape. He made sure that the one exit that remained, the door that opened toward the farmhouse and chicken coop, could be bolted shut from the outside. He was glad to find that the large, rusty old iron latch bolt still worked. Mike latched it closed — and tugged mightily. It would hold. For a while at least.
Starting at that door, Mike stepped off about thirty yards behind the barn. This is where he’d direct his guests to park — hidden from the view of passing traffic on the 101. A bunch of cars, vans, and pickups parked on what looked like a vacant farm property might draw attention. The paranoid militia boys would no doubt appreciate yet another level of operational security.
Mike walked down the road past the farmhouse and out to the gate. There was almost no traffic on the 101. As he walked, he rehearsed the speech he’d give to his audience in German. Andy had helped him prepare it by using a translation “app” on his computer. Modern advances like this made Mike’s head spin, but German was, after all, his mother’s tongue. He’d spoken enough around the house as a kid that his accent was passable. He had to admit that, after several dozen rehearsals, he sounded pretty good.
“Gentleman. Es ist mir eine Ehre, heute Abend unter Helden zu sein. Sie haben bereits den großen Krieg für die Erlösung Ihrer Nation begonnen, aber jetzt biete ich Ihnen etwas mehr an als die Waffen, die Ihnen versprochen wurden. Heute Abend bringen wir Ihnen historische Führung. Heil Hitler!”
Translated, Mike would say to the gathered militiamen, “Gentleman. I am honored to be among heroes tonight. You have already begun the great war for the salvation of your nation, but now I offer you something more than the weapons you have been promised. Tonight, we bring you historic leadership. Heil Hitler!” That’s when Mike would walk out the barn door as if to usher in Hitler and his Nazi minions. Instead, that’s when he’d bolt the barn door shut, race to the chicken coop — and blow them all to bits!
Mike rehearsed his speech over and over as he made his final preparations. It soothed his nerves and focused his attention on the task at hand. Tonight, he’d strike a death blow against a movement that was already betraying the proud, democratic nation that his Marine comrades had given their all to defend from island to blasted, bloody island across the Pacific.
All Mike had to do was keep his shit together, stay calm, and pull off the plan. Eight hours from now, he’d know if he measured up to the task.
Chapter Twenty-Five
At 6:00 PM Pacific time, the sun was diving beneath the Pacific Ocean, sending long shadows across the neglected farm where Mike Delaney was preparing to launch a counter-offensive against the right-wing terror that was gripping his beloved country.
And there was still a lot to be done.
With three hours to go before D-Day in Goleta, Mike carried a table from the farmhouse and placed it in the center of the barn. He took the bin of Nazi gear he’d taken from Hitler, Goebbels, and Himmler and laid it on the table: an assortment of insignia, medals, and uniforms that any true Nazi fan would die for. That thought brought a hard-hearted grin to Mike’s face. “Die for,” he mused. That was, indeed, the plan.
Mike knew his audience. This vintage collection of Third Reich memorabilia would focus the attention of every white supremacist in the room. Mike placed Hitler’s Walther and Goebbels’ Luger on display. All unloaded, of course. Then he walked out of the barn, closed the door, and bolted it shut.
At 7:45 PM, he trotted down to the gate, unlocked it, and swung it open. Then he ran back up the road toward the barn. It was time for him to get dressed. He chose the Nazi uniform that fit him best. Heinrich Himmler was five-foot-nine inches. Mike was nearly six feet tall. It was close enough. As he admired his reflection in one of the farmhouse windows, Mike had to admit that — evil though they were — the Nazis turned out some sharp-looking duds.
Mike slung Andy’s AR-15 across his back and holstered one of the Walther pistols on his hip. The sight of a World War Two era Nazi officer armed with a modern automatic weapon and a classic Nazi sidearm would no doubt thrill the men who showed up for tonight’s event.
Mike wasn’t shooting fish in a barrel, but it was damned close.
At 8:00 PM, Mike stood next to the barn and brandished a flashlight. Over the next hour, he signaled the militia boys as they arrived via the 101 and turned into the deserted farm. In his role as a well-armed imperious Nazi officer, Mike said very little, and what he said in the way of direction was minimal – and spoken in broken English with a heavy German accent. There was no friendly chatter. He assumed an air of command and was met with obedience.
