🚀 go-pugleaf

It is not what they built. It is what they knocked down.
It is not the houses. It is the spaces between the houses.
It is not the streets that exist. It is the streets that no longer exist.
     - James Fenton. _German Requiem_.

FEAR DEATH BY WATER
Being the Seventh Episode of the Story Called
The Mind's Construction,
Which continues the First Part, called
The Grand Tour,
in which forces are mobilized,
enemies discussed,
and a route laid out.

/conscience is the inner voice that warns us that  somebody is looking./

     This is the center of the universe.
     Zero. Zero. Zero. Zero.
     Plus or minus, forward and back, up and down, this is ... it shouldn't
be called the origin, because that has connotations outside of its pure
Cartesian meaning ... but the center. The axes cross here.

     _Here_.

     And nowhere else.

 - - - -

     The press had been alerted, and their cars were parked a mile away, the
bronze 1995 Pontiac Firebird of the local AP stringer in the Kvik-Mart's lot,
two white Chevy Suburbans  from the local NBC and ABC affiliates had set up
shop behind the mini-mall next door, their microwave antennas sticking up from
behind like Tunguskan trees, the black Monte Carlo out front that belonged to
the Washington Post already sported a ticket for parking in a fire lane, and a
tow truck was on its way. There was a blue Mitsubishi, driven by an author
from Reston, pulling into the parking lot, an old green Chevy van with an
associate editor from Mother Jones in the Hardee's drive-through, and police
were arguing with a reporter from the local public radio station, who'd driven
up in on an ATV, and wanted directions to the crash site.
     The story about the propane leak kept most of them within spitting
distance of the tent set up in the mini-mall's parking lot, where coffee and
doughnuts were available, where an enterprising reporter could listen to every
word spoken by the men and women approaching the leaking propane tank, and
where there were plenty of people to interview. The fact that the police
present didn't know exactly where the crash had taken place kept the foolhardy
and the suicidal away ... it is, after all, hard to leak what you don't know,
and, eventually, even the woman from WVTF gave up and joined the rest, their
cameras aimed at the purposeful activity in the tent, their tape recorders
straining to capture every last decibel that could be heard, people in blue
suits standing with microphones out front telling their viewers about the
terrible, terrible accident. The words and the sounds all blurred together,
into one giant swirl of data. Fragments about deaths, about the hull rupture,
about the forty tanker cars full of pressurized propane, about the heroic
loader operators who gave their lives to prevent what could have been ...
could still be ... the largest explosion on the East Coast since Black Tom,
about the struggle to seal, were being assembled by the men and women of the
Fourth Estate into a triumphant, seamless tapestry, to be served up in the
morning edition or the late-night news.
     Viewed from a distance, this tapestry would be, already was, in part, a
work of art. Disparate elements would be woven together with consummate skill,
the story would be told and retold, the details blending together and becoming
something greater than the parts in the process.
     It was a work of art, and like most works of art, it bore no relation at
all, in any way, to the truth.

 - - - -

     They had to work fast, he knew. They had to get the truck out of sight
and underneath camouflage before the press got its act together and got a
chopper in the air. Doughnuts and coffee can only stall the Fourth Estate so
long. You can buy time with appetizers, but there had better be a main course.
     Fast, however, was not how things were going. Fast was _exactly_ how
things were not going. As he trotted across the rolling green of the pasture
towards the gunships' grave, he could hear the running argument between the
men in the _Trachtenberg_'s fabrication shop and the local station chief.
There was no way in hell, apparently, that a forty-tanker-car wreck could be
put together in less than half an hour, and it was the station chief's job ...
ick, damn cow pies'r'everywhere ... to keep the press out of the skies for at
least an hour, because the shop on board the _Bontriomphe_ had more sheet
aluminum and ... no, no, it was not the station chief's job to do that. It was
the station chief's job to keep this particular fiasco under wraps and it was
the fabrication shop's job to get off its duff and get busy making forty
propane tankers (who thought up this damn cover anyway?) even if it meant
climbing on the outside of the envelope and grabbing aluminum from the hull...
     ... he crested the hill, his vision fuzzy from the sweat inside his
faceplate, and saw the crash. He stopped. Oh, boy. A flip of a switch, large
enough for his gloved hands to find it, and he was on the air. "Uh, chief?"
     "...and another thing...hold on. Yeah, Mitch?"
     "Chief, I'm there."
     "Good. You got the smoke?"
     "Yeah ... uh ... I don't think we'll need them. They're ... they're on
fire, chief. Lots of smoke."
     "Put them out anyway. Don't want our friends at Meade looking at us
through the Keyhole."
     "Right."
     "Right. Now you, you slacker, I don't care if there's too much smoke
down there to see, the cover calls for forty tankers and we will *have* forty
tankers..."
     He flipped off the radio, and trotted down into the smoke.

