Camouflage (13 page)

Once, he thought he heard a car go by, but his bobber disappeared underwater just at that moment. Adrenaline rushed through his body and the only thing on his mind was bringing in the fish he was sure he'd hooked.

Approaching the cabin with his catch he heard voices. When he drew nearer, he slowed. It was Pete's voice, and then his dad's and a third man's. He entered the cabin and took the fish to the sink. The men, seated at the picnic table with a thermos of coffee between them, ignored him.

“Tomorrow is soon enough,” his dad said. “Sorry about Travis and Matt. They won't talk, will they?”

“You can trust them, but they're in real hot water. The feds are sure to offer them a deal to talk.”

His father nodded. “If they can hold out, by tomorrow it won't matter.”

“What about the boy?” the third man asked. He was a large man with a barrel chest.

His father paused a second, looked toward Kyle, and said, “We'll need him; I've got it all worked out. Don't worry.”

Kyle's knees almost buckled. He threw a sharp look in his dad's direction but was ignored. What was his dad planning that involved him?

“Well, then,” Pete said. “If it's okay with you we'll just bunk here tonight so we can get an early start tomorrow.”

“No problem. Between the beer and fried chicken you brought and that crappie Kyle just caught, we should have a mighty fine feast,” his father said. “Right, son?”

L
ONG AFTER THE OTHERS
had gone to sleep, Kyle lay on a dusty mattress on the floor, thinking. Amid the snorts and wheezes of the men nearby, he heard lightfooted movement, a mouse or rat, perhaps, scurrying over the floor to get at the dinner scraps. He rolled over and pulled his knees to his chest.

What should he do?
What?
He didn't want to be part of anything illegal, especially anything to do with firearms. Look at what happened to Hiram. The thrill of guns had worn off. It was one thing to shoot at a beer can but another to
kill
something or someone. Is that what his dad expected him to do? He stared at the sliver of moon out the window and shivered.

But if he didn't want to go along with Dad, maybe it was
he
who was lacking. Maybe
he
was a coward and Dad a hero, a
patriot
, trying to make life better for people. Leaders lived by different rules. They had to be tough and sure of their goals, even willing to die for them. Like his dad.

Surely his father wouldn't involve him in something really wrong, or let him get hurt. Look how he'd protected him at the Johnson farm, and grabbed him when he fell so they could escape together. Surely Dad wouldn't make him stay if he wanted out?

He sat up. An owl hooted. A tree branch scratched against one of the window boards. A slight breeze brought the scent of pines into the room. He could probably get away now, if he tried. He could steal Dad's keys and drive the truck back to town, if he could manage the stick shift. But then what?

He wished he could be home, where Mom set rules he could live by and even Brian wasn't all that bad, but he couldn't leave now or Dad would never respect him. Regardless of his doubts, he had to trust and see through whatever the next day would bring.

“Big day ahead, fella! Up and at 'em!” Kyle's father said, leaning over him the next morning. Dad needed a shave, but his eyes shone with excitement. “Come on, lazy! Doughnuts on the table, and what's left of the coffee.”

Kyle sat up and stretched. “Where are the others?”

“Down the hill, working on the truck.” His father tossed Kyle's mattress on a bed and went outside. In a moment Kyle heard the wooden boards being hammered back over the window.

Pete greeted them as they approached the truck with a hearty “What do you think? Not bad, hey?” The gray truck had been spray-painted a dark green and had a new license plate.

“Should keep the feds off us till we've done the job,” his father said.

Kyle stiffened. Done the job? What job? “Where are we going?” he asked, climbing into the truck beside his father. “Why do you need me?”

“You'll know when it's time,” his father answered, starting the engine. “Now don't ask questions—I need to think.”

Heat rose to Kyle's face. He pushed back against the seat and stared at the rear of Pete's car as they left the lake and returned to the main road.

On the outskirts of a small town, his father followed Pete into a car rental lot. “Come with me,” he ordered, “and keep your mouth shut.”

