SAN FRANCISCO
SUNDAY, 28 SEPTEMBER 1997 4:12
a
.M. LOCAL
“Just like in the Cav, man. Locked and loaded. Ready to rock-and-roll and waste some motherfuckers.” Preston smiled, the gap between his middle teeth showing clearly. His skin glistened with sweat inside the stuffy interior of the van. He held up the AR-15 that Lake had modified three days earlier. “I hope we run into someone,” he continued. The rubber gloves he wore squeaked as he patted the weapon one more time.
“Not before we put the device in place,” Starry said. “Keep the operational priorities straight in your head, Preston.”
“Sure, Top, sure,” Preston said. “That’s cool.”
Lake was seated in one of the captain’s chairs in the back of the van, watching Starry work on the “device.” This was the first he’d seen of the machinery and he had a very good idea what it was: an industrial high-pressure paint sprayer. The problem was Lake didn’t know why they had it in the back of the van. He also didn’t know what the operational priorities were that Starry kept talking about. Lake’s initial job with the two had been acquiring and modifying their weapons. Now he was providing security.
Lake ran his hand along his AR-15. Actually, technically speaking, it could now be called an M-16 since he had modified the inner workings to allow the commercially sold single-shot assault rifle to be fired on full automatic. He also wore gloves. He’d been handed them before entering the van and that told him that whatever they were going to do was illegal since Starry didn’t want any prints left. Actually, Lake reminded himself, the fact that they had the automatic weapons in their hands already put them on the wrong side of the law, not that he had expected anything else. In fact, Lake would have been disappointed if his new partners had stayed inside the confines of the law.
He continued to watch as Starry carefully read instructions, completing the preparation of the sprayer. One thing Lake had learned in the past three weeks working with them was that although neither man would qualify as a rocket scientist, they were very thorough and well trained on security. They had never discussed their plans around Lake. They’d simply given him orders and told him when and where to be.
Lake knew they didn’t totally trust him, but they’d needed him for the guns after the ATF had raided a “Patriot” compound in Oregon last month and seized the weapons they had planned on using. And there had been Lake, three days later, attending a Patriot rally and letting it be known to a few of the people there that he had access to weapons. And five days later he’d been contacted by Starry at the cabin he’d been hiding out in the shadow of Mount Hood. And now he was in San Francisco. Lake knew that to Starry his presence and access to weapons was a fortunate coincidence. Lake also knew that in this business coincidences didn’t happen. He wasn’t quite sure how aware of that Starry was. Their lack of trust in revealing plans showed some degree of awareness.
They’d driven south from Oregon the previous day and stayed in a seedy motel in Novato, just north of the city. Peeking out the window of his room, Lake had watched Starry and Preston drive off in the van several hours ago and return just a few minutes ago. He’d jumped back in bed and pretended to be asleep when Preston had opened his door, telling him to grab his stuff and get ready to move.
Lake knew better than to ask too many questions. Paranoid didn’t quite apply to these people. When a person implicitly believed that the UN was going to take over the United States with the blessing of those in power in Washington, that person’s reasoning abilities were difficult to rationally analyze. Lake found that particular fear quite humorous. He’d personally seen that the UN couldn’t keep its own soldiers safe in Bosnia and other places around the globe, so how was it going to take over the United States? And why would it want to? But that larger reality was not the issue right now. This sprayer was the current reality that he had to keep his focus on.
Starry was done with the equipment. He was a big man. He didn’t say much about his past, but Lake guessed that he was a former noncommissioned officer in the army. The way Starry spoke made it seem like he’d been an officer but Lake could tell the difference. A wannabe. Lake had met many. Pretending to be something they’d never been. Maybe a platoon sergeant was Lake’s best guess as to Starry’s past. Preston’s calling him “Top” indicated he might even have been a first sergeant.
