The Icarus Agenda

Chapter 42

It could not happen! As if he had suddenly lost all balance, all control, Kendrick raised his arms as he slid off the fuselage, crashing the wire cutters down into the stock of the rifle. The guard started to cry out in pain as the weapon was whipped out of his arm to the ground, but before the scream could reach a crescendo Emilio was on him, crashing the blunt end of his hatchet into the man's skull.

'Can you move?’ the Mexican asked Evan, whispering. 'We must leave here! Quickly! The other guard will run over to this side.'

Writhing on the concrete, Evan nodded his head and struggled to his feet, picking up the wire cutters and the rifle as he rose. 'Get him out of here,' he said, instantly realizing that he did not have to give the order; Emilio was dragging the unconscious man across the helipad into the tall grass. Limping, his left ankle and his right knee burning with pain, Kendrick followed.

'I have made a mistake,' said the Mexican, shaking his head and still whispering. 'We have only one chance… I watched you as you walked. We can never reach the dock and the boats without being seen before the other guard will understand he has no compaüero.' Emilio pointed to his oblivious countryman. 'In the darkness I must be him, and get close enough before the other one realizes I am not.'

'He'll shout first, ask you what happened. What'll you say?'

'I stepped into the grass to relieve myself and struck a large sharp rock in my haste. I will limp as you are limping and offer to show him where I bleed.'

'Can you get away with it?'

'Pray to the Virgin that I can. Otherwise we both die.' The Mexican rose and slung the rifle over his shoulder. 'One request, please,' he added. 'This guarda is not a bad man, and he has family in El Suazal, where there is no work at all. Bind his legs and his arms and stuff his mouth with his own clothes. I cannot kill him.'

'Do you know who the other guard is?' asked Evan harshly.

'No.'

'Suppose you can't kill him, either?'

'Why is it a problem? I am a strong fisherman from El Descanso when there are boats that will hire me. I can bind him myself—or bring back another compañero for us.'

The second option was not to be. No sooner had the limping Emilio reached the dirt road at the side of the helipad than the south guard came running down. As they drew closer there was a brief exchange in Spanish, then suddenly a vocal eruption from one of the two men and it was not the fisherman from El Descanso. Silence instantly followed and moments later Emilio returned.

'No compañero,' said Kendrick, not asking a question.

'That snarling rata would claim his mother is a whore if the policia paid him enough!'

'“Would,” as in the past tense?'

'No comprende.'

'He's dead?'

'Dead, señor, and in the grass. Also, we have less than thirty minutes before the light comes up in the east.'

'Then let's go… your friend is bound.'

‘To the dock? To the boats?'

'Not yet, amigo. We have something else to do before we get there.'

'I tell you it will be light soon!'

'If I do things right, there'll be a lot more light sooner than that. Get the gasoline and pick up the tree clippers. I can't manage much more than what I've got.'

Step by agonizing step, Evan climbed the narrow dirt road behind the Mexican until they reached the island's immense, fence-enclosed generator, the bass-toned hum assaulting their ears to the point of painful vibrations. Signs of ¡Pellagra!…Danger! were everywhere, and the single gate to the interior was secured by two huge plate-locks that apparently took the simultaneous insertion of keys to open. Limping around into the darkest shadows of the floodlights, Kendrick gave the order while handing Emilio the wire cutters. 'Start here, and I hope you're as strong as you say you are. This is heavy-gauge fence. Slice an opening, three feet's enough.'

'And you, señor?'

'I have to look around.'

He found them! Three iron discs screwed into concrete thirty feet apart, three enormous tanks, cisterns for fuel, supplemented by banks of photovoltaic cells somewhere which no longer concerned him. Opening a disc required a T-squared hexagonal wrench, its upper bars long enough for two strong men on each bar. But there was another way and he knew it well from the desert tanks in Saudi Arabia; an emergency procedure in the event the caravans of fuel trucks forgot the implement, not uncommon in the Jabal deserts. Each supposedly impenetrable disc had fourteen ridges across the top, not much different from the manhole covers in most American cities, although much smaller. Hammered slowly counterclockwise, the circular vaults would loosen until hands and fingers could reach the sides and unscrew them.

Kendrick walked back to Emilio and the near deafening island generator. The Mexican had cut through two parallel vertical lines and was starting at the ground level base. 'Come with me!' said Evan, shouting into Emilio's ear. 'Have you got your hatchet?'

'Pues si.'

'So do I.'

Kendrick led the Mexican back to the first iron disc and instructed him how to use the towels from the electronic cabin to muffle the blows from the blunt ends of their hatchets. 'Slowly,' he yelled. 'A spark can set off the fumes, comprende?'

'No, señor.'

'It's better that you don't. Easy now! One tap at a time. Not so hard!… It's moving!'

'Now harder?'

'Christ, no! Easy, amigo. As if you were cracking a diamond,'

'It has not been my pleasure—’

'It will be if we get out of here… There! It's free! Unscrew it to the top and leave it there. Give me your towels.'

'For what, señor?'

‘I’ll explain as soon as you get me through that door you're cutting in the fence.'

'That will take time—’

'You've got about two minutes, amigo!'

'Madre de Dies!'

'Where did you put the gasoline?' Kendrick moved closer to be heard.

'There!' replied the Mexican, pointing to the left of the 'door' he was cutting.

Crouching painfully in the shadows, Evan tied the towels together, tugging at each knot to make sure it was secure until he had a single ten-foot length of cloth. His body aching with each twisting movement, he unscrewed the top of the petrol can and drenched the string of towels, squeezing each as if it were a dishcloth. In minutes he had a ten-foot fuse. His knee now boiling, his ankle swelling rapidly, he crawled back to the fuel tank dragging the towels at his side. Straining, he prised up the iron cover, inserting three feet of fuse and moving the heavy disc off centre so that a flow of air would circulate throughout the black tank below. Backtracking, he pressed each towel, each leg of his fuse, firmly in the ground, sprinkling dirt over each, but only 'dusting' them so as to retard the speed of the flame from base to gaseous contact.

The last towel in place, he stood—wondering briefly how long he could stand—and limped back to Emilio. The Mexican was pulling the heavy-gauged cut-out section of the fence towards him, bending it up to permit access into massive, glistening machinery that through the dynamo-electrical process converted mechanical energy into electricity.

'That's enough,' said Kendrick, bending over to speak close to Emilio's ear. 'Now listen to me carefully, and if you don't understand, stop me. From here on everything is timing—something happens and we do something else. Comprende?'

'Si. We move to other places.'

'That's about it.' Evan reached into the pocket of his mud-encrusted jacket and withdrew the torch. 'Take this,' he continued, nodding his head at the hole in the fence. 'I'm going in there and I hope to hell I know what I'm doing—these things have changed since I installed them—but if nothing else I can shut it down. There may be a lot of noise and big sparks—’

'¿Cómo?'

'Like short bolts of lightning and… and sounds like very loud static on the radio, do you understand?'

'It is enough—’

'Not enough. Don't get near the fence—don't touch it and at the first crack, turn away and shut your eyes… with any luck all the lights will go out and when they do, shine the torch on the opening in the fence, okay?'

'Okay.'

'As soon as I get through to this side, swing the light over there.' Kendrick pointed at the last of his knotted towels protruding out of the ground. 'Have your rifle over your shoulder and hold out one for me—have you got the cap you took from the first guard? If you have, give it to me.'

'Si'. Here.' Emilio took the cap out of his pocket and handed it to Evan, who put it on.

'When I'm clear of the fence, I'll go over there and strike a match, setting the towels on fire. The second I do that