The Forever Man: A Near-Future Thriller (38 page)

Gary Jacobs, who serves as both the plane’s pilot and its mechanic, withdraws his head from under the open engine cowling to greet the Bird. “So you’re the guy, huh?” Jacobs is short and stocky underneath his greasy coveralls, and sports an unruly shock of grizzled gray hair.

“Yeah, I’m the guy.”

Jacobs looks over the Bird’s shoulder at his two henchmen standing behind him. “And who are they?”

“They’re nobody, and they like it that way.”

Jacobs knows better than to press the point. “Well, each to his own, I guess.”

“So can you do it?”

Jacobs scratches his head and looks at the plane. “Yeah, I can do it, but it’s going to be real tricky. I’ve got to rig some kind of ventilation and wear an oxygen mask, just to make sure. Most likely, it’s going to ruin the aircraft.”

The Bird snorts. “Come on now, is that going to be a problem?”

“I suppose not. Especially with what you’re payin’ me.”

“You have to be ready by later this afternoon. You’ll go on my command. Is that understood?”

Jacobs grins. “It’s gonna be a helluva show.”

“It better be.” The Bird turns and heads for the hangar door. On the way out he passes a relic of the distant past tacked up to an exposed stud of aging fir. A centerfold spills down, an image whose colors have gone nearly to sepia over time. A woman with blond hair and enormous breasts smiles out upon the hangar and all who dwell there.

The Bird finds it vaguely erotic, but not nearly as stimulating as his plan to take down Mount Tabor.

***

The sky is heading toward a tarnished dusk by the time Lane walks south down Sixtieth Avenue. The wooded slopes of Mount Tabor loom to his left as he approaches the security gate on Salmon Street. Johnny’s up there somewhere, his brilliant and hopelessly compromised brother. Lane wants to shout up the hill and tell him to hang on, that he’s on his way, just like always. Now and forever. They’re all that’s left, just the two of them. Without each other, they are lost in some inner space both dark and boundless.

There were once numerous entrances to Mount Tabor, but now there is only this one gate. Brilliant floodlights bathe the streets and sidewalks here. Twin bunkers of concrete and blast barriers flank the big hinged gate. The big guns in turrets atop the bunkers have the power to turn
the street into an instant butcher shop.

The guards at the gate eye Lane as he walks on by but don’t appear overly curious. All seems peaceful here. A lawn sprinkler spits its wet rhythm down the block. A puppy yips in the distance. Automated porch lights wink on here and there. Whatever the Bird is planning apparently doesn’t involve this side of the mountain. In a phone call earlier in the day, Lane had asked the Bird about his plan of attack. The big boss smiled into the video and simply said, “Surprise!”

In this fleeting moment of calm, Lane thinks of Johnny as he walks, of the perfect day on Fuller Bay, of the green water, the kelp, the perch, the old docks, and the skiff manned by two little boys. Before he knows it, he’s reached Division Street, where the streetcar is just pulling up. He hops on.

The Bad Boys that sit all around him don’t even bother to conceal their weapons. They sit in pairs, with vacant eyes and heads that bob slightly to the streetcar’s motion along the tracks embedded in the pavement. Their combat rifles sprout as phallic totems from their laps. Bandoliers of ammunition drape from their shoulders. In all his years, Lane has never seen a display of civil anarchy this brazen. Up until now, the Bird operated in the way of urban gangs worldwide, by strategically applying violence in limited engagements at opportune moments.

The streetcar squeaks to a halt where Seventy-second Avenue crosses Division. The Bad Boys all get up and head out the doors at either end. Lane follows at a distance as they start up the sidewalks on Seventy-second to the north. All sport the forearm tattoo of the Hoodoos, a north end gang with biker lineage. They strut along the sidewalks at a leisurely pace, laughing and punching one an

other on their deltoids. To their left, the sylvan slope of Mount Tabor rises just a few blocks away.

Modest homes line both sides of the street, some boarded up, some still occupied. The growing glut of Bad Boys doesn’t distinguish between the two. They camp on parched lawns, they sit on porch steps with upright rifles; they emerge through front doors, eating pilfered food. A woman’s scream spills out of a back room somewhere up ahead. Lane has to stifle his professional instinct to intervene. Cops are no longer cops here.