Lake did know that Preston had been a staff sergeant. That is until he’d let his little head do his thinking for him during a tour as a drill instructor at Fort Dix. It didn’t matter that the female trainee had been more than willing. Preston had had his career abruptly ended, and that was all his simple mind could focus on now. It just wasn’t fair! How many times had Lake heard that cry from people who had brought their own misfortune down on themselves? Preston was from the South, one of those who’d run away from the farm and found a pair of shoes and a home in the army, except he’d lost the latter and he really wasn’t trained or schooled to do anything else. He had reason to be mad at the government, or at least he felt he did.
Preston didn’t worry Lake. Starry was the one who was getting instructions from somewhere and had enough smarts to carry those instructions out. Lake knew the two didn’t think of this—whatever this was—on their own. The question for the past several weeks had been which would come first: finding out who was giving the orders or the arrival of orders precipitating an action that would force Lake’s hand. This morning it seemed the latter had come to pass.
Preston giggled as Starry opened a large, hard plastic case that had not been in the van on the drive down. The sprayer had been, but in pieces, hidden under a tarp that Lake hadn’t had the chance to investigate. One thing Lake had noted immediately was the small written label on the side of the machine:
made in japan.
Starry removed a large glass jug from the foam rubber interior of the case. Lake estimated the jug could hold about five gallons. The outside was painted bright red and had Japanese characters stenciled on it. The way he handled it told Lake that whatever was inside the glass scared Starry. That bothered Lake because he sensed Starry didn’t scare easy. Starry placed the jug onto a platform on the side of the sprayer, then levered down a steel hose that had a pointy spout until it rested just above the metal lid. He locked the jug in place, then suddenly looked up at Lake.
“You said you’re airborne qualified, right?”
“Eighty-deuce at Fort Bragg,” Lake replied. He mustered a semblance of enthusiasm. “Airborne all the way!”
Starry wasn’t impressed. “Uh-huh.” He flipped open the lid to another crate that Lake hadn’t been able to look into. “Here. Put this on.”
Lake stared at the MC-1B parachute that Starry had handed him. Even though he knew better, Lake had to ask. It would be too far out of character not to. “Are we going flying?”
“Just put the chute on. And this,” Starry added, handing him an inflatable set of water wings that would fit around the parachute rig.
Lake pulled out the waist strap of the parachute and unbuckled the leg and chest snaps. He checked the sizing on the harness. It was a large, which was fortunate because he knew from experience a medium would be a tight fit.
Lake was a big man, not so much in height—although he did top out at six feet, one inch—but in width. His shoulders were broad, his chest well muscled from daily workouts. His body didn’t taper into the waist, but just continued in straight lines down to his thick legs. His stomach was smooth and flat, not rippling with muscles like those male models who spent their life doing crunches in pretty gyms, but solid from time spent working in the outdoors. Lake was thirty-eight and his face indicated many of those years had been spent out in the elements—and not the gentle elements of California. His face was dark, the skin creased. Rough lines flowed from around his eyes, intersecting with those coming up from his mouth and jaw. His dark hair was cut short except for a small wave of curls in the back and liberally peppered with gray. His green eyes were the best feature in the beaten face.
As Lake shrugged the parachute rig over his shoulders, settling it in place, the bandana that he normally kept tied around his neck slipped, revealing old scar tissue encircling his throat like knotted red rope. Starry and Preston had seen the scar before and they hadn’t asked in the way that men avoided the uncertain obvious when gathered together. Not that Lake would have told them.
Starry walked behind Lake and reached. “Left leg,” he said, passing a strap between Lake’s legs. “Left leg,” Lake instinctively replied, taking the strap and hooking it in place. “Right leg.” They repeated the process.
“No reserve?” Lake asked as he squatted and pulled the straps as tight as he could make them.
Preston giggled again. “Won’t need one, man, if that main don’t open. Ain’t no time for a reserve.”
Lake ignored Preston, pulling the waistband tight and making sure he had a quick release in it. He put the water wings on and sat back down, watching Preston and Starry rig each other.
The scenario didn’t fit, and that bothered Lake. These two were still one step ahead of him. The chute indicated they were going up high. Lake ran through the options. They could go to an airfield and get on a plane, but then why had Starry already rigged the jar on the sprayer in the back of the van? Unless they would get on a plane after leaving the van and use that route to escape. Fly, put the plane on autopilot, jump, and let the plane crash. Not bad, Lake thought, but also not likely. It was too complicated and men like Starry and Preston needed simple plans.