Kyle walked beside his dad to the office. “Want to rent a van,” his father told the thin elderly man. “Going fishing upstate with my boy, here, and a couple friends . . .” His dad smiled and lit a cigarette.

Kyle stared at the floor. Lies, lies, lies. Why would they need a van when they had a perfectly good, newly disguised truck?

“Cash or credit?” the man asked when they returned to the office after approving the rental van. “And I'll need your ID.”

“No problem.” His father drew a wad of bills from his pocket and laid it on the counter with a driver's license. Kyle glanced at the license and then, in disbelief, at his father. The license wasn't in his dad's name!

“All right, Mr. Gray, here you are.” The clerk finished up the paperwork, then handed over the van keys. “Have a good trip. Hear the crappie are runnin' good upstate.”

His father nodded. “Thanks for the tip. That's where we're headed.”

“We're
not
going fishing, are we,
Mister Gray?
” Kyle challenged as soon as they were on the road again, with Pete now driving the truck.

“No. And watch that tone of voice.”

“Then where
are
we going and what's the van for and why did you show a false driver's license?” Kyle asked, trying hard to keep sarcasm and fear from his tone.

“I
told
you not to ask questions.”

“But Dad!”

“You forget what happened to your friend yesterday?”

His pulse jumped. “Of course not!” The image of Hiram slumping to the ground filled his head.

“Well, then, just sit back and relax. Everything will work out fine.”

Kyle flinched and bit his lip. It wasn't right, keeping him in the dark about where they were going and what he was expected to do. But he had no choice. He crossed his arms over his chest and glared at the cars whizzing by in the other direction.

A half dozen men clustered around the building they came to. A large door rolled up, and his father drove into the building as the door closed behind them. It was a big warehouse, with crates and boxes of all sizes and shapes—a munitions depot, Kyle figured, getting a scared feeling in the pit of his stomach. He'd never seen anything this big, except in movies.

The men who approached the van when they climbed out were armed militia members, but strangers to Kyle. A tall, distinguished-looking man led the way.

He saluted. “General!”

“Colonel Armstrong! Good to see you, Arnold.” His father returned the salute.

“Sorry about the Johnson boy. Got some of your men, too, we hear.”

“Right.” His father's cheek twitched. “This here's my son, Kyle.” He put an arm around Kyle's shoulders. “Good friend of Earl's boy. Really upset about it, too. He'll be with us.”

“Nice to meet you, son.” The colonel held out a hand for Kyle to shake.

“Everything ready?” his dad asked.

“We can have you loaded in fifty minutes. Timer's set for sixteen-thirty hours. Should give you plenty time to get in and out, 'fore it blows.”

Blows?
Kyle wiped a hand over the sudden gush of sweat running from his scalp down his neck. Oh, my god, he thought. They were going to blow something up!

“Okay, let's get at it!” His dad strode toward a mound of gunnysacks around which the men had gathered.

Kyle hurried after him. Maybe he could figure a way to escape. “Dad,” he whispered. “I gotta pee.”

“Corporal,” his father said to the man beside the colonel, “Show him the latrine and stay
with
him.”

Kyle took his father's arm. “How about I hitch back, okay?” He heard a quaver in his voice. “You don't need
me.
”

“Sorry, son. It's too late to turn back. I do need you. A father and son in a van don't raise questions.”

“Are you going to blow something up? People could get hurt! Please, Dad. I don't want—”

“Not another word! Hear me, Kyle?” His father sounded out of patience. “I won't abide dissidence! The country's going to the dogs and we're going to do something about it. Government's corrupt! This is the only way to make our point. Got that? Not another word!”

Kyle opened his mouth, then closed it at the warning in his father's eyes.

“Corporal! Put this boy in the van and see he stays there till we leave. Go on, Kyle, on the double!”

“Dad!”

His father strode off behind Colonel Armstrong and the van-loading began.

Prodded by the corporal, Kyle climbed into the front seat of the van. He turned around to see what was happening behind him. Two men climbed through the sliding door into the van and carefully lowered what must be the
bomb
into the middle of the empty floor. They covered it with blankets and jackets like campers might use and surrounded it with an ice chest (“Full of beer,” he heard someone joke), a Coleman stove, and other outdoor equipment.