The Bad Boys from the streetcar spot a pair of yards filled with their own and peel off. The streetlights cast them in long shadows. Lane continues on, block after block. More of the same, maybe a thousand men in all. Above them, the lower slope of the mountain reaches down to the street, all cleared of trees and brush. It forms a no-man’s-land heavily favoring whatever firepower dwells in the darkened tree line above.

Lane reaches the house the Bird has commandeered as a command post. A long line of pickup trucks and SUVs stretches for blocks. The guards on the porch grudgingly part to let him
enter. He recognizes several from his days on the street.

The Bird sits at the kitchen table next to Rachel. He holds a steaming mug of coffee in the tradition of military commanders everywhere. He looks up from a laptop at Lane’s approach. “So, you have a nice little evening stroll? What’s happening on the far side of the mountain?”

“Absolutely nothing.”

The Bird nods agreeably. “And that’s as it should be.”

“I don’t how you’re going to pull this off, but remember I go in with the first wave and pull my brother out before it gets ugly. That was the deal, right?”

“Right. See those vehicles outside? You get the one at the head of the line.”

“Is that a good thing?” Rachel asks suspiciously. “To be at the business end?”

“It’s a very good thing.” The Bird pulls out his handheld. “So let’s do it.” He taps the interface and puts the device to his ear as he speaks. “You ready? Good. Let’s go.”

***

Zed and Arjun walk across the cement surface of the empty reservoir near the bottom of the western slope. Up ahead, a matched pair of choppers awaits in silence with drooping rotors and doused lights. An idling engine would attract attention, giving outsiders time to arm antiaircraft missiles. After watching video of the sudden congregation on Seventy-second Avenue, they initiated the second phase of the evacuation plan, which calls for Zed to depart in one machine, followed by Arjun in the second after he confirms that the demolition is successful.

They reach the choppers as the twilight thickens. Zed shakes Arjun’s hand. “See you later.”

“Yes,” Arjun replies absently. “Later.” He feels the strength of Zed’s grip as they shake compared to the frailty of his own. He sees the clarity and intent in Zed’s eyes as opposed to the apprehension and doubt in his own. Such was the power of youth regained, or so it seemed.

Zed climbs into the seat next to the pilot in the nearest chopper as Arjun walks back toward his parked vehicle on the reservoir’s edge. Zed twists around to the helicopter’s passenger compartment, which holds Harlan Green flanked by two security people, men of great strength and little compassion. An emergency light bathes the trio in a pale red, which mercifully softens their features.

“I don’t get it,” Green says. Growing anxiety drives his voice into a higher register. “I need to contact my people and let them know I’m on my way.”

“What we need to do right now is get out of here,” Zed says. “Then you can pick your destination at your leisure. We’ll drop you at the airport with some cash and you can take it from
there.”

A mechanical cough issues from behind them, and the chopper’s turbine engine comes to life. The rotors come out of their torpor and start a lazy spin. The pilot looks at the multiple displays on the instrument panel and scans the numbers, vectors, symbols, and graphs. He turns to Zed. “Ready.”

“Go,” he orders.

The turbine winds up and the rotors beat savagely against the evening air. The aircraft rises, the nose dips slightly, and they head southwest. A dull orange sliver of light over the West Hills marks the end of day. Safety lights on the broadcast towers call out to the night with their abrupt winks of red and white. Zed feels a tap on his shoulder.

“We’re not headed toward the airport,” Green shouts over the roar of the engine.

“Patience,” Zed responds.

Gary Jacobs reaches the end of the taxiway and rotates the AT-400 Air Tractor onto the main runway of Troutdale Airport. He faces due west, into the last glow of dusk over the distant hills. The plane’s 680-horsepower turboprop engine mutters and growls, waiting to be set loose into flight. He speaks into the microphone in the oxygen mask to get clearance for takeoff. An affirmative reply comes back through the earphones mounted in his crash helmet. The mask feels odd and restrictive. It clings to his cheeks. He acquired both it and the helmet just this afternoon, and hurriedly installed them in the dilapidated cockpit.

For this particular mission, oxygen is a must to avoid being poisoned by the fumes. The aircraft’s 400-gallon hopper, which sits between the engine firewall and the cockpit, no longer holds pesticide. Instead, it’s filled to the brim with ethylene oxide. If he inhaled or touched it, the compound would twist his chromosomes into a mutagenic nightmare.

