Chapter 9

While the drive to Denver was almost entirely uneventful, Warren found that his driver was not. Scott, having met Warren beforehand, made conversation easy at first—but after explaining their situation had little to say, other than a quick introduction to the driver, Fredric. No sooner had Warren finished the introduction with a, “Nice to meet you, too,” the man, balding with brilliant white hair, mustache, and beard began a long monologue about himself, which Warren found only semi-intriguing, but could not interrupt or change the subject.
“And although Scottie here would have you believe I’m of a mixed descent—I only claim the ancient Teutonic blood in my veins. I know it sounds bad, but I don’t really care about my mother’s blood—it’s my father’s grandfather who was the son of one of the last Teutonic generals in the fading Holy Roman Empire. All this to say that despite my claims to nobility, these stable-boys call me Old Fred. Which makes me sound like some old rancher, working his dry bones to death.
“No, the truth is I’m an intellectual—a military strategist, if you will. That’s sort of my specialization. Why they think I can drive a vehicle across the country, I’ll never guess. But here I am, wasting my mental capacity ferrying you to Florida. But nevermind me, you are our guest and most welcome—but you aren’t the first, mind you.
“It’s always the same, move through the waypoints—get parcels in packages through points while properly proceeding…to…ehh…places like…Paris. Or maybe Pakistan. Hehe. That’s alliteration, you know. It’s such a wonderful time-killer. There was this one time in Santa Cruz when I managed to string together 250 words, well not counting articles or prepositions or a few linking words. And they made sense…well sort of. I mean, sentences; grammatically they worked, nouns and verbs and such, not just the blind ramble of words that people like Scott like to pass off as acceptable.
“No, language is actually quite important to a strategist. Communication is key—and whether your friends can understand you and whether your enemies cannot makes all the difference. So it’s little games like these which buffer your skill with words that can be crucial to the outcome of a battle. I mean, on a basic level if you say ‘Hurl that thing at them!’ it may take whoever you’re talking to ages (comparatively, of course) to understand what you mean. Whereas, if I say, “Scott, toss a grenade north, northeast, 20 yards, just on the other side of the hood of the small green vehicle to coax out the two hostile gunmen wearing black ski-masks, goggles, and bullet-proof vests,” then we’ve communicated much better and the chances of success in the fight is far increased.
“For instance, let’s look at that time in Seoul with our best soldier and communicator, Oscar. The two of us managed to withstand a nasty ambush and survive to tell about it. Why? Not because we were crack shots. Though I’m not bad and Oscar has the eyes of a hawk. Not because we had air support, which I should note we did not! Not because we were more heavily armed—hardly the case. So why did we walk out of it alive, with more than fifty of their number down, dead, dying, or injured? Communication. That is the only reason. Now, our training and skills helped. But it was sheer communication that got us out of that one.
Scott managed to interrupt him quickly—Warren noted his timing and imagined the young man had considerable skill at being able to add anything to the conversation. “What? You mean Oscar telling you to do something and otherwise being able to ignore you?” Warren chuckled, but the joke didn’t faze the old man.
“In fact, Oscar is one of the few whose words I respect in this outfit—he doesn’t say much but when he says something, it’s usually worth listening to. Unlike others I know. But that’s not really the point at all—ignorance rarely serves in battle. I knew a bunch of fellows in Vietnam who didn’t really listen at all—not that the officers were doing a spectacular job communicating in the first place. And you wonder why we lost that war? Communication. It takes effort on both sides of the party. People need to speak well and listen well. Now, I, being a strategist, am very apt at both—not to boast, but I’m just saying that people skilled in both areas have a huge advantage over your quiet, silent, soldier—like Scott here.”
Warren saw his chance and edged a question in. “But I thought you guys were traveling salesman?”