Kyle squirmed. The bomb was so well-hidden that even if the police did stop them to check, they'd never suspect anything unless they unloaded the whole van. And with a man and his son in the front seat, why would police suspect them anyway?

“I have to go to the toilet,” he told the corporal, who stood at attention beside the door. He held his stomach, pretending real pain.

“Sorry. I have my orders.”

If he didn't find a way to escape now, he'd be trapped, his dad's hostage! “I'm the general's son!” he tried again. “I know he won't mind. You could come with me!”

The soldier stared stolidly ahead. “Sorry, kid. I have orders!”

“Move over, Kyle. Pete's coming,” his father said, climbing into the driver's seat a short while later. “That's it. Good, now buckle up.”

“Yeah!” Pete got in beside Kyle. “Wouldn't want a ticket for not wearing a seat belt, right, Ed?”

Kyle's father chuckled, put the van in gear, and as the warehouse door slid open, slowly backed out. Colonel Armstrong held two thumbs up.

“We're on our way,” his dad said. “Figure two hours ten minutes to ground zero. Put us there around fifteen hundred hours.” He peered around Kyle to see Pete. “Hey, you brought your fishing hat. Nice touch!”

“Yep.” Pete removed a stained hat with feathered fishhooks around the hatband. “Keeps the sun outta my eyes and makes me look legit. See this, Kyle?” He touched a big hook. “This one's a doozy. Caught a hundred bass with this fella. It's an art, making flies that fool them big ones. I'll show you how I do it when we get back, okay, fella?”

Kyle nodded, teeth starting to chatter. His feet beat a nervous dance on the floor and he felt like he was going to throw up. His dad and Pete were acting like they were headed off on a vacation! What if they drove over a rough patch of road and the bomb went off? What if the timer didn't work right and it went off early?

An even worse fear occurred to him: What if everything went just as planned? He was helpless, a prisoner between Pete and Dad. He couldn't do a thing to stop whatever had been set in motion!

W
EDGED FIRMLY INTO
the front seat, Kyle felt a rising terror as they rolled steadily south, passing fields and pastures, going through towns. The radio played rock music and cigarette smoke filled the van while he struggled with doubts and unanswered questions. Maybe Dad was acting on false information, he thought in a rush of hope. Hiram could still be alive and the bullet that hit him could have been from their own militia. They'd heard no news, except from Colonel Armstrong.

“Mind if I switch the station?” he asked, turning to his father.

“Go ahead.”

He found a news station and listened to local advertisers, the weather report, and, finally, the news. “The young man killed yesterday near Running Springs was identified as Hiram Johnson, sixteen. Government sources say he fired at local police and IRS agents under orders to occupy his father's farm for nonpayment of taxes. A spokesman said it is believed that the bullet which struck Johnson was fired by a member of a small militia active in the area that arrived on the scene in support of the boy's father.”

Kyle's father lowered the volume and cried, “See? See what I mean? Lies! They're trying to blame Hiram's death on us!”

“But—maybe it was . . . ,” Kyle began.

“Don't dare say that!” his father growled, throwing him a furious look.

“Ease up, Ed,” Pete said. “They'll soon know we're no ‘small' militia but a force to reckon with!”

How? By killing a lot of innocent people? Kyle dug his back into the seat. He was Dad's hostage. How could he stop this craziness?

Hostage. It must have been on his eleventh birthday that he'd seen that movie
Speed
about hostages. Mom had included Brian in the celebration and Kyle resented sharing her attention. After the film they'd gone to a noisy restaurant. Over pizza Brian had captivated Mom with stories about hostage situations. Feeling left out, Kyle had pretended boredom, thumping his hand on the table to the music. But he'd listened, at least to some of what Brian said.

He remembered Brian telling about a famous case in which a busload of kids were held hostage. What he remembered most was that after the first days of terror the kids lost all will to defend themselves. They became docile, eager to please so they'd get food and kindness.