With few words, Mike showed the arrivals where to park – and they dutifully lined up thirty yards behind the barn in rows of five cars each. Stacked in that way, the vehicles could not be seen from the highway.
Most of the vehicles carried more than one man. Mike made a tally of all the occupants as they drove in. By the time the last vehicle was in place, he counted thirty-two cars, trucks, and vans containing a total of seventy-three men. This was more militiamen than Mike had seen at the Griffith Park Zoo and Murphy’s Ranch combined. Clearly, the spate of racist mass shootings across the country had energized the right-wing militia movement.
Any vestige of guilt that Mike felt about what he was about to do vanished.
The night grew chilly. Mike ordered the militiamen to stay in their vehicles until 9:00 PM sharp. The door to the barn wouldn’t be opened until then. This caused some grumbling among the more cantankerous guys. One guy in particular, a member of the Boogaloo Boyz, didn’t take kindly to Mike’s directions and let him know it. But most of the arriving guests followed orders without complaint.
Mike ran down the road to the gate, closed it, and locked it — then came back to patrol the rows of neatly parked cars, listening to what the men were saying among themselves: a lot of chest-beating about the mass shootings that were taking place and curiosity about the Nazi gear they saw on the internet. That led to speculation about which Nazi leaders might be showing up. Would they be contemporary neo-Nazis from Europe or South Africa? Or were they about to meet senior officials of the actual historic Third Reich? If time travel was possible, surely a certifiable genius like Dr. Huber would have mastered it.
They’d all know soon enough.
At 9:00 PM, Mike ordered the men to exit their vehicles and gather in front of the barn door. There was some muttering as they assembled. They’d been patient so far, but these guys weren’t used to taking orders. Mike had to maintain control if he was going to pull this thing off. He required strict obedience, whatever it took.
The same member of the Boogaloo Boyz that had chafed at Mike’s orders upon his arrival less than an hour ago pushed his way forward through the crowd. He stood two feet from Mike, looked him in the eye, and issued a direct challenge. “Who the fuck are you, pal? And why should we take orders from you?”
Mike instantly drew his Walther pistol and calmly put a bullet through the man’s forehead. As his dead body hit the ground, Mike glared at the assemblage, and without raising his voice or betraying any emotion, spoke with force in his convincing German accent.
“Do you think this is a game? I say to you all – we’ve not come so far to suffer fools who doubt our cause!Small men who put their own egos above our sacred mission. We have all devoted our lives to the master plan! Our brothers in arms are already in the field! This is no time for weak minds that don’t understand the need for total obedience to Nazi leadership. No time for small men without stout hearts and wills of solid steel! Forward now brothers, to our glorious future!”
Mike opened the barn door and motioned the militiamen to enter, filing past the man he’d just killed. They did so. Obediently. Most of them enthusiastically.
The table full of Nazi gear stood in the center of the barn. The sight of the uniforms, the medals, the insignia — especially all the SS emblems and weapons — had an electric effect on the assembly. They were like little boys on Christmas morning getting their first look at the delights that Santa stashed under the tree. Hitler’s uniform was not on the table. Mike wanted the militia boys to imagine that the great man himself might wear that uniform when he entered the barn to take personal control of their racist crusade.
Mike gave the men a moment to appreciate what this display represented before directing them to take up positions in the back half of the barn. Once they all fell into place, Mike addressed the group in his well-rehearsed German, as though the Fuhrer himself were listening.
“Gentleman. I am honored to be among heroes tonight. You have already begun the great war for the salvation of your nation, but now I offer you something more than the weapons you have been promised. Tonight, we bring you historic leadership. Heil Hitler!”
The crowd responded with a hearty, “Heil Hitler!” Mike continued, this time in his heavily accented English.
“My brothers in arms. I am Helmut Brinkmann. I wear the uniform of Reichsführer of the Schutzstaffel, the Nazi cadre you may know as the SS. I wear this uniform because the day will soon be upon us when we will all be proud to show the world who we are and what we stand for. The day is coming when white Christian men will regain supremacy in America and the world. I am, like all of you, a patriot in this battle for the soul of our nation: a battle in which God himself has ordained our victory. Seig Heil!”
Mike may have gotten carried away, but the lusty “Seig Heil” shouted back in reply assured him that he knew his audience all too well.