“Hehe. Well Watson, a keen observation. But the deviations between soldier and salesman are slight and few these days. Especially with the emerging prevalence and possible dominance (as it may be argued) of the Mar in our modern American society. Yes we sell electronics. But keep in mind, it’s all in the name of communication. Now I’m not saying everything we sell is bugged, mind you, but everything in our inventory is helping us set up a national communication network. We sell two phones to a business man, one for personal use, the other for work use. Now we might find it convenient to keep a track on his business for contact with known Mar operatives. While his personal phone might simply serve as a signal booster for under-the-radar calls, where we skip satellite networks altogether to avoid detection. And so on and so forth. The sales only empower and strengthen our communication and gives us an edge on the Mar’s communication. You see? Communications is first and foremost in any war.
“I cite a most recent occurrence in Afghanistan. It was sheer lack of communication that enabled the Taliban to drive the UN out of the country and retake it in the name of Allah. A certain UN General—who was actually a good friend of mine, voiced the concern that while communication between him and his troops was perfectly fine, the ability to interrupt or intercept enemy communications was virtually nil—as they had literally resorted to hand-delivered orders. They had no time-restraints on them, no threats of cutting funding, no international pressure to pull out. And so the Taliban took their time and used the most base, but least vulnerable methods of communication to organize a massive strike to retake Kabul and two other major Afghani cities. And the hell of it is, it worked! They utterly demolished the UN’s forces and now look where they are. Pakistan (and its nuclear reserves) is ripe for the taking—but enough of international politics. My point is that communications in war is integral to success.
“Now, ask me why our safehouse in Colorado Springs was attacked.”
“Why was our…” Warren began, but Old Fred had taken off again.
“Communication failure! Someone was lazy and allowed the Mar to intercept our transmissions at some point. And it almost cost us dearly! Which I intend to talk to our ‘fearless’ leader, Trent, and give him a piece of my mind on that subject. And it’s not the first time we’ve been on the losing side of communications lately, either. Like I told Scott here earlier, that Utah Experiment will be a blight on our record for years to come! People will look back and cite that as a textbook example of miscommunication and the dire consequences. I mean, when you take into account the sheer amount of money and manpower we invested to get an ear inside that Mar convention—and then to have it all hit the fan because someone called Trent on his cell phone? That’s just poor communications planning. This is the twenty-first century, for crying out loud. Anybody anywhere can listen to anyone’s cell phone with the right tech. We even have devices like that! Why should we assume that the Mar does not? That just tickles me in the wrong spot.”
Warren sighed and rubbed Ali mindlessly as Old Fred continued. All the way to Denver he continued explaining the necessity of modern communications but the viability of older methods, like Morse code and flag signals. He “cited” all sorts of studies and anecdotes and his own extensive experience in his arguments for improving and diversifying the communication capabilities of the organization. While he proved to be extremely knowledgeable in the field, he also proved amazingly resilient to any sort of decline in the conversation.
And yet the verbosity of the man didn’t disturb Warren in the least—while the material was somewhat repetitive, none of his anecdotes or examples had yet been the same. Warren found the man easy to listen to in his opinions and stories. He thought of whether Livingstone would approve of the man or not—he certainly might say the elderly man gave away far too much information, without even being asked for it. But he sensed that Livingstone, while perhaps condemning the sheer amount of words spoken, would find in him a valuable ally in his concern for perfection.
So Warren listened, while stroking Ali, and Old Fred talked all the way to Denver—though less could be said for Scott, who mostly leaned on his right elbow, staring out the window while they traveled north on I-25. When the first signs of the true urbanization of Denver began to appear outside the window, Fredric was busy explaining the all-time highlight of communication failure of the United States Armed Forces (in his esteemed opinion): the disaster at Pearl Harbor. Then Scott forcibly interrupted Old Fred’s train of thought—which took a will of steel, comparable to that of Superman.
“Fred, don’t…”
“…which meant that, in the case of the Arizona…”
“Fred, take…”
“…which became of course a national symbol…”
“Fred!
“…a seemingly insignificant error…”
“Fred turn…”
“What’s that?”
“Take 225. Next right.”
“Now?”
“Yes, now.”
“Oh, yes yes,” the old man said and exited the interstate. “So as I was saying, the smallest indiscretion in communication entirely disabled our Pacific fleet, and would have been worse if our carriers hadn’t been at sea. So blind luck saved us in the Pacific theatre from the disaster of poor communications. So you see that perfection in this field is desirable, though rarely obtainable.”
