Rain unto Death Page 3

  Huff's folding pocketknife easily defeated the store's back door, which was not secured with a deadlock. Why, in this day and age, a store wouldn't have a deadlock was something that made no sense, but then again, maybe they don't expect much crime here. But there is the old adage – you get what you pay for. The loose bins of clothing items looked like the Salvage Army collection. Huge, gigantic jeans with gaudy stitching. Almost nothing looked normal in here. It took some doing, but he managed to scrounge a couple pairs of decently fitting jeans and some slacks, and some polo shirts, a collared shirt, a belt, athletic shoes, socks, a travel bag, and a warm jacket. And, Huff’s issue 1911 A1 pistol.

  Huff's wallet, sans his cash and credit cards, and his uniform and boots, were unceremoniously thrown in a dumpster. The two hundred and fifty dollars in cash would certainly secure him a bus ride out of town, but he could neither afford to squander cash, nor could he risk public transportation. He climbed back in the Bronco, which had less than an eighth of a tank of gasoline in it, and drove in the outskirts of Portland, and passed a salvage yard. The yard itself was gated but there were two rows of broken and partially dismantled vehicles sitting outside in the gravel. Dahl parked the Bronco in one of the rows, found a small tool kit in the back of the Bronco, removed the plates, and chucked them in the engine bay of a rusting semi on blocks, where they wouldn't be found for years possibly.

  A thought occurred to Dahl. He wasn't within walking distance of anything that could serve as transportation, and that included a functional car that could be hotwired. Leaving the Bronco here didn't really serve that much of a purpose. Who cares if it was discovered? Any place he might leave it, he would be hundreds of miles away before it mattered when they found it. He climbed back in to the Bronco, and headed back towards the Interstate, heading south, stopping at the first truck stop he encountered. The Bronco ran out of gas on the off ramp.

  Trucks. They drove hard, and they drove far. How wise was it to hitch a ride? By sunup, the local news networks, if not the national news networks, would have his face plastered all over the television screens. But a truck ride wasn't entirely off the table. They didn't just haul box trailers. There were quite a few flatbeds parked in the lot, hauling various pieces of large equipment, steel and concrete structures. Like the truck carrying precast manholes. He could camp out in one of those. Just have to be careful of where they are going. If these things were made in the United States, they were probably headed north. The truck was Canadian. Maple leafs were stenciled on the manholes. That meant on thing – they were made in Canada. Rest assured they weren't heading back to Canada. No telling where exactly they were going, but anyplace away from here is better than here.

  Despite the cold chill, the manhole itself provided some shelter from the wind and the exposure. Dahl put on three layers of shirts, two layers of pants, and curled up in the jacket inside the concrete structure. He actually fell asleep. He was completely exhausted from the previous week and a half of constant abuse and torture. The day was starting to break as he woke from the gentle rocking of the flatbed trailer, as the massive Peterbilt diesel tractor cycled through its gears, and gained speed on the Interstate. Dahl went back to sleep, unaffected by the noise of the road. He was cold. Even the multiple layers didn't eliminate the chill that filtered through the crevices of the concrete structures as the rig sped down the freeway.

  He was a free man. But just like they used to say in grade school in civics class, freedom has a price. The one thing he needed and did not have was a source of income. He would need food. He was starving as it was. The meager lunch meal he ate in the cell, which tasted a bit like it was spiked with urine was the last thing he ate. The absence of a glycogen buildup from proper nutrition only added to the bone chilling cold.

  The rig made a couple stops. It was already dark, nearly ten PM by the time it reached its apparent destination. Dahl had been on the road for over fifteen hours. The location was unmistakable. The Las Vegas skyline was unique. The manholes were probably destined for the massive grading operation for some sort of residential subdivision. It was too late to receive them, and the trucker was likely resting in his sleeper. They would be unloaded in the morning. Staying aboard for the night was a no-go. He needed food, badly, and water. And warmth. He knew from experience that hypothermia was about to set in. He learned that in a deployment to Alaska. He could still move. He hadn't stood up in the entire time, and badly needed to relieve himself.