“Dr. Huber and Horst Mueller cannot be with us tonight. Their scientific breakthrough – which has led to the miracles you will witness tonight — has aroused the interest of those in the U.S, government that would oppose our noble goals. Concerned they might be under surveillance,” Mike gestured to the table of Nazi gear, “they have sent me in their stead with these tokens from the past – and this message.”
Mike’s mention of “tokens from the past” did not go unnoticed. When he repeated the part about giving them “something more than the weapons you have been promised. Tonight, I present you not just with arms – but with historic leadership,” the gathering was, to a man, nearly foaming at the mouth. Mike’s final “Heil Hitler!” was met with a thunderous response that would have made the Brownshirts of the Beer Hall Putsch proud.
Mike held his AR-15 aloft and told the whipped-up crowd that, after they met their new leaders, they would all head over to the farmhouse where hundreds of these weapons were waiting for them. That drew more cheers. But first, Mike redirected their attention to the display of Nazi paraphernalia, saying the items “are clues to the identities of the great men you are about to meet — leaders who will guide us to a glorious victory over the mud races who stain the blood of our proud white Christian nation!”
Summoning all the bravado he could muster; Mike ordered the militiamen to stand at attention while he brought in the Nazi leaders. Every man stood rigid, obeying his command. Mike had them right where he wanted them. He strode out the door, bolted it closed from the outside – then sprinted the 40 yards to the switch that would detonate the explosives. In the few seconds it took to reach the switch, Mike could hear some shouting inside the barn and men pounding on the locked door.
Mike flattened himself on the ground — and threw the switch.
The barn exploded in a rapid series of powerful blasts that shattered the wooden walls and engulfed what remained of the structure in a roiling maelstrom of fire.
Mike could hear the screams as he raced to his hideout under the farmhouse stairs and trained his AR-15 on anything that might emerge from the inferno. Within seconds, he was gunning down wounded men staggering from the blaze — many with their clothes and bodies on fire. The few that managed to escape the conflagration unharmed, some with weapons in hand, fell victim to Mike’s withering automatic fire. A handful of them managed to get off a shot at their unseen attacker before Mike dropped them.
Four minutes and four thirty-round magazines later, nothing was moving in Mike’s kill zone. Nobody had gotten as far as their vehicle.
The cops and the firemen would be on the scene before too long. The locked gate would make it harder for them to get to the burning barn, and the carnage behind it. It would also help Mike put more distance between him and this grisly scene. He went looking for any survivors, found just a few terribly wounded men – and with a few quick bursts from his TEC-9, he left no one alive.
Mike took off his Nazi uniform and tossed it along with his AR-15 into the back of a burning pickup truck before running to the farmhouse and putting on his old clothes.
Carrying his TEC-9 and trusty old .45 automatic, he disappeared into the woods on the northern edge of the farm. He paused for a moment, hidden, and looked back at the dreadful scene.
Nothing was moving except the devouring flames. No sirens could be heard yet.
It was time to get lost.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Mike hiked north, parallel to the highway, staying well off the road and out of sight. Fifteen minutes after he fled the farm, emergency vehicles started racing by on the 101, heading southwest from towns like Buellton and Solvang. There were probably more of them racing north from Goleta and Santa Barbara. Mike wondered whether Andy could hear all those screaming sirens up in Los Olivos.
Mike had made a hell of a mess back there. He’d done some grim, hard-hearted, cold-blooded things. But this was all-out war — and those bastards had started it. He’d never forget their full-throated shouts of “Seig Heil’ and “Heil Hitler!” There was only one way to deal with that kind of evil. And he’d done it. Just like he and his men had done with M1 rifles, flame throwers, and satchel charges on Iwo Jima and all those other places where the forces of hate and extremism had dug in for a fight to the bitter end.
When he finally got a chance to sleep — if he ever got that chance — he’d sleep just fine.
For the next three and a half hours, Mike trudged more than ten arduous miles through farmland, woods, and occasional streams and irrigations ditches. High and bright, the winter moon lit his way but kept him mindful of staying hidden. Then, that annoying shred of shrapnel in his hip insisted he stop soon for a rest.
It was past midnight when he gave in to the pain and settled on a secluded spot where he felt safe enough to take a breather and call Andy.