Scott put his head back against the passenger window, probably praying he wouldn’t have to remind Fred where to go. And when the next turn-off came, Scott turned—only to find Fred’s index finger flying in his face. He raised his hands and set his chin in his hand and his elbow on the window ledge.
In the end, they did get lost—even Old Fred had the courage to admit it—and Scott’s cursory knowledge of the area managed to save them. But as they neared the first waypoint, the two in the front became less and less cordial; they seemed to grow focused, frequently checking side-streets and scanning traffic. Even Fred’s babble became less and less numerous in their outbreaks, with long silences punctuating the time in the vehicle. Warren assumed the lone gunman had identified the vehicle and that Scott and Fred knew this and anticipated an attack as they neared their destination—if the location of the last safe-house had been disclosed, they couldn’t be sure any were safe.
“Black 4-Runner?” Scott asked.
“Certainly a possibility. I’ll keep an eye on him,” Fred answered. “You see any rooftop action?”
“No. Nothing yet. Next light, turn right.”
“Safe-house is a couple blocks away—on the left, right?”
“Yeah. Gardener in orange?”
“No. He’s fiddling—anyone undercover would be working to preserve the illusion. The 4-Runner still back there?”
“Don’t see it.”
“Doesn’t mean they can’t see us.”
“Of course…next left. I don’t see any reason to delay our entrance, do you?”
“Nah, I think we’re safe,” Fred agreed and slowed to turn into a lush residential tract. Scott kept his eyes fixed out the window; Fred was completely silent, scanning the road ahead of him. Ali scrambled at Warren’s shirt and he placed her gently back onto his shoulder—she immediately burrowed into the collar of his shirt.
When he looked up, he saw panic in Scott’s eyes, looking behind him, out the back window. “Get down!” he yelled and yanked the steering wheel down as hard as he could. As the car tilted on edge, in danger of rolling onto its side, Fred turned to look behind him with Warren; they saw the gardener stooped on a knee, his leaf-blower resting on his shoulder and something smoking traveling towards them. In the next instant the fiery impact sent the back end of the SUV spinning and the car started to roll. Warren clutched for Ali with both hands. In a blur of street and sky and shattered glass shards spinning—Warren shut his eyes, comforting only in the furry, quivering lump he protected on his shoulder, and listened to the sickening crunch of metal against ground. When the mist of glass had faded and the car slowed to a stop, sitting on its right side, Warren shook the confusion from his head and undid his seatbelt, dropping a foot or two to the pavement where the rear passenger-side door’s window should have been. Fred spat and managed to get himself undone, stepping in back with Warren.
“Stay back, behind the seat” he cackled, pointing towards the rear window with his thumb. Warren nodded. “Scott! You alright?” When no response came, Old Fred peered over the seat—Scott nodded forward, his hair damp with blood. Fred hiked a pistol from his left holster and handed it to Warren. “Anyone comes round the front who isn’t screaming for an ambulance, put two in his chest, one in his head.” Then he bent over Scott and began untangling him.
Warren kept one hand on Ali as he surveyed his vantage points. As long as he stayed behind the seat, he thought it was doubtful any further attack would come from range. He wondered when the others, Trent and Livingstone would arrive. How long could they fend off an attack, especially if Scott were injured badly? He knew the gardener was probably close, ready to inspect his handiwork and finish them off.
The feeling of the cool metal in his grip was not a familiar one for Warren. He had owned a CO2 pistol years ago, but hadn’t fired it in ages—and how could an air gun like that compare with something as real and as deadly as this gun? He trusted instinct to guide him and kept watch on his three exit points—in front, in back, and the sunroof.
Suddenly he saw a point of red light playing on the back of Scott’s seat. His heart jumped into his throat. “Fredric!” he rasped. “Don’t move!”
“What’s the issue?” he whispered back, after paralyzing himself.
“Laser sight on the seat.”