 - - - -

     "Welcome to the _Trachtenberg_, sir. The conference room is this way,"
the uniformed man said as he greeted the stocky man in the suit stepping out
from the entry port.
     "What?" the stocky man said.
     "The conference room, sir? It's this way?"
     "Oh. Sorry. Still not used to traveling this way, no matter what our
friends at X station say. Ears still ringing. This way?"
     "Yes sir, just down this hallway."
     "Are the others there?"
     "I'm afraid I don't know, sir."
     The stocky man smiled. "Good man," he said. "Never let anything out you
don't have to. Should remember that myself. We there yet?"
     "No, sir. It's just up ahead."
     "Good. That's where I get that package you've got under your arm?"
     "Yes, sir."
     "Good, good."
     The two stopped at an unmarked door. The uniformed man pulled a flat
white card from his pocket. "Sir, please place your hand on the doorknob."
     "Fine." He did so.
     The uniformed man walked down to the next door along. With his hand on
that door's knob, he turned back to the man in the suit. "On three, sir. One,
two, three." The doors opened, and the two men entered their respective rooms.
     The man in the uniform stepped into an empty room, bare, with white
walls. To his left was a window set in steel, with a closed slab of a drawer
protruding out. He stepped up to the window, card in hand, and looked through.
The man in the suit was on the other side of the window. "Sir, I will now pass
your briefing materials through." The card was inserted in a slot that hadn't
been there until the card touched the steel, and the drawer popped open. The
folder was placed inside, the card was removed, and with a metallic chunk, the
drawer slid to the other side of the wall and opened its mouth wide.
     "Right," the man in the suit said, as he took the folder out. "Thank
you."
     "No problem, sir. Good luck."
     The man was already staring at the documents in the folder, his mind in
some other, nigh-unreachable realm. "Eh? Oh. Thank you."
     And, with that, he turned his body to the elevator door and his mind
back to work.

 - - - -

     They were swarming towards the wreckage, silver-suited ants carrying
shovels, chainsaws, arc torches, radios and metal detectors. They had slabs of
aluminum, bolt cutters, Geiger counters, hammers, screwdrivers, they carried
boxes, crates, they had flashlights and fans, mops and sponges, buckets and
hoes, Swiss Army knives and extra Biopac units, jerry-cans of water and
hundred-meal boxes of MREs..
     They disappeared into the smoke, the swirling, heavy smoke. They ran
across the fields as if the Devil himself were after them, slowing down only
after they were beneath the masking, protective cover of the smoke. Their
enemy was out there, and time was most definitely not on their side.

 - - - -

     "This is Ralph Williams, coming to you direct from Rockingham County.
Here, less than a mile away from Interstate 81, Anderson Airshipping has
suffered the largest accident in the history of modern air cargo transport.
Forty propane rail tankers have fallen from the Anderson freight airship
_Trachtenberg_. Three loaders attempted to intercept the falling tankers, with
only limited ... and tragic ... results. While it seems that the tankers did
not all immediately rupture, the crews of all three loaders are believed to
have perished preventing this. Officials of Anderson have no comment as to
what caused the accident, but informed sources speculate that the
_Trachtenberg_ was flying through thunderstorm clouds with significantly
stronger air currents than radar indicated. The National Response Center has
stated that a site representative is on its way, and state and local emergency
crews are evacuating the area around the crash site..."