Jacobs pushes the throttle all the way forward. The engine roars and the plane sprints down the runway under full power and lifts off. The pilot can feel the vibration of the tires, which continue to spin freely on their fixed struts. Ahead, the dark void of Blue Lake interrupts the sprinkle of residential lighting. Off to his left, the freeway cuts a luminous path through the cityscape.

Navigation will be simple enough. Just follow this freeway to where it intersects with the north-south route. Take a left and follow this second freeway for about two miles to a big black bump rising out of the glittering matrix below: Mount Tabor.

You can’t miss it.

In the chopper, Green taps Zed’s shoulder again, this time more insistently.

“Where in the hell are we going?” he asks over the noise. “That’s Lake Oswego down there.”

Zed looks out the window at the long finger of water embedded in the luxurious landscaping. He turns back to Harlan, who is leaning forward to hear his answer. “You’re right.”

The security man to Green’s right sees the opportunity. He brings out the hypodermic and stabs Green’s neck from behind. Green tries to twist and face his attacker, but the other security man grabs him around the chest and holds him fast until he collapses into terminal relaxation.

Gary Jacobs pushes the throttle all the way forward and banks tightly to his left. He is flying five hundred feet above Sixtieth Avenue along the western base of Mount Tabor. He pulls back on the stick. The turboprop engine ascends in a banshee scream. The propellers bite into the cool nocturnal air and pull the plane skyward.

Jacobs glances at the smattering of light coming through the trees below. The plane is locked in a tight spiral, an upward corkscrew above the mountain. He reaches over to the spray valve mounted on the instrument panel and twists it all the way to the right.

Liquid flows out of the tank behind the engine. It floods down to a pump that forces it under pressure to an array of nozzles under the wings and fuselage. Long, parallel trails of mist spew from the nozzles and merge into an elongated fog, a spiral vapor trail heading toward the promise of heaven.

As the plane climbs ever upward, the vaporous spiral merges into a single, giant cloud. Over a ton of ethylene oxide floats in a volatile mist above the western base of the park, where the gate is located.

Zed’s chopper touches down lightly in the bottom of a deserted gravel pit on the far side of the city of Tigard. The two security men drag Green’s corpse out and leave it spread-eagled and staring at the urban glow overhead. That done, they trot off toward an SUV that’s been positioned for their exit. “Go,” Zed commands the pilot. He feels his spirits lift as the chopper surges skyward. God, it’s good to be young again. The arc of his life is once more ascendant, and traces a curve to heights beyond imagination.

The dead sprawl of Harlan Green shrinks into oblivion as the aircraft gains altitude.

Suddenly, a brilliant flash of light fills the night sky and rakes across the ground below. “Jesus!” the pilot exclaims. “What the hell was that?”

The final phase of the operation called for the pilot to open his door a crack, toss out a flare attached to a parachute and timer, then fly as fast and as far away as possible.

But a faulty seal in the liquid delivery system saves him the effort. A corroded rubber ring allows gas fumes to escape from the piping and accumulate in the vicinity of the pump, with its electric motor. A small spark ignites the fumes, and triggers an explosion that rips through the firewall and flings the instrument panel into Gary Jacobs’s face. He dies well in advance of burning to death.

The engine, the wings, and the fuselage all part ways in a brilliant fireball of crumpled orange, yellow, and black.

And then the fog fires up, a fog from Hell itself.

In a minute fraction of a second, a chain reaction leverages the oxygen in the air to incinerate the entire cloud, creating an explosion of staggering magnitude.

The outward expansion of the fireball is so rapid that it generates a great wall of air compressed to the hardness of stone. A blast wave of proportions seldom visited upon an urban landscape of any kind. Hundreds of houses disintegrate on the far side of Sixtieth Avenue.

On the mountain’s west side, trees fracture, pavement buckles, buildings disintegrate, vehicles flip. Humans turn to boneless jelly. The gate and its bunkers are pulverized into acrid dust.

Mount Tabor holds its breath in a vacuum of displaced air.

Lane and Rachel are out on the front porch of the command post when the bomb ignites. The sky over the tree line above them becomes a violent dawn. The house rocks on its foundation. The concussion slams their eardrums and surges through their innards.