  He climbed off the trailer, and heard a sharp voice. "You! Who's there, eh?" It was the truck driver.

  "Sorry. I was just trying to find a place to sleep." Dahl replied.

  "Well, don't be sleeping in my truck. Move along now."

  A Canuck. Was he listening to the news? Who knows? Could he put two and two together, and surmise that the individual might be Dahl on the run? Possibly. Would he even care? Probably not.

  As luck would have it, the walk to a gas station, with a fast food restaurant on the opposite corner, was not far. It was about to close its doors for the night. Again, cash conservation was key. Dahl ordered a small hamburger off the under a dollar menu. “We’re going to be locking the doors in five minutes.” was the manager’s announcement as he made one last sweep of the restrooms. Dahl slipped into the restroom, and crouched on top of the toilet lid holding his bag, waiting for the manager to open the door again to ensure he was gone. The door opened and closed again. He took the bait.

  A short while later he heard the last of the employees walk through the front door, and then the sharp click of the rotary lock set as the front door was secured. Dahl exited the restroom and examined the restaurant. The doors were alarmed but there were no movement sensors internally, at least that he could tell. He wasted no time in firing up the grill, still warm from use, and a deep fryer, and cooked up a healthy meal of several half pound frozen hamburger patties, buns, onion rings, and fries. Over the course of a two hour cooking spree, he consumed four double hamburgers with all the fixings, a whole bag of onion rings, and enough leftover patties and buns to fill three plastic salad tubs. This would be enough food to last a couple of days at least.

  Dahl was sound asleep on the restroom floor when the sound of the front door lock set jarred him awake. It was still dark outside, and the opening crew would most likely attribute the mess on the grill and deep fryer to an inattentive night crew. He slipped out the doorway unnoticed, and headed to the highway.

  The big question was where to go from here. Dahl was youngish looking, with sharp cut features and short, close cropped hair, and he was developing some beard stubble. His presence was more commanding than his outward appearance would initially indicate. He was thin and wiry, resembling any other young homeless vagrant traveling the country in search of handouts and some undefined destination. He was far enough away from Washington that he probably didn't have to worry too much about getting caught, as long as he didn't fuck up and get picked up by the cops for doing something stupid. He thought about the gun in his travel bag. It was both an asset and a liability at the same time. But, then again, rationally, if it came to the point where the cops would be searching his stuff, it was all over anyway. One run of the prints through the NCIC and it would be all over.

  The year was 1981. They nicknamed him ‘the kid’ for his youngish appearance. They were all older, mostly cops, ex-cops, and the weekend paramilitary survivalists. The only guy close to his age was the guy in his twenties that organized the events. They would meet out in the middle of the desert at an improvised shooting range, which would be configured for every urban combat scenario imaginable, including bar counters and vehicle props. It was the local combat handgun competition league. There wasn't a hell of a lot else to do in the middle of the Mojave high desert in Kern County, California.

  The one thing that Alex Dahl was really good at, in addition to being a practiced martial artist, was marksmanship. Pistol, rifle, shotgun, you name it, Dahl could send rounds where they needed to go, more accurately t
han everyone else, and faster than everyone else. After one season, Mark decided to move him to the advanced class. He held his own, and came in second place at the end of the season, losing only to one of the members who spent years shooting in national competitions.

  The awards ceremony was somewhat awkward. Dahl was eighteen, not quite only enough to drink legally, however, this was a place and a time where generally people didn't get that uptight over it. They were all ordering beer at the pizza restaurant. Dahl wanted to be different. The waitress approached him to take his drink order. “What would you like?”

  “I'd like to get a glass of wine.” Dahl replied.

  “What kind?”

  “The cheapest!”

  He will be all right. The crowd of men laughed and joked about Dahl’s remark.

  They say Roger had connections to the mercenary world. He was reputed to be ex-Special Forces. Some say he was a former CIA spook. He wasn't one to either confirm or deny the rumors. But corner him in private, and he can talk the talk like he actually knows what the hell he’s talking about. He had a thick, short white beard, and he had access to weaponry most could only read about in magazines.

  Maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe it was simply the need to generate business. As the crowd started to break up, Roger took a seat next to Dahl at the end of the long wooden bench, out of earshot of the others. Dahl was picking at the last remaining slices of that chicken pizza with Alfredo sauce that Mark liked but nobody else seemed to care for.

  “Hey kid,” Roger spoke in a subdued and slightly gruff tone. “What do you plan on doing?”

  “What do you mean?” Dahl asked.

  “I mean for a living. I know you're screwing around with those classes in the community college.”

  “Navy maybe. Marines maybe. As an officer. I want to get my degree and go to OCS.” Officers Candidate School was good enough for Pops, right?

  “What do you want to do there?”

  “Fly. Be a pilot.”

  “I see. Anybody ever tell you what your odds are of getting a pilot training slot? Even the academy guys have to fight for those. And they have first dibs.”

  “Yeah, that’s what people are telling me. Sometimes I want to say screw it and enlist in the Army. You know, Green Berets and all that.”

  “Now you're talking. I think you have a good aptitude at that. I think you have a good heart for it. I think you have just enough of that inside craziness you could make it work.”

  “Thanks.”

  “But I got an alternative for you that you may want to consider...What do you know about mercs?”

  “Mercs, as in mercenaries?”

  “Yeah, that.”

  “I don't know, I read about those guys in the magazines. Gung Ho, Soldier of Fortune. Seems like a hard gig to land.”

  “It's not a hard gig to land, you just have to know the right people.”

  “I don't know the right people.”

  “Maybe you do know the right people, you just don't know it. If you did, is that an option you would consider?”

  It actually was an option Dahl was willing to consider. He was getting stir crazy in the desert. He wanted to do something. Be something. And not in two years. Right now. “I'm listening.”

  “There is an opposition force being formed in Zimbabwe, formerly known as Rhodesia prior to 1980, to take the country back from Mugabe. Word on the street is that one of Robert Wall’s men, a general, is behind it.”

  “Who is Robert Walls?”

  “Head of the Zimbabwe Army; he reports to Mugabe. Anyway, I can get you a slot in that force, a paid ticket to Africa, and a check for ten thousand dollars as a sign on bonus.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Seriously.”

  "Sounds risky."

  "It is risky. Two years ago, I signed a group to join the Rhodesian Foreign Legion. The following year when Rhodesia fell, all but one were killed. That one that survived, however, is doing handsomely in Somalia right now."

  "I'll think about it, but I just don't know. I've already been talking to an Army recruiter."

  "The offer stands, any time. It's rare that I come across the right combination of skill set and intelligence."

  Dahl's energy was restored as he walked along the side of the lightly traveled highway. He could see the Vegas skyline out there. He thought about Roger. It's been, what? A little over three years since they had that conversation in the pizza restaurant? Is he still there? Of course he's still there; he's a desert rat.

  In a sea full of dead ends, non-opportunities, and an endless barrage of people that want to do you in, no matter what you do and who you are; Roger might possibly be the key here. Kern County, California. The Mojave Desert. That's the key. If there were one person that could possibly set Dahl on some sort of sustainable track, it would be Roger. At least, that's how Dahl rationalized it. Dahl didn't grow up in the desert. When he left the Philippines with his parents after high school, he associated those islands as home. He loved those islands. He didn't really love the desert. To the casual observer, the desert was lifeless. To the pheasant hunter or mountain walker, the desert was anything but lifeless, but it was still arid, stark and plain.

  There was another reason to go there, however. Maria Stoddard. Her long, bleach blonde hair and blue eyes captivated him. They took a couple of classes together. Dahl may have been many things, but a ladies' man he was not. It would be a skill that he would eventually develop in life, but not after years of awkward and strained attempts at forming relationships. Maria was arguably the first girl, who just happened to be drop dead gorgeous, that he could actually talk to, and communicate with on a civil and intellectual level. But he didn't fail. He feared rejection more than he feared death itself. No, he didn't fail. He didn't even try. But, as he was beginning to learn, failing to try was a failure within itself.