“How was the wine tasting, buddy?”
“Mike! Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, Andy. Listen. I’m about twelve miles or so south of Gaviota Pass. I’m gonna rest here for a while before pushing on. I figure I’ll reach the pass sometime before five or six in the morning, just before sunrise. Can you pick me up there?”
“No chance, pal. I’ve got another wine tasting.”
There was a brief, confused pause. Mike’s wits weren’t the sharpest at that moment.
“Of course, you asshole, I’ll pick you up. Jeez, Mike! Where’s your sense of humor?”
“Sorry, Andy. That was hilarious. You’re a regular George Burns.”
“You know he lived to be a hundred? He died just twelve years ago.”
“That’s amazing. Good for George. Listen, Andy. I’ll be waiting near the historical marker. You know, the one about Fremont in the Mexican War?”
“Sure. Sure. I know where that is.”
“Good. I’ll see you there by six o’clock.”
“I’ll be there, pal. You know, Gloria called me asking about you…”
“For Pete’s sake, Andy — don’t talk to Gloria or anyone else until you pick me up. Radio silence, buddy. Got that?”
“Roger.”
“Okay, my friend. Over and out.”
Mike hung up. What would he do without Andy?
Nearly five hours after he hung up with Andy, Mike arrived at Gaviota Pass and collapsed, totally exhausted, behind a large clump of chapparal. The sun had yet to rise over the steep Santa Ynez Mountains to the east — and there was almost no traffic moving through the pass.
Mike welcomed the relative peace of the small roadside park on the south side of the road that featured the Fremont-Foxen Memorial. Mike was around fifteen years old when the memorial was erected. His dad was the kind of guy who always stopped at roadside history markers, so no family trip to the Santa Ynez Valley was complete without a brief visit to California Historical Landmark No. 248.
Mike was too tired to get up and walk over to the metal plaque, plus he wanted to keep out of sight. But he knew what the memorial said. He’d once memorized the text for a high school history presentation on the Mexican American War. It was either that or build another sugar cube replica of the Santa Barbara, Santa Ines, or La Purisima Missions.
“Here on Christmas Day, 1846, natives and soldiers from the Presidio of Santa Barbara lay in ambush for Lt. Col. John C. Fremont, U.S.A. and his battalion. Advised of the plot, Fremont was guided over the San Marcos Pass by Benjamin Foxen and his son William, and captured Santa Barbara without bloodshed.”
Researching his presentation, Mike learned that the events inscribed on the memorial weren’t true. According to local lore, Mexican soldiers from the Presidio of Santa Barbara lay in ambush on the cliffs above Gaviota Pass, ready to rain an avalanche of boulders down on Fremont and his troops. But, in fact, those Mexican soldiers were way down south in Los Angeles at the time, and torrential rains had flooded the Gaviota Pass. So, there was no such plot. Fremont and his command actually marched out of the Santa Ynez valley for Santa Barbara through the San Marcos pass on the other end of the valley because it was the most direct way out.
Still, the local legend made a hero out of William Benjamin Foxen, a former merchant seaman who eventually became a wealthy rancher.
That’s how it is with events in war, Mike reflected. The dark truth gets confused over time. Deadly command mistakes, self-glorifying lies, and savage, brutal battles, butchery, and carnage become sanitized tales of victory and heroism as they’re told through the years.
Mike didn’t have to wonder about how his story would be told. Nobody would believe it anyway. There were only two people in the world who would know what happened. Only Gloria and Andy could judge whether what Mike had just done was a heroic act of national defense in a budding civil war or just evil piled upon evil. Only Gloria and Andy…
His mind was wandering. Where was Andy?
A short time later – was it seconds, minutes, or more? — Mike was awakened by the short blast of a car horn. He shook the cobwebs from his brain and poked his head over the bushes. It was Andy alright. Mike got up, waved to him, then trotted over to his van. “Six o-clock on the dot,” said Andy, as Mike climbed into the passenger seat.
“Thanks, pal. Let’s get out of here.”
Andy pulled out of the park, heading northeast toward the Gaviota Tunnel. “You know, this is a divided highway, buddy. I had to drive about 10 miles south before I could get in a northbound lane. I got within eight or so miles of the farm you torched last night.”
