PROLOGUE
(Highway 36, Tooele, Utah, five years ago)
A desert carpeted with caskets.
If Jigsaw
Hannigan had any literary or poetic pretensions, that’s how he would’ve likened
it. Actually, the caskets were the countless storage magazines, or igloos, that
spouted outside the main gate of the Tooele Chemical Agent Disposal Facility
just off Utah Highway 36. Even more arresting was the mountain range many miles
beyond that.
Sacrifices
to Echtghe, the Irish Mountain goddess, worshipped by his blue-faced ancestors
who ran howling through the woods of ancient Hibernia.
Timothy
“Jigsaw” Hannigan, his brother Seamus, O’Leary, Ditch and Brigit were camped
out on Highway 36 between the Tooele facility and the Dugway Proving Grounds.
In spite of the chill of the approaching night, moist half-moons had formed
under Jigsaw’s arms and his blue denim shirt dug into his armpits. The black
road unspooled into the mountains like errant videotape and Jigsaw looked down
it for headlights before thumbing the talk button of his walkie-talkie.
“All clear
on Victor Xavier.” Translation: No sign of the transport.
“Keep your
eyes peeled, Jig.”
Yeah, no
shit. Why d’ye think I’m freezing me stones off in this Godforsaken wasteland?
Sitting
uncomfortably on the undercarriage of a ’92 Mercury Sable, Jigsaw lit a
Woodbine cigarette and looked for his brother Seamus, who was camped with the
rest behind a rare and handy dune beside the road. The tan tarp over the 25-foot
lorry also camouflaged them from the eventually oncoming Army semi. The plan
was disturbingly simple, bordering on the simple-minded. In fact, Jigsaw had
almost accused his sibling of cribbing the harebrained scheme from any of three
dozen cheap American action movies. Fake an engine failure, make skid marks
across the highway, then flag down the driver as they approached the stolen car
that they’d deliberately overturned. The only thing missing was Scarlett
Johansen flashing her thighs.
He let his
mind play with that visual for a minute as he sat watching the necrotic sky
deepen from purple to black, enjoying what might be his last smoke.
Seamus had
promised that once the truck had halted they didn’t need the drivers to get
out, which was probably a violation of their protocol, anyway. All they needed
were clean head shots from the dunes. Jigsaw would’ve preferred tranqs but he
was sure that the windows would remain rolled up and bullets would penetrate
much better than darts.
Pity.
All in all,
Jigsaw would rather be building fieldstone walls in their hometown of Belfast.
Even while fighting shoulder to shoulder with his brother against the loyalist
forces, his real heart lie in masonry. There was something deeply satisfying in
the puzzle-like nature of the oldest form of that profession, in fitting the
right stones in the right places and making an even, flat surface with
capstones. He never used mortar. Mortar was for idiots who weren’t possessed of
the abilities or the patience to jigsaw the proper stones together. And, to his
jigsaw mind, this plan stank worse than month-old haggis. Seamus hadn’t seemed
to take into account the soldiers inside the transport might immediately draw
their guns or at least think it suspicious that a civilian vehicle was on a
highway used primarily, if not exclusively, by the U.S. Army Materiel Command.
Jigsaw
ground his cigarette into the asphalt and checked the highway again. He
pictured the transport moving through the night, the light from its headlamps
splashing the desert road, its Army occupants talking about baseball, their
last sexual conquest, anything but the load of chemical nerve agent named VX
riding ten feet off their asses. VX killed in fifteen minutes and all it took
was a little blob the size of a quarter to knock off a man. It stayed deadly in
open air for a week. A smear on a leaf was all that was needed to spread it.
The locals were nervous about the outdated munitions heading to Tooele for
incineration since over 6000 sheep had been accidentally killed by VX in 1968.
It was a damned-if-you-do, damned-if-you-don’t situation when you considered
the alternative. The VX had to be moved. It was contained in outdated munitions
that had to be handled by civilian safety engineers or qualified Army hazmat
teams wearing moon suits.
There wasn’t
much chance of mistaking for a civilian vehicle the transport that would be
carrying the nerve agents. This particular highway had been all but reserved
for use by the Army on their various milk runs. However, his brother had found
that in order to not call attention to their payload, the semi wouldn’t be
accompanied by MP jeeps. According to the disposal schedule, the warheads
should be coming down the road any minute.
Jigsaw
thought about using the walkie-talkie again but caught himself. There was
nothing to report but the sound of the night life of the desert beginning to
stir. He knew what Seamus would say if any doubts were voiced. Instead, he
focused on a tiny moving object that just caught his eye. The lizard skittered
across 36 then froze perfectly, its mouth wide open. Even in the deepening
gloom, Jigsaw could see that the lizard’s claws were gripping the tarmac as if
preparing to be dislodged by some irresistible force. This reminded him of a
poem he’d read in middle school by a Yank who’d written about a lizard at a
nuclear bomb-testing site but he couldn’t recall the poet’s name. Did the
lizard sense something in the wind that even Seamus couldn’t?