  A Nevada Highway Patrol car passed by him, then it slowed down, did a U-turn on the highway, doubled back, and stopped beside him. “Fuck,” Dahl muttered under his breath. I hope this cop isn't an asshole.

  "You going someplace?" A female voice asked.

  He hadn't even contemplated that question. He was headed to California, but he was walking the wrong way. For that matter, he didn't know where he was even. At least, not exactly. Let's just keep things simple, and try to ditch this lady. "I'm headed to Vegas."

  The cruiser slowly crawled at idle as he walked. She was looking at something. Flipping through sheets of something. Eyeing him. "It's a long way."

  "I know, I'll be alright." He knew what she was looking at. Wanted printouts.

  "You got a name?"

  "Sam Hill."

  A call came over the radio. She responded, did an abrupt U-turn and sped away with lights flashing.

  He suddenly realized that he was vulnerable. Real vulnerable. Walking alongside the road was a no-go. That could have gone badly. He turned around, and walked back towards the enclave with the gas station, fast food restaurant, and trucks staged at the side waiting to unload their cargo. The large bearded Canadian man was standing outside of his cab, securing the chains on his now empty flatbed trailer. Dahl engaged him. "Excuse me?"

  "Yes?" The man asked, not pausing to hang the tie down chains on the side carriers.

  "I'm lost. Can you tell me how to get to Ridgecrest, California?"

  "What? Where is that, eh?"

  "Never mind."

  "Hold on. Just give me a couple minutes and I'll try to help you." He gave the ratchet one last twist to tighten the stowed chains, dusted off his hands, and climbed in his cab. "Where did you say you're headed again?"

  "Ridgecrest, California."

  The man flipped on the power button of his CB radio and spoke. "Breaker one-nine, this is the Maple Leaf Express. Anyone headed near Ridgecrest, California got your ears on?"

  There was long silence. Then the radio sounded. "Maple Leaf Express, this here's Daddy Warjets. I'm headin' to China Lake Naval Station, come on, what's your t
wenty?"

  "This here's Maple Leaf. I'm ten miles south of Henderson, about head on fifteen east to pick up another load. I got a rider looking to go there, eh?"

  "I'll be passing by your area in ten minutes. Tell that rider to be ready. I'm in a red cab-over Freightliner, pulling a lowboy with a 'copter on the back."

  "You hear that? Red truck with pulling a low trailer with a helicopter. Tell you what. Hop in, I'll take you to the Interstate, but you're going to have to get to the other side."

  Dahl climbed into the cab. The driver fired up the rig, and made a large, sweeping turn in the desert sand to re-enter the roadway. Five minutes later, they were at the freeway onramp to I-15. "You can get out here. Run across the overpass, and get on that freeway. He'll be here any minute. He won't wait for you."

  "Thanks so much."

  The sign was posted, no pedestrians or hitchhiking. Dahl however, could actually see the approaching truck in the distance. He raced down the onramp, scanning for police cars. The truck slowed, applied its turn signals, and pulled off to the side after the onramp. Dahl raced to the cab, and climbed inside.

  For some reason, he felt as if he was riding higher in the red cab-over tractor. He wasn't really, it's just that in front, there was nothing. It was like being on the second story of a double decker tour bus, except the driver was sitting on the left side, not down below.

  The red haired man was enormous. He double clutched the rig, and started cycling through the gears to attain some speed before merging back into the slow lane. "So you're goin' to Ridgecrest? What business you got there?"

  "I got friends there. Friends that will help me get a job."

  "Get a job. Yeah. We all need a job. I can't stand working at a job. I could never work a normal job. That's why I drive trucks," the driver drawled.

  "Looks like a lot of work." Dahl remarked.

  "I reckon, but it's only a lot of work when you're loading and unloading. Even then, that's not too much work. Usually someone else does that."