 - - - -

     The elevator doors opened, and the stocky man stepped out, still
reading. In the center of the low-ceilinged room, there was a low table with
television screens under the glass surface. Surrounding it were overstuffed,
black leather chairs. The light was low, allowing the flickering television
light to dominate the room.
     ",..evacuating the area around the crash site. There are reports of fire
near the crash si..." The television was shut off, and the room became that
much darker.
     "Hook, line, and sinker," said a man sitting on the far side of the
table. He wore a well-tailored, black suit, and a very loud, very ugly tie.
"As long as our friends from the Northern entity don't decide to take a look
at things in the next two hours, we're clear. We'll have the set built by
then, and then they can look at it all they want, Keyhole or no damn Keyhole."
     "We're all on the same side, Cover. Remember that." This came from a man
hidden in the shadows and by the folder he held in front of him.
     "Respectfully, sir, that's questionable. Meade and I5 are known to be
friendly, and it looks like I5's gone rogue."
     The stocky man sat down. "I think that's leaping to conclusions, Cover."
     Cover turned to look at the newcomer. "Liaison. Finally." He looked down
at his folder, then back up. "What other conclusion do the data support,
Liaison?"
     "None."
     "Fine. So why did you butt in?"
     "The data support *no* conclusion yet. I have a message from I5's
director with me disavowing any knowledge of this action." Liaison pulled a
cream envelope from his coat pocket. "He claims that they have no covert ops
being run in Virginia at this time, that they are missing no covert ops
vehicles, and that we should check our facts before accusing any other service
of this sort of thing." Cover reached for the envelope. "It's eyes-only for
AA, Cover." The envelope was slid across the table towards the man in shadow.
     Another man leaned into the light. "Do you believe him?"
     Liaison looked at the new speaker. "I don't know. So far, it sounds to
me like the usual interagency fuckup. I'd bet that I5 is running something,
yeah, but ... oh, hell. I don't know. If they were on the level, wouldn't they
have just stayed put and said 'We're up to something, let us go, we'll call
you later.' or something? I don't know."
     "It doesn't matter if we believe it," said the man in shadow. "It's
something we have to verify. How do we do that?"
     The others in the room pondered this.
     "Er," said Liaison. "I know I'm not cleared for this, but ... do we have
any agents in I5?"
     The man in shadow nodded at the man who'd asked about belief earlier.
"Resources?"
     "No, sir. We have no resources inside I5. None. We have taps on their
public lines, and we keep ears open. Occasionally, we get something from
Quantico about them, but that's it. We do better with the Ulster Liberation
Army than we do with I5."
     "Really," said the man in shadow.
     "Yes, sir."
     "I was not aware of this. In fact, I was aware of telling you to develop
resources inside I5 several months ago."
     "Sir, we tried. I ... we ... we lost twelve agents. Disappeared. Never
turned back up. An entire portable station went missing when we sent it in."
     "I5 is ... eliminating our agents, Resources? And I was not *told*?"
     "No, sir. We are still trying ... it seemed premature to inform you ...
we're working on it ..."
     "Resources, when I took control of AA, I distinctly remember that we
had, as of 1989, three reliable sources inside I5. We now have none?"
     "That's .. that's correct, sir."
     "When did we lose Macawber? Rotring? Stewart?"
     "Uh...I'm .. I'm not sure, sir. A year or so ago. I'd have to check."
     "Inside the last year, we have lost three sources inside I5 and been
unable to establish others?"
     "Yes, sir."
     There was a pause. "The data support a conclusion now, Liaison. We will
have to proceed on the assumption that I5 has gone rogue, pending
verification." Another pause. "Do we know if they have any agents inside AA?"
     "No, sir. None that we know of. Molehunter reports several Irish
contacts that we are pursuing, but no I5 contacts.  There is the possibility
of a Fallen Arch infiltration as well."
     "Fallen Arch? Good God, man, what if they should hear about this?"
     "Relax, Cover. We've got a hundred feet of helium between us and the
hull right now, plus shielding, plus damping ... if Fallen Arch can get in
here, we might as well give up now."
     "Gentlemen ..." the man in shadow's voice stilled the conversation.  "I
believe Cover and Liaison have work to do, and Resources and I must discuss
this in private. The rest of you ... I would like suggestions concerning this
matter on my desk in the morning. Liaison, would you reconnect the elevator?"
     Liaison got up and hit a few buttons on the door. The others stood
behind him, waiting for the doors to open. When they did, they all but ran
into the small vehicle, leaving a sweating Resources and a silhouette behind.

 - - - -

     The elevator doors opened into the small white room, and the six men in
suits got out, each trembling slightly in relieved tension. Liaison opened the
door, and stepped through, colliding with one of about twenty men and women in
rolled-up shirt-sleeves who were standing outside the door. "Excuse me," he
said, but the man he'd hit ignored him and shouted at Cover.
     "Sir!" the man called. "There's trouble!"
     Cover paled. "What? Oh, God, what?"