“Did you see any cops or fire trucks?”
“I heard some faint sirens in Los Olivos last night. Nothing unusual. But I didn’t hear anything this morning. Not even on the 101 near the farm.” Andy took a good look at Mike. “You look like shit.”
“I feel worse.”
“Want me to turn on the radio? Local news is blowing up with stories about last night.”
“Blowing up?’
“Sorry, Mike, I wasn’t trying to be funny.”
“Take the 154 through the San Marcos Pass into Santa Barbara.”
“Just like Fremont?”
“Yeah, Andy. Just like Fremont.”
Mike leaned back in his seat as Andy switched on the radio. KZSB was on the story big time. The broadcasters were saying it was the biggest new story in Santa Barbara County since the 1968 oil spill disaster — or that time in 1942 when a Jap submarine lobbed some shells at the oil installations on the Gaviota Coast.
Reporters close to scene weren’t getting a lot of information from local authorities, but from the number of ambulances and emergency vehicles arriving from both north and south, it appeared to be a mass casualty event.
“Why so many bodies and vehicles have been found on this abandoned farm is still a mystery,” a reporter informed his radio audience. “The absentee owners, who both live out of state, are the only children of the man who owned the farm before he passed away two years ago.” Mike was impressed with how soon they’d gathered so many details. But he knew they’d never know the full story.
The reporter went on. “Authorities will be holding a news conference at noon to update the public on the latest information. At this point, there is no reason to believe that residents of Santa Barbara County are in any immediate danger.”
“The local cops don’t know shit,” said Andy. “And what little they do know they aren’t about to talk about. Before long, the ATF and FBI are gonna come in and bigfoot the whole case. And then, nobody’s gonna get any information until the Feds are damn good and ready to release it.” He turned to Mike. “But you, my friend, know all the details. And you don’t exist. So, this shit could hardly be more nuts.”
As they briefly lost radio traffic in the Gaviota Tunnel, Mike took it all in for a moment. He hadn’t felt this physically and emotionally spent since the war. Emerging from the tunnel, the breathless radio reports resumed, but Mike wasn’t listening. Andy was right. Mike already knew what happened. And he knew that law enforcement, no matter how good they were — local, state, or federal — had any chance of figuring it all out.
Less than a half hour later, they were almost out of the valley. The Cold Spring Canyon Arch Bridge approaching the San Marcos Pass on Highway 154 rose four hundred feet above the canyon floor. One of the highest bridges in the nation, Mike had never seen it before. “Holy shit, Andy! When did they build this?”
“They cut the ribbon in ’64. Thirteen years before your dumb ass disappeared. Still scares me to drive over it. Dozens of folks have killed themselves jumping off this thing. It’s what they call an attractive nuisance. But it beats winding your way up these hills like we did back in the day, remember? Although, stopping for drinks and barbecued tri-tip at Cold Spring Tavern was well worth the trouble, wasn’t it, buddy?”
“Sure was, my friend,” Mike replied, happy to think for a moment about good old times.
“Cold Spring Tavern’s still going gangbusters, Mike. But they’re closed ‘til lunch time, or I’d take you there for breakfast right now.”
“I’m damned hungry, Andy. But I want to see Gloria as soon as I can. I gotta touch base with her before I can relax.”
“I get it, pal. You just get some rest. I’ll wake you up when we get to Malibu.”
A restful half-hour later, Mike woke up as Andy pulled off the 101 to park along the coast at County Line surf break — so named for being on the border between Ventura and Santa Barbara counties. “Sorry for stopping, Mike. But I just love this place. It’s like therapy, you know? We caught a lot of great waves here back in the day.”
“We sure did. But I caught a hell of a lot more than you.”
“So, what! You were younger.”
“Two years is nothing. Besides, I was riding those waves with Jap shrapnel in my hip.”
“Don’t give me that ‘shrapnel’ crap, pal. Sometimes I wonder if you were ever even wounded. Sometimes I think to myself, ‘He’s just making this shrapnel shit up.’”
“I don’t blame you, buddy. Fact is, the truth is only the stories we tell each other, right?”
“I guess so, Mike. But your story’s getting so fucking impossible to believe – and it’s true. That’s the crazy part. Among a fuck ton of totally crazy parts — it’s true.”