There were places to jump from other than a plane, Lake knew. Maybe the Transamerica Pyramid in downtown San Francisco? But why the water wings then? San Francisco was surrounded on three sides by water, but even if they jumped off the top of the Pyramid, it was less than a thousand feet high. There would barely be time for the chutes to open, as Preston had indicated, never mind float over to the harbor.
And why were they rigging now? They certainly wouldn’t be inconspicuous getting to the top of a building wearing the parachutes. And again, Starry had already set up the sprayer in the van. And the Japanese angle, not just the label on the sprayer and jar, but Lake had seen a bilingual map—English and Japanese—of San Francisco in the front of the van. What was that for? Lake took the pieces he had: the van, the sprayer, the parachutes, the water wings, and slithered them through the recesses of his brain, trying to think nasty thoughts.
Then Lake had it. The whole plan was laid out in front of him in his mind, except of course for some of the details that would develop, but he knew exactly where they were going and pretty much what they would be doing. He still needed to know who was pulling the strings on this, though, and for that he would have to play it cool. Also, the Japanese angle didn’t quite fit, but that wasn’t important right now. Maybe somebody would let something slip.
“Passenger seat,” Starry ordered, pulling aside the curtain. Lake squeezed through and took the seat while Starry took the wheel. Preston remained in the back. Starry started the engine and they rolled out of the parking lot. Lake sat back and relaxed as much as the parachute on his back would allow as they turned onto Route 101 and headed south toward San Francisco.
It was early Sunday morning and they made good time, passing the last exit north of the Golden Gate Bridge at a quarter to five by Lake’s watch. There was no toll for southbound traffic and that explained why they’d stayed on the north side of the city last night.
Starry’s head was swiveling, checking the rearview mirror constantly, looking out and up through the open side window, as if he expected helicopters to be hovering overhead.
Starry was in the right lane and at exactly the midpoint of the bridge, 260 feet above the water; he stopped the van, and turned on the blinkers. “In the back,” he ordered Lake, who was not surprised in the least at this course of events.
Lake slid into the rear. He noted that Preston had already hooked his parachute static line into a large eyebolt in the roof of the van, just in front of the two back doors. Preston kicked the doors open and stepped out, weapon at the ready. “Hook up there and join Preston on security!” Starry yelled.
Lake did as he was ordered, slipping his static line hook over the eye bolt and insuring it slid shut, pushing the safety wire through the small hole in the hook and bending it over to make sure it couldn’t open. He carefully stepped out, making sure his static line wasn’t tangled, and joined Preston. A few cars drove past, but the drivers didn’t seem interested in checking out the van with two armed men standing behind it. Somebody might be making a cellular call to the cops, but they would take a while to respond. Too long, based on how quickly Starry was working.
Lake knew Preston and he were here on the off chance a police car happened by. But he knew that wasn’t going to happen. He glanced behind. Starry was extending the large nozzle of the sprayer up and out, over their heads, tilted toward the center of downtown San Francisco two miles to the southeast.
As Starry reached over and lowered the pointy spout to puncture the metal top of the glass jar, Lake shot him with the M-16, the high velocity bullet entering in a tiny black dot squarely between Starry’s eyes, and taking with it most of the back of his skull on the way out along with assorted brain matter and blood.
“What the fuck—” Preston began as he spun about.
Lake used his left hand to simply snatch Preston’s AR-15 right out of his hand just like a drill sergeant would take a rifle out of a trainee’s hands for inspection, which Lake found ironic as he tossed the weapon into the rear of the van on top of Starry’s body. Preston’s AR-15 wouldn’t have fired anyway, as Starry’s wouldn’t have, but Lake didn’t have time to play around. He jammed the muzzle of his own weapon into the soft spot under Preston’s jaw, twisting about so that the back of Preston’s legs were against the bumper of the van.