 - - - -

     "That's right, sir. We've found the three gunships. Two survivors. We've
got the hospital set up, they're fine for the time being. No truck, though."
     Cover stared at the television screen. He saw a man in full Fire Repel
gear ... the sort that would logically be worn if anyone was stupid enough to
risk working close to a possible BLEVE detonation, Cover noted, which was
good. Keep it logical. Stupid, yes, but logical. "No truck," he said.
     The silvered faceplate nodded. "That's right, sir. There's some scorched
earth that we're examining now, but no truck that we can see. No tracks away.
If there was a semi here at all, you couldn't prove it by us."
     Oh, Christ, thought Cover, loosening his tie. "Uh," he said. "Now,
you're going to tell me you've got forensics down there, and they can't find
tracks either."
     "That's right, sir. There's nothing. Just hot dirt, burnt grass, and a
lot of cow shit. Hard to walk on those, sir. We're laying elevated tracks -
had a couple of of the isolation suits melt their feet off. We're all in Fire
Repel now."
     "Wait, hot dirt? The fires are out, right?"
     "Yes, sir. They weren't much to begin with. Just the gasbag burnt,
really, although there was some lithium spilled from one of the batteries."
     "Then why is the dirt hot?"
     "We're not sure, sir."
     Cover stared at the screen.
     "Okay. Can you get the camera over there?"
     "Where, sir?"
     "To wherever the scorched earth you talked about is."
     "Sure thing, sir."
     Cover stared at the screen some more. Behind him, face lit up by the
monitors of the remote management room, was Liaison. "Liaison?" Cover asked.
     "Yah?"
     "Liaison, does this seem right to you?"
     "Not on your tintype, Cover."
     "Is it I5?"
     Liaison didn't answer.
     "Liaison?"
     "Look, Cover, it could be I5. It's like them. They pull weird shit all
the time. Things disappear around them, they do things that don't make sense.
But the stuff they do that doesn't make sense doesn't make sense like this.
This is ... this isn't right for them. And, Lord, I hope it's not them. If
they've gone rogue ... God ... I don't know. Nobody knows how big they are.
Hell, we don't even know what Executive Order number thirty-two slash
nineteen-forty-five *says*."
     The image on the screen stopped moving, and the man in silver stepped
back into view. "This is it, sir." 'This' was a circle, about eighty feet in
diameter, of churned, steaming, soil, with shining metal paths strung over it,
lit by lamps hung from the 'ceiling' of the 'propane tankers' above. Men in
Fire Repel suits were walking over it, poking, prodding. One walked up to it
with a pick-axe.
     "That's it," said Liaison. "I don't know how, but this is how they got
out."
     "What? You think they took off like a rocket or something?"
     "I don't know. This is weird, weird in the right way. This is the hat
they pulled the rabbit out of. Don't ask *me* to explain the trick, though.
Ask the magician, Cover."
     The man with the pickaxe stepped over to a point in the circle that
looked a lot like every other part of the circle, lifted the pickaxe.
     "They crashed through traffic at three hundred miles an hour. They
smacked into a rock at two hundred miles an hour after falling five hundred
feet, and survived. They broke out of the _Trachtenberg_'s clinic, broke out
of the _Trachtenberg_, survived, took out three gunships in mid-air, and still
survived. And now they've done ... this. It doesn't make sense, Liaison..."
     The man on the screen swung the pickaxe down, . It went in ... too
easily. The man pulled it out, looked down, then disappeared.
     "What the hell was that?" shouted Cover.
     "Sir?" said the man in Fire Repel by the camera.
     "One of your men! The man with the pickaxe! He's gone!"
     "Sir? I'm sorry?"
     "One of your men took a swing at the dirt in the circle! He's gone!"
     The man turned around, ran forward. "Shit, sir, there's a hole!"
     "No shit, Sherlock! There's a hole! They're hiding down there!"
     The man knelt by the hole, carefully lying down, distributing his
weight... "Get me a flashlight! A flashlight! Hold on, Beck, hold on. You
okay?"
     A flashlight came whipping into view. Another silver-suited figure
caught it and tossed it to the man at the hole, who grabbed it, turned it on,
and stuck it down into the hole.
     "Oh, man. Oh, man. Oh, man."
     "What?" shouted Cover.
     "Oh, man. Oh, man, Oh, man." The man wriggled backward, and tossed the
flashlight down into the hole. He inched backwards, then stood up.
     "You! What's going on? What's going on down there?"
     The man ran back to the camera. "Sir! They're ... it's .. it's not a
hole, sir!"
     "What is it?"
     "It's a tunnel, sir! They're gone!"

 - - - -

     In another room on board the _Trachtenberg_, a radio was playing. FM
radio, the local alternative station. The airship's accountant lifted a piece
of paper from his in box, licked his pencil's tip, and laid it down in front
of him.
     Blues Traveler was cut off, just as pencil touched paper, by a blast of
static. The accountant looked up in irritation. Were the men in the
fabrication shop building hair dryers again? He had the phone lifted to his
ear and his finger on the buttons by the time the static faded. He paused ...
this wasn't Blues Traveler, this was ...
     "Welcome to the airwaves, gents!" the radio said. "Free air, kids, and
fuck the FCC! Today's story ... we've got AA up to its old tricks, live and in
stereo ... pull up a chair and listen in, because somebody's got to say
something about it, and it might as well be ... the Voice ... of the
Revolution!"