Mike fell silent for a moment. He hadn’t been through anything like what happened last night since Iwo Jima. Andy knew what he was thinking.
“You gonna tell Gloria everything?”
Mike gave Andy a solemn look. “No, Andy. And you won’t tell her either, okay?”
“Hell, I don’t even know all the details. I’ll back whatever story you want to tell her.”
“Thanks, buddy,” Mike replied, taking the phone out of his pocket. “I’ll give her a heads-up.”
Gloria came on the line, overtaken by waves of heart-rending relief at finally hearing from Mike. He told her he was with Andy and he’d be home soon, but that he didn’t want to stay on the line too long. They exchanged an emotional, tearful goodbye for now, then Mike hung up.
He held the phone in his hand: the black, mysterious object that had started this whole insane adventure. He realized that the time had come for this thing — Dr. Otto Huber’s iPhone – to disappear.
Andy agreed. “There’s too much information stored on that sucker, Mike. You have no idea. Too many ways to track you or Gloria – or me – down.”
“Okay,” said Mike, “Let’s give it a burial at sea.”
He ran down the beach, paused at the water’s edge – and threw the iPhone as far as he could. It sailed through the moist morning air for nearly one hundred feet until it finally splashed into the water and disappeared beneath the waves.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Andy dropped Mike off at Gloria’s house. Mike looked like shit. And Gloria agreed.
“You look like hell, lover-boy. Is this what I waited for the past two days?”
Gloria’s jest landed for just a split second before she broke down and threw her arms around Mike. “I missed you, baby. I was so worried. Hell, I’m still worried,” she gushed. “Are you okay? I heard on the radio about that big farm fire in Goleta…”
“Yeah, I heard about it, too, baby.” Mike held on to her for life. He kissed her forehead, then her lips. “They don’t really know anything, babe. The reporters don’t know — and the cops won’t say. That’s usually how it goes.” He gave Gloria another kiss. “It’s crazy. But you know what I know?”
“What’s that?”
“I know that I love you, baby.”
“I know, Mike. And I love you, too. That’s just one more crazy thing, right?”
“Right, doll.”
Just then, Gloria caught a whiff of her returning hero. “First things first, boyfriend. Jump in the shower and do something about your sorry self.”
Gloria started making breakfast while Mike cleansed himself of his ordeal. As he washed away the filth of the past two days, he wondered what Gloria was thinking. How much did she know? How far did she think he went? He’d told her he could do things the cops couldn’t do: things she didn’t need to know. But could he be completely honest with her? Could he tell her the whole story? And if he did, would she be horrified? Not just by all the killing – but by him. By what he was capable of doing.
After Mike’s shower, he wrapped the towel around his waist. He could glimpse Gloria in the kitchen, and the smell of bacon was in the air. He never wanted to move from that spot, that moment, for the rest of his life. But he walked into the kitchen.
“Nice outfit, Mike.”
Gloria looked him over, his banged-up 29-year-old torso was nonetheless like a Roman statue. “It’s nice to see you’re finally trying to appeal to my intellect.”
She put a big plate of bacon and eggs, a steaming cup of coffee, and a stack of pancakes in front of him. “So, what’ve you been doing all night?”
“Andy and I were working a job.”
“Up in Santa Barbara County?”
Mike didn’t say a word.
“I’m not a mind reader, Mike. I know where you were. You called me from County Line.” Gloria showed him her phone. “See? It’s right there, Sherlock. Welcome to the modern world.”
Mike was happy to see Gloria in a joking mood. It might be best, he thought, not to burden her with too much darkness.
“Were you and Andy just riding some waves?”
Mike wanted to share as much as he could with Gloria, but he had to protect her. The militia nuts would be looking for revenge. And while he couldn’t imagine how they might track his 76-year-old girlfriend down – it wasn’t a zero percent chance. Nothing was. Not after everything he’d been through.
“Gloria, baby.” Mike looked her in the eyes and took her hands in his. “The less you know the better. It was a really bad night for the bad guys. And now I’m back home with you. Let’s just start there and go from here.”
“Start there and go from here?’ You’re so damned smooth, Detective Delaney,” she pretended to purr, “How can an old gal resist such witty repartee? You’re the most eloquent guy I’ve known since Abe Shatz and Ignatz Kalicky held up one end of my bar.” Their lips were about to meet when Gloria’s phone rang.