“That’s good! That’s good, Watson! We have a chance!” he sputtered. Warren cocked an eyebrow. “Now do as I say. Climb out the front, staying to the left, of course. Find some debris of some sort; hell, yank the steering wheel off if you have to. When I say, move it along the ground ‘till it’s within sight of the gunman—push it out quickly, so he won’t think about what it is, but take a shot at it. When you hear the shot, pull it back in as quick as you can. He’ll keep his eye trained there. Then, when you hear me shoot, jump out and put some rounds in him.”
Warren obeyed, hoping and praying the gardener was alone…perhaps Fredric had deduced this fact from the laser sight. He wasn’t sure how, but, as he clambered over the old man and out of the car, he knew Old Fred wouldn’t ask anything of him that wasn’t practical. All he had to do was convince the gunner that someone was stumbling out of the car—and pray his aim wouldn’t miss. But when he got outside of the vehicle, he found himself standing in a puddle of fuel, and the crackle of flames from the rear of the vehicle found his ears with a menacing touch. He had to move quickly. He edged his way around the popped hood and found a stripped belt hanging out. With nimble, but fairly shaky, hands he managed to pull the belt free—but then, an idea struck him. “Fred! I need your cap!” Without argument, a baseball cap came flying out from the vehicle. He crouched around the hood and bent the belt to fit in the cap, but when he released it, the cap simply popped off—no good. He needed something to hold the cap in place. And then it struck him, the movement of a cap might be just the thing.
He inched back around the hood, right up to the edge of the overturned vehicle. He pushed the belt out, cap first, along the ground, to keep pressure on the cap. Then, like a small miracle, he rejoiced when a red dot appeared on the cap. He released his grip on the belt and the cap flew off, landing several feet in the road, he kept the belt, with its frizz from failure, out in the street and slowly began to pull it back. And then, asphalt jumped up into his face—followed by the crack of a rifle. Warren almost immediately heard another shot fire and then, without much thought of anything, hurled himself out into the street, running sideways.
There, maybe ten yards away, a figure staggered backwards. Warren leveled his pistol and tried to center the sight on the man—but pulled the trigger. The kickback was more than he expected—and a puffball of debris appeared another fifty yards behind the man. Warren, kept his feet moving and adjusted a bit. He next shot was steadier and clipped a tree just to the figure’s left. But now the man had dropped his rifle and had his own pistol aiming in Warren’s direction.
Warren fired again. But missed high, above the man’s shoulder. A hiss of air rushing past his own left shoulder sent a shiver down his spine, which shook his aim. But he kept himself from pulling the trigger. Instead he kept running and fired another time, missing to the right again. He fired again quickly as the asphalt near his left foot exploded. This time, a result: the figure in orange staggered. He had hit him in the leg. Warren gasped in exhilaration, which reminded him to breathe, skidded to a halt, and planted himself. The man stumbled to a knee and he fired again, hitting the left shoulder which hammered the figure to his back. Warren advanced carefully, mindful of the many films he had seen, like the Patriot, where the hero had been overconfident in his approach and had taken a bullet from the fallen enemy.
“Hold!” came a cry from Old Fred. Warren stopped immediately—but held his weapon in the firing position. The old man clambered from the vehicle, his own pistol drawn. “Remove your weapons from you and your life will be spared!” he called out to the downed man. A pistol clattered, spinning away from him. “All of it! Now!” The figure coughed and managed to get his right hand above his head. Fred approached with caution, motioning with a hand for Warren to stay where he was. Which was just fine with Warren, who had relieved one hand from gun duty to comfort Ali.
Old Fred bent down to inspect the man. He pulled a couple grenades from his pockets and a knife from his belt—patted him down to check for any hidden weapons. Then he removed a couple plastic ties from his pocket—why he carried them in his pockets, Warren would never get to ask him, but figured the man was certainly the type to be prepared for anything (he was, after all, as he called himself, a soldier)—and cuffed his hands behind his back. Then he got to work. He ripped a piece of the man’s undershirt (around the waistline) and prepared a tourniquet on the leg, while ordering Warren over to put pressure on the shoulder wound.
“Fred, why are we helping him?” Warren found himself asking, as he wadded a piece of cloth in his fist and pushed against the wound.
“Because Scott is dead.”