Not to worry,
he’d say. And he’d say it again for emphasis. Mum always half-seriously
considered Seamus the idiot of the two while they were growing up in Belfast.
Timothy was astounded that the two of them shared the same DNA.
Yeah an’
who’s the idiot now? It’s me in the line of fire with fake blood on my forehead
like it’s fuckin’ Halloween while Seamus is safe behind the dunes.
Earlier,
Jigsaw had taken his Glock 25 and bashed the inside of the windshield to
simulate a head trauma. If Seamus had any other reason for pulling off this
stunt than the one he had, Jigsaw would’ve told him to take a flying leap in a
pint of Guinness. But family is family, after all.
Headlights,
about five miles down. The transport had left Dugway right on schedule.
“Possible
visual confirmed on Victor Xavier.”
“Roger that.
Get in position.”
“Yeah,
yeah.”
The desert
was already colder than the Reaper’s nut sack and he hoped that the potholed
asphalt was warmer. Leaving the binoculars and walkie-talkies in the overturned
car, he obligingly stretched out on Highway 36 and remembered with a start that
he’d forgotten to ask Seamus if Army protocol allowed stopping for a human or
turning him into road pizza.
Ah, shit,
I’m gonna kill you if this fuckin’ lorry doesn’t get me first. Watch me get
bitten on the arse by a rattlesnake or whatever else they have out here.
Still, he
had to admit, this was the most vulnerable the munitions would ever be. Back in
Ireland, they’d quickly ruled out entry in either facility. As good as Seamus’
IRA intelligence-gathering was, they hadn’t a chance of getting inside, even
though official reports had chided the base and others like it with sloppy
security. Sneaking in and shooting their way out was problematic, at best, but
you had to be careful with this shit. They’d been able to “appropriate” VX
antidote kits sold to and stored in an area hospital, the cocktail of three
chemicals needed to counteract the effects of the nerve agent. But Jigsaw
wasn’t sure if he could trust his brother or anyone in his motley crew to
inject him in the right place at the right time if worse came to worst and he
wasn’t very enthusiastic about field testing it.
Propping his
head up in his right hand, elbow resting on the road that was still radiating
leftover heat from the sun, Jigsaw watched the headlights of the truck grow
larger. His stomach got tighter by the second. A chill grabbed hold of his
spine, like Death’s fist had wrapped around his tailbone and was traveling
north.
The
contingency plan was to shoot out the tires if it didn’t look as if they’d stop
and Jigsaw couldn’t roll out of the way in time. It was always good to have a
contingency plan but this one was hairy. There’d be no telling where the
transport would end up. What was the stopping distance of a semi traveling 70
mph, with its wheel rims suddenly scraping asphalt? The thought of the truck
turning over on him was chased from his mind by an equally grim one: If there
was an accident and VX was released, he had fifteen minutes to make his peace
with God. Considering the company he kept, he figured it would take a lot
longer than that.
When the
truck looked as if it was a mile away, he nervously looked to the dune on the
south-bound side of Highway 36 and hoped his brother and their chums brought
their “A” game tonight. Peter O’Toole never prepared for a role as much as they
did. But the missing piece was what was bothering him, the X factor. What would
the soldiers do?
The lights
began lapping over Timothy’s now-prostrate form as the truck climbed the last
rise. He anxiously waited for the sound of the pneumatic brakes and his
breathing got quicker and shallower when he didn’t hear them. The wind, sweeping
down the highway, hit his damp shirt and he shivered. The lights got more
intense and he coiled his muscles to spring out of the way. Out of the corner
of his eye, he could see the lizard opting for the more discreet form of valor
and it daffily scampered into the dunes. At least someone here had some
common fucking sense.
The hard
part was lying still.
C’mon,
stop, you assholes.
Finally,
just as the roar of the diesel engine and the eighteen wheels began to shake
the asphalt, his nervous patience was rewarded by the low-pitched whine of the
air brakes being engaged. He lifted his head and the grillwork of the semi
blotted out the dark sky. He got up and began staggering to the truck, just as
the script called for.
“That’s far
enough! You’ll have to move your car, sir.”
Jigsaw
continued stumbling toward the man, dabbing at the fake blood on his forehead.
“I lost
control of my car,” he said in his best Yank accent, “and I hit my head on the
windshield. Damn coyote. Should’ve run it into the ground. Shit!”
“You’ll
still have to move your vehicle, sir. You’re impeding official Army business.”
The soldier, who looked all of twelve years old and whose Midwestern
accent practically guaranteed that he
still had cow shit between his toes, opened the window all the way so he could
be heard. “We can call you an ambulance if need be but you’ll have to move your
vehicle.” Jigsaw looked behind him at the upside down sedan and back with a wry
look at the boys playing soldier. So far, the plan was working perfectly. They
couldn’t simply drive around the wreck without turning into the dunes and
Seamus was counting on them being smart enough to know they’d get stuck in the
sand trap.
