SECTION FOURTEEN


Entry #0106: Plotting Out a Plan
06-29-2009

I poured us fresh hot coffee from the pot. I knew we had to plan some kind of plot to nab those two goons. So Mike and I had to put our heads together.

 

Mike gingerly sipped his steaming coffee, and replied “I have clues that our two agents may have killed a couple of individuals.”

 

"Seriously?" That halted my first sip.

 

"Yes. A couple weeks ago, according to other Foundation agents, our two suspects drove down to Barstow for one of their mission objectives.  Obviously their superiors sent them on a brief assignment.”

 

I piped up, “That explains why they left Mulvern for a while. I wondered where they went.”

 

Mike nodded, “Right. Now, two residents in Barstow mysteriously disappeared.  They were collaborating online journalists writing the same kind of conspiracy subject matter that you put in your blogs and e-zines.”

 

I chuckled, “Damn. I reckon I’m not as unique as I thought.”

 

 Ignoring my silly comment, he went on, “Unfortunately, our surveilling operatives lost track of the two Group agents, so they couldn't ascertain exactly what happened. Except that the two journalists disappeared without a trace. Soon after the disappearance, evidently the same two agents returned to the Mulvern area, and back to the L and M Motel. It's obvious to us that these two writers were either kidnapped or killed. But we haven't got enough evidence to prove anything."

 

I surmised, "I take it your plan is to prove they committed a crime, possibly murder, so

the authorities can arrest them."

 

"In a nutshell.  But without that, we don’t have much of a plan."

 

“So, accusing those two goons of being co-conspirators with a secret global-takeover conglomerate wouldn’t hold water,” I smiled my facetiousness, then took a sip of my coffee.

 

“No – they’d throw us in some dark asylum for saying that,” he grinned, then sipped his coffee.

 

I nodded, “I know the feeling. Anyway, if it was murder, there would be two bodies stashed somewhere."

 

"We're pretty sure we're looking at murder one.  Considering we’re in the wide open desert, those goons probably buried the bodies out in the middle of nowhere. Hundreds of miles of nowhere."

 

"That sucks."

 

"Our operatives are scouring the land between Barstow and Mulvern, but so far, they’ve found nothing."

 

I shook my head.  "It seems hopeless."

 

"The only other plan would be to capture them and interrogate them to see if we can make them crack like walnuts."

 

"You think that’ll work?"

 

Mike shrugged, "Those guys are tough, so it's hard to tell."

 

"I suggest we put them in separate rooms, interrogate them separately. Being apart should weaken them. Maybe tell one that the other is confessing. Then see how he responds."

Mike frowned, "You’ve seen too many cop shows, haven't you?"

 

"Yeah," I shrugged.

 

"But that's what we do anyway.  Normally, I’m supposed to call a special interrogator. I’m no interrogation expert, but in a pinch, I can pull my weight."

 

"Alright.  Sounds like we’ve got a good enough plan."

 

Mike stood up. "Get a good night’s sleep.  We're going hunting tomorrow."


Article: Big Brother and the Secret Cold War: Part Two; Searching for the Identity of Big Brother


Entry #0107: Interrogating One of the Goons
07-01-2009

As I sit here at my computer in my station of operations, remembering the hair-razing events that took place just yesterday, narrowly escaping death for one thing, I’m preparing to log down in this blog exactly what happened. For one day it was a lot of excitement, so here’s what happened.

 

Mike and I got into his rusty Ford truck early that morning, around 6:30 am. We had warm black coffee and energy bars on the go – no time for a real breakfast. After we got off of the winding dirt roads of the vast vicinity of cabins, we drove down Mesa Rd, heading north toward Mulvern. After a couple miles, we turned left onto Foothill Rd, then right onto Trading Post Rd. Then down to Mulvern Ave. We headed west, toward the edge of town. Just before the Rocket Station about a half-mile was the L and M Motel. The black van was parked out front. If we had waited too long, they would have left most likely. For breakfast somewhere or their usual snooping around. We parked by the little brick co-op building across the street, then got out.  I had my shotgun, and Mike had a .44 Magnum.

 

I ventured, "We’re just gonna barge in on them?"     

 

Mike replied, "Sometimes you have to be spontaneous in these matters." 

 

It happened very fast.  We crossed the street and walked swiftly over to the door the van was parked in front of.  There were only two other cars which meant all the other rooms were vacant. There weren't a lot of visitors in Mulvern. It was too small of a town. But since a light came from this one room, we knew someone was inside.

Mike pounded his fist on the door and hollered, "Open up!"  Evidently he didn’t know the meaning of the word stealthy.

 

Nothing happened.    

 

Mike tested the knob, and it was locked.  He lifted his booted foot and slammed it against the door a few times, weakening it.  He slammed it three more times and the door gave, ripping off the hinges. Mike leaped inside, aiming his .44 Magnum.  There was a tall slim man coming out of the bathroom.  He had just gotten his black slacks and white shirt on.

I lifted my shotgun and pointed it at him -- more for effect than anything else. Mike aimed his .44 Magnum at the guy’s chest.

 

"What's the meaning of this?" the man demanded. "Who are you?"

 

Mike barked, "Stop playing dumb. You know who I represent."

 

"I don't know what you're talking about."

 

"No time for games.  I know who you work for. Now where's your partner?"  Mike demanded.

 

"Out buying breakfast." The man’s shoulders slumped. Perhaps he wasn’t used to being on this side of the gun barrel.

 

"Where?"        

 

"Some donut shop just down the street."

 

“Betty’s Pastry,” I clarified. "Just a block from here."

 

Mike barked at the man, "How long ago did he leave?"

 

"Just a couple minutes ago."

 

"Good."

 

I knew Mike was being spontaneous, but clearly he intended to interrogate this guy.

 

"Sit in that chair and don't move." Mike pointed his gun at the chair near the curtained window. The man sat down.  I noticed a shoulder holster with gun laying on the far bedside table, out of reach from the man now – and he even glanced sidelong over toward it, wishing he could just grab it.

 

“If you try for your gun, you’ll get a bullet in the head before you reach it,” Mike growled. I knew he was just trying to sound scary – hoping he didn’t actually intend to do what he said – if worse came to worse.

 

The man remained silent, and remained seated.

 

Mike snapped, "Where's the bodies?"

 

The man shrugged, "What bodies?"

 

"I said no more games! I know you kidnapped two journalists from Barstow."

 

The man shook his head.  "We did no such thing."

 

"Stop lying!"  He put the gun to the man’s head.

 

"You obviously don't understand how we operate," the man replied, and I swear I saw the corner of his lip turn up -- a vague smile of sorts.

 

"Oh yeah? Enlighten me." Mike stepped back a tad, pulling his gun back away from the man’s head, giving him the chance to speak.

 

"My partner and I didn't kill anyone.  We're completely innocent."

 

"Oh, I get it.  Two of your buddies did the killing, but it was up to you to bury the bodies. Accessory to the crime.  You're still guilty as hell!"

 

The man did not respond, but Mike was sure he hit the nail on the head.

 

Suddenly, a submachine gun blasted a barrage of bullets through the front window!


Article: Big Brother and the Secret Cold War: Part Three; The Manipulation of our Minds


Entry #0108: Narrowly Escaping Death
07-03-2009

The shooter was aiming high. Clearly, the second man just wanted to scare us, and of course, he also didn’t want to shoot his partner. Mike and I ducked down. But as the other man reached for his gun, Mike knocked him on the head with the butt of his Magnum. He collapsed to the floor, but not quite out cold, just dazed. As another volley of machinegun bullets blazed through the air, Mike grabbed my arm and hauled me to the back, through a short hall, where we came to a rear door.

 

“Let’s get out of here!” Mike shot.

 

I asked, "Giving up so soon?"

 

"I didn’t come here to die."

 

As the second agent entered the room through the front door, shooting another volley of ammo toward us, we exited through the back door and scurried outside. We ran around the length of the old motel, over to the front side, crossed the street, and got into the Ford truck and peeled out of there, into the west.  It didn't take long before the two agents got in their black van and started following us.


Article: Big Brother and the Secret Cold War: Part Four; The Drugging Down of America


Entry #0109: In Hot Pursuit Out of Town
07-06-2009

In Mike’s rusted-out truck we tore down the main avenue as it turned into Highway 18, passing the old Rocket Station, leaving Mulvern.

 

I demanded, "What the hell are we doing?"

 

Mike replied, "Plan B."

 

"Great.  Since Plan A failed hideously."

 

"We’ll go to Dead Man's Point and box ‘em in."

 

"Wonderful.  As we shoot at them, they'll shoot back. Great plan."

 

"If all else fails, I have several high-impact grenades under my seat."

 

"You mean, blow them to smithereens?  Commit murder?"

 

"I said, if all else fails."

 

I shook my head and sighed. Then I remarked, "How long have you been a field agent?"

 

"Several years.  But usually I do surveillance work, stakeouts, that kind of thing."

 

"So you're idiotic Arnold Schwarzenegger impersonation back there wasn't your usual scenario."

 

"I did something like that last year, and scared the living crap out of an enemy agent. I figured it would work again."

 

"Well, at least you’ve proven you’re not perfect."

 

He just chuckled.

 

Going westbound on Highway 18, we went 60 mph, outside of town, where there were mostly farm plots amidst wide open desert, but the black van pursuing us all the way. Soon we sped through the Mascovi Dry Lake which stretched for at least two miles.  Soon we approached that large pile of boulders known as Dead Man's Point. The whole pile covered at least three acres, and a person could get lost climbing around in them. 

 

Then I noticed something coming from the north. Since I was on the passenger side, I saw it first, while Mike was concentrating on the road. A large brown dust cloud rumbled over the low foothills, heading right toward us. It was about four miles away, but it wouldn't take long to reach us.

 

"Mike, look!"  I pointed.

 

He looked, and his eyes got wide as he exclaimed, “Holy crap!


Article: Big Brother and the Secret Cold War: Part Five; Spies and Conspiracies are no Surprise


Sandstorm

Entry #0110: Sandstorm at Dead Man's Point
07-08-2009

Although at the eastside of Dead Man’s Point, there used to be an old mock ghost town, long since torn down, nothing but a sandy clearing remained in front of the larger up-jutting of big rocks and boulders. As we drew closer to Dead Man’s Point, the sandstorm also drew closer from the north.

 

"I think our plans have changed," I warned.

 

"Surely that thing will come and pass. No big deal," Mike shrugged.

 

"You may be a highly classified intelligence agent with fabulous top-notch secrets, but you're no desert rat.  That sandstorm can kill. People have been found dead after these sandstorms hit."

 

"Really?" Mike looked surprised.

 

"I was raised here.  I know. The whole freaking desert was my backyard.”

 

“Okay, your right. This is your department now.”

 

“Alright. Finding shelter is a priority. So our only hope is to find a deep cave in these boulders and stay hidden."

 

"And what about our two goons back there?"

 

"They'll have to fend for themselves.  If they're clueless like you, they'll think it's ‘no big deal.’"

 

“What if they die because of it?” Mike smiled firmly.

 

I sighed, “I hope not. If they’re smart, they’ll roll up their windows – and hope for the best.”

 

 We drove off the highway and into the boxed-canyon of sorts that the huge boulders formed, where that ghost town used to be. Mike shut off the engine, we rolled up all the windows, air-tight, closed the doors, and we ran out of the truck as the harsh dusty wind began blasting at us from the north as we hurriedly climbed the large rocks.

 

I said, “As a kid, I used to climb around on these, sometimes with my big brother, or some friends sometimes. I think I remember a certain cave we can be safe in.”

 

“I hope so.”

 

The dusty brown wind whooshed around us, and picked up strength as the head of the big cloud shortly hit us. It sounded like a hideous raging banshee out to kill us, and it tried to knock us off the boulders as we climbed over them.

 

“Hang on!” I hollered.

 

He said something, probably “What?” but I wasn’t sure. We couldn’t hear each other now. The sand-filled wind screamed at us horrendously.

 

I pulled my shirt up over most of my face, closing my mouth and eyes, but although I wore my sunglasses, which didn’t help much, I had to make my eyes mere slits to try seeing where I was going, although sand still got in my eyes.

 

I hoped those goons rolled their windows up – if they had any smarts at all. Mike and I blindly climbed through the boulders, mostly in between them so the powerful wind wouldn’t hurl us into the open air. 

 

I had to go by sheer memory to find the cave I remembered. I grabbed Mikes arm and dragged him along. Soon we climbed down into a narrow crevasse, then into a long dark cave, which curved around somewhat, and we went as far back into it as possible. It was dim, but not too dark. . Dust still whooshed through the cave entrance, but where we stopped was safe enough. Mike coughed and rubbed his eye, and swore a lot.

 

I warned, “You should’ve closed your eyes and mouth.”

 

“Why didn’t you f$#@ing tell me that back then?” Clearly he was mad.

 

“I figured it’s common sense. Besides, you couldn’t’ve heard me anyway.”

 

He rubbed his eyes and spat sand out of his mouth. So did I, but I didn’t get it as badly.

 

So all we could do was wait out the raging sandstorm. I wondered how those two goons in their black van fared. Would we find them dead afterwards? A shudder ran up my spine.


Article: Big Brother and the Secret Cold War: Part Six; Big Brother Knows All and Sees All


Sandstorm

Entry #0111: Waiting Out the Sandstorm
07-10-2009

We heard the raging wind outside the cave, not letting up one iota yet. We had no idea what became of the two strangers in the van.  I could only hope and pray they survived.

There was nothing we could do right now, except talk, until the sandstorm subsided.

So I asked him, “So, did the Group only send the two agents after me – or are there others snooping around out there somewhere?”

 

Mike replied, “Why? Do you think your crazy ruckus deserves a whole army to come after you?”

 

I shrugged my shoulders, “Not really.”

 

“Considering other journalists and a few whistleblowers are spilling the beans to the public too, you’re not the only one they’re after.”

 

“I know that. And speaking of whistleblowers, one mysterious fellow contacted me by e-mail who claimed to be a defector of a particular faction of the Group, that being the Armageddon Initiative, I’m pretty sure. Gave me vital information, but then he disappeared.  I suspect his own agents got him.”

 

Mike shook his head. “If he was truly a defector, if they caught him, they would kill him.”

 

I sighed in despair. “I was afraid of that.”

 

“It’s not your fault.  There was nothing you could do.”

 

“But if they could easily kill him, wouldn’t they kill me for proliferating the same kind of information?”

 

After a pause, he said gravely, “Yes, they would. And don’t forget the two dead journalists from Barstow. And I’ve gotta find out where their bodies are.”

 

“Why haven’t they caught me and . . . killed me yet?”

 

“Obviously their orders were to observe you for now, once they found you. But when they receive orders to kill you, then they act. And who knows, that may be their intention today.”

 

“Why do you say that?”

 

“Just a hunch. But they don’t usually bring out the heavy artillery until they get their orders.  That one agent had a submachine gun that could blow our heads clean off.”

 

I chuckled weakly, “I’m glad our heads are still attached.”

 

“Once this damn sandstorm passes, we have to act quickly and seize those two agents – if they survived. I’ve got rope in my pickup to tie them up.”

 

“But we don’t have any proof of murder – not to mention the two bodies. And if it's true that two other agents killed the journalists, I'd say they're the ones we want."

 

"Matters do get complicated sometimes."

"So, what are we gonna do then?"

 

“We’ll improvise.”

 

“You mean figure something out when the time comes.”

 

Mike laughed, “Yeah, like Indiana Jones, we’ll make it up as we go along.”

 

I shook my head and sighed. “In the real world I don’t think it works the way it does for all those Clint Eastwood types, or any other heroes.”

 

“Actually, I’ve been a fan of James Bond for many years. The intrigue, espionage, the gadgets, the women, all that crap, you know.”

 

“That figures.”

 

Soon the wailing sand-laden wind died down.  The sandstorm had passed, so I figured it was about time for us to take a look outside.


Article: Big Brother and the Secret Cold War: Part Seven; Rule by Martial Law


Entry #0112: Rescuing the Bad Guys
07-13-2009

My first thought was to make sure the two agents were alive, assuming they rolled their windows up. Considering they had been behind us in pursuit, there was no way they could’ve reached the boulders in time to duck for safety. Mike and I did only because we were ahead of them and closer to the safety of the boulders.

 

I said, “I’m concerned about those two goons.”

 

Mike snarled, “Why? If they’re dead, our problem is solved.”

 

I snapped, “If they’re dead, it’ll be on my conscience – which I guess you lack.”

 

“Hey, I’m a hardened agent, trained to be cold-hearted,” he grinned.

 

I shook my head. “If they’re alive, we gotta have a plan.”

 

“Like I said, we’ll improvise.”

 

“Yeah, right.”


"Let’s go.”

 

Mike and I left the cave and climbed down the sand covered boulders. A fine film of sand enshrouded the whole terrain, all the greasewood, the Joshuas, the cholla, everything, especially the long stretch of highway, which looked like a dirt road now.  What a grim irony.  We had ducked for cover here against the deadly sandstorm, in a place named after some anonymous dead man.

 

I noticed that Mike’s truck was enveloped with the tan film too, but thankfully we had rolled up all the windows.  I saw the van a couple hundred feet beyond, which had pulled off the highway and stopped, but it was covered with a tan film, a foot-high mound on top, and covered to just above the tires in sand. I also observed that the driver’s side window wasn’t fully rolled up. That wasn’t good. I leaped from boulder to boulder, then jumped from a stout boulder and onto the ground and sprinted toward the buried vehicle, Mike fast behind me.

 

I exclaimed, “We’ve gotta rescue them, Mike!”

 

“I’ve got a shovel in back,” he said as he headed for his truck. “Uh, if I can dig it out.”

 

“No time.  We’ll use our hands. They may suffocate to death if we don’t hurry.”

 

The two agents had tried to roll up their windows, but not fast enough.  The driver’s side had a two inch gap where the sand had spilled through, and the passenger side had about a six inch gap. We both pulled away the heavy sand from the bottom half of the van doors. Mike opened the passenger-side door, and I opened the driver’s side, and sand came spilling out that had risen to their waists. But their bodies and faces were covered with thick sand that had filled the air of the cab, then settled upon them, and got in their eyes, mouths, and nostrils, possibly suffocating them, since they lay still.

 

We dragged them out and laid them flat on the ground. Fortunately, the driver regained consciousness and began coughing and spitting and snorting out dirt, but Mike had to use CPR on other agent, not an easy task since he must’ve swallowed some sand, hopefully not a dangerous amount, because soon he was coughing and spitting and snorting it of his nose too.

 

Mike ran to his truck, opened it and grabbed a plastic gallon jug of water, and ran back to the two survivors.  He let them drink as much water as they wanted to clear their throats. They gasped and panted and coughed as they sat up now.

 

Light brown dust covered their black clothes – and I thought to myself, they weren’t ominous men in black anymore. They were simply survivors of a deadly sandstorm.

 

The man who was the driver looked at us and asked, “Why did you save us?”

 

Mike replied coldly, “We need you alive if I’m going to properly charge you.” And with that he pulled out his .44 Magnum from the back of his pants and pointed it at them.


Article: Big Brother and the Secret Cold War: Part Eight; In Conclusion


Entry #0113: Conversing with the Enemy
07-15-2009

Aiming his gun, and while the two black-suited men were still somewhat dazed, with his other hand he reached over and grabbed their guns from their side holsters inside their jackets, tossing them far afield, one by one, into some greasewood bushes.

 

With my elbow I nudged his arm sharply. But to them I said, “We don’t need to be at odds with each other. I’m not gonna stand around and let somebody die on me. We all just survived a damn sandstorm that could’ve killed us.”

 

Mike added, “Yeah, you both could’ve suffocated to death.”

 

The two goons sat on the ground, recovering from nearly dying in the sandstorm, while

Mike continued pointing his gun at them.

 

The van driver shook his head, saying, “I’ve never seen anything like this! One hell of a sandstorm! I thought we were gonners!”

 

The fellow that was on the passenger side said, “Yeah. I saw my whole life pass before my eyes – and I just realized I’ve been wasting my time.”

 

The other agent agreed, “You’re right. This job isn’t worth dying for. We’re just low-level agents, taking crappy orders and doing all the dirty work.”

 

The first one said, “Normally we just do stakeouts or simple surveillance routines. Grunt work.” 

 

Mike chuckled, “That’s all I usually do, pal.”

 

The agent mumbled, “Birds of a feather . . .”

 

“Yeah, but just on different sides of the fence.” Mike kept his gun on them, but it had lowered slightly.

 

I asked them their names, which they said they couldn’t reveal, but at least they gave us their codenames: the driver was Bob and his partner was Bill.  Go figure.

 

So Bob commented, “I’ve been getting tired of this job anyway, waiting for something to happen to give us an excuse to quite. I think we found it.”

 

Bill added, “Yes, we talked about this before, and it’s high time we get out of this racket.”

 

Looking directly at me, Bob said, “We were hired to do menial grunt work. Nothing that required a higher classification. We’re not even sure why we were ordered to find and pursue you. They never told us. There are a lot of lower-level agents that are disgruntled with the outfit’s method of operations, doing nothing but dirty work.  A few have quit, but their lives are made a living hell because of it – and sometimes they’re executed.  I know, because I've had to do it a few times myself. So we’re stuck between a rock and a hard place. I’ve wanted to defect, yet if I refuse to whack a defector, I’ll get whacked myself.”

 

I commented, “That really sucks.”

 

Mike snapped, “Well, that’s too damn bad.”

 

Bill said, “They tell us to do pointless missions which often leads to risking our lives. We might as well jump off a cliff and end it."

 

Mike said, “I almost sympathize with you two. But your tasks have been criminal in

nature. Not to mention, the Group you work for is my immediate enemy.”

 

I remarked to Mike, “They don’t just work for the Group as a whole, I don’t think. They’re particular outfit is the Armageddon Initiative.”

 

Both agents turned pale, and failed to hide their surprise.

 

I turned to them and shot curtly, “Isn’t that right, boys?”

 

Bob replied stiffly, “I'm not at liberty to say.”

 

Shaking his head, Bill said, “It doesn’t matter anymore. I’m finished with this damn racket. But I’m hoping we can make some kind of deal with you fellows.”

 

Mike laughed, waving his Magnum at them. “A deal? With criminals? You’re out of your freaking minds!”




Entry #0114: The Deal
07-17-2009

Bill continued, “Let me explain. If our job was to succeed, you would both be executed. Yesterday our superiors gave us orders to this effect. Frankly, I can’t kill anyone who saved my life. But when our superiors find out you two are not dead, we will be held accountable, and they will send other agents to come after us – to execute us. Then, they'll come after you. That’s the way the game is played.”

 

Bob added, looking up at me, “Mr. Stark, as long as you’re alive, more agents will come after you and try to kill you. You too, Mr. Smith.”

 

I probably don’t need to mention, but I figured that although they knew my pseudonym, they hopefully didn't know my real name yet. I wasn’t surprised they knew Mike’s name either. If that was his real name. Most likely it wasn’t.

 

I nodded. “Alright, I’m listening. What kind of deal are you offering?”

 

Mike grumbled, “Whatever it is, it’s not worth it.”

 

Bill laid it out now, “The plan is this. We arrange a scenario where it appears you two died, say in a burning car, which we will report to our superiors. We’ll say we fired a grenade launcher at your vehicle while we were in pursuit."

 

Just humoring them, Mike asked, "And how will that look convincing to them?"

 

Bob replied, “We’re experts at this kind of thing. That’s why. If other agents check it out, it’ll appear exactly as we set it up.”

 

I asked, “Fine, but since we just had a violent sandstorm, death by suffocation would look good, wouldn’t it?”

 

“Completely burnt bodies are harder to identify,” Bill clarified.

 

“Oh, that’s right,” I shrugged.

 

Mike grinned, because I suspected he had a feeling that a missing puzzle piece was about to surface, as he said icily, “This crazy scheme won’t work unless you can come up with, oh, let’s say, two lifeless bodies. Right?”

 

Bill replied, “That’s right. We’ll plant two corpses, switch dental records, you know, the usual.  We've done this before, so leave it up to us and don't worry about the gory details.”

 

Mike snarled, “Oh, you mean those two dead journalists from Barstow?” He aimed the gun in their direction, emphasizing his point.


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