It was Andy. She gave Mike the phone. “You want me to leave? Is this some kind of Batman and Robin shit? Or can I finish my breakfast?”
Mike motioned for Gloria to stay. “What’ve you heard, buddy?”
Andy had been listening to local AM radio since he dropped Mike off at Gloria’s. Now, he told Mike, the story is getting covered on television. “You gotta tune in, Mike. They don’t know much, but it’s clear that the bodies are stacking up. Holy hell, man! You really bagged…”
“Andy!” Mike cut him off cold. “Don’t talk like that. Understand? And since your phone was talking to the good doctor’s phone, you better get yours replaced. Pronto.” He looked at Gloria. “Gloria needs a new phone, too.”
“Done,” said Andy. “It’s taken care of. But turn on the news. It’s a big deal.”
Mike handed the phone back to Gloria. “Don’t use this thing until Andy gets you a new one.”
“Don’t scare me, Mike.”
“You don’t have to be scared. You told me yourself. I’m an impossible person. I shouldn’t even exist. Look at me. I’m eighty-six years old. You’re seventy-seven. I’m almost ten years older than you – and look at us. It’s crazy. We’re in love, babe. Don’t worry about anything else.”
Gloria gave Mike a pointed look. “Gina’s been asking about you. ‘Where’s Mike? What happened to Mike?’ What am I supposed to tell her? I think she likes you. And who could blame her?”
Mike gave Gloria a squeeze and a deep seal-the-deal, kiss.
“We’ll figure it out, babe. Just tell her that I’m into older women.”
“You’re into her grandmother?”
“Well, you’re the cradle robber.”
They kissed again. It was a “get a room” kind of kiss.
“Okay, baby doll. Let’s see what the hell is going on this morning.”
Gloria turned on the television just as a reporter was saying that “as many as sixty or seventy bodies have been recovered from the scene of the fire. Many, we are being told, look like they’ve also been shot.”
Gloria and Mike settled into the couch. After a moment, she looked back at Mike, tears welling up in her eyes. He met her gaze and said simply, “We’re at war, baby.”
“And you’re America’s secret weapon. Is that it, Mike?”
They sat together, switching from channel to channel as “The Goleta Massacre” was fast becoming a national story.
Gloria hit the pause button and stared at Mike, seeing right through him. “So, you’re just gonna play house with me until Andy sends out the Bat Signal – and then you’ll go off into the unknown to battle the forces of evil. Is that it?”
Mike just stared at Gloria: the absolute magnificence of the woman.
“Because if that’s what you’re saying, Mike. If that’s what the future holds for us. Then all I can say is…”
She looked straight at him, “I guess it’s okay with me, my hero.”
“Now, give me your plate, lover-boy. I’ll toss it in the sink,” she said heading back to the kitchen. “But let’s switch channels. I need a break from all this heavy shit. Let’s watch ‘Celebrity Apprentice.’ I recorded it last night.”
“You recorded it last night?”
“Yes, on DVR.”
“What’s that?”
“I forgot. You’re an unfrozen caveman. It’s a digital video recorder. You can set your TV to record shows now.”
“Any TV?”
“No. Just the newer ones. This one’s brand new. Unlike you, my dear.”
“Wild. A couple weeks ago, TV was black and white…”
“I get it, babe. It’s a lot to deal with. But I think you’ll like “Celebrity Apprentice.’ It’s a reality game show on NBC.”
“A reality game show?”
“Well, it’s not ‘Your Show of Shows’, my dinosaur darling. It’s a contest hosted by this New York business mogul, Donald Trump. He’s a pompous ass, but it’s a lot of fun. Celebrities compete to win money for their charities. If they lose, Trump fires them.”
“Can we just take a nap instead?” Mike reached out to grab Gloria around the waist.
She sidestepped him.
“Save it for later, Batman,” she cooed. “Just get your rest so you can take me out to dinner later tonight. After dinner, I’ll think about it.”
Walking out of the room, she turned and blew him a kiss.
He followed Gloria’s every step as she disappeared into the kitchen.
Crazy, Mike thought.
Absolutely crazy.
Paul's Voyage of Discovery & Etc. 