“That’s the
problem, soldier boy. It’s dead. Like you and your boyfriend.”
The young
soldier knit his brows. He looked in the direction of the dune and the muzzle
flash was the last thing he saw.
Jigsaw
pulled out his Glock 25, steadied himself with a deep breath and squeezed off
two rounds into the passenger side. Both soldiers were still, slumped in their
seats. The dune disgorged the rest of the band and Seamus rejoined his brother.
“See? No
problems, just as the Aussies say.”
“Let’s get
this over with.” Jigsaw stepped away. He didn’t want his brother to see that
his hands were still shaking. That truck had come close. The heat of its engine
felt like a dragon’s breath.
“They’re over
here,” announced Ditch and all five walked to the passenger side.
Switching on
powerful halogen flashlights, Seamus and his five accomplices began sliding out
what they came all the way from Ireland for. The munitions were loaded into
various-sized slots like bottles of spring water. There were 4.2 inch
cartridges, 155 mm warheads, 750 pound bombs, 55 mm rockets. The only munitions
the plane hidden in a hangar at the Salt Flats could handle were the M56 rocket
warheads, which weighed a mere ten pounds apiece. Each warhead carried enough
VX to decimate half a small city or a very big township.
Small but
deadly, like desert scorpions.
They already
had access, through Seamus’ gun-running connections, the M56 rocket launchers,
as well as to more conventional munitions. But mere M56 grenades weren’t enough
for what Seamus had in mind this time. After they secured ten of the outdated
warheads, Seamus signaled his people into the seemingly abandoned box truck.
A muffled
crack and the sharper sound of glass being shattered, and all Jigsaw felt was a
sting in his back. Blood began soaking his chest, which looked alternately
black and red in the truck’s headlights. The strength in his legs failed and he
dropped to his knees. He got out two words: “I’m hit.”
He saw his
brother turn and take aim at the truck. Evidently Jigsaw’s hand hadn’t been
steady enough to do the job right on the passenger. He knew what Seamus would
say.
Always
got to fight your battles for you, isn’t that right?
Darkness
crept into the edge of Jigsaw’s vision and the desert night opened its arms to
him. The last thing he thought of was the name of William Stafford, the Yank
who wrote that lizard poem. Funny what pops into your mind at the oddest times,
he thought as he succumbed to the night.
Hi, Michael:
ReplyDeleteI sought out your blog, as I wanted to apologize for how badly our interaction went on Twitter the other day. But first…this prologue is beautifully written. You have such a unique voice, filled with verve. Anyway, I know you’re not seeking any praise or whatnot from me, but I figured I’d mention how much I like and respond to the quality of your prose that’s reflected in this opening prologue.
So, about Twitter. I am sorry I didn’t see your original inquiry, which prompted the issue. Twitter was acting up on Thursday and Friday—and that bled over to tweet deck for me. I was actually locked out during one of our author chats the day before, and it was still being wonky on Friday, not allowing me to post regularly, and also not showing all my mentions. Because of that, when I received your second mention—the one that said I was a typical #RWNJ, out to “fuck the 99 percent”, I hope you can understand how taken aback I was. I realize that you may use that kind of language regularly, but in my daily professional life, to suddenly have it lobbed at me felt like an assault. So I did, in fact, block you (and I saw that you subsequently blocked me?) Which is why I’m here, on your blog, because I wanted to reopen a dialogue and also to apologize for having offended you.
But I did want to set you straight: you misinterpreted my politics. I’m certainly not far left, but I’ve taken a political grid test more than once and I always come out left of center. You wouldn’t agree with my full spectrum of views, obviously, but I’d like to make sure you don’t have a false impression of where I stand. I’m very much a gay rights advocate, and have been extremely vocal to that end on both Twitter and in my own writing. For instance, Publishers Weekly said of my book BUTTERFLY TATTOO: “Making a compelling case for bisexuals who make no gender distinctions…” My Gods of Midnight series (RED FIRE, etc) features a very strong secondary plotline about the painful ramifications of Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell. I am truly an independent. I don’t find any party that fully reflects what I believe right now, and I’m not alone in that fact. Anyway, as for who I follow—if you noticed, I’d only just followed Drudge and Tammy Bruce in the past week. That’s why they were among my most recently followed, along with Oprah and some others. I’d gone through another user’s followings and clicked on people who I thought might be interesting to follow for a while. But I also follow a variety of liberal news sources, as well.
In short, to have suddenly been told I was out to fuck the 99 percent on Friday—when we weren’t even in a conversation at all—felt like an assault to me. So I blocked you, and there it went. You can certainly tweet whatever you want about me, but I really didn’t feel like you gave me any forum for interaction before you pulled the judgment trigger. Which is a shame because you’re a beautiful writer and I would have welcomed being professional associates.
I wish you all the best. I don’t expect you to respond, or if you do, it may well be with derision. Just know I’m wishing you only the best in all of your endeavors. I mean that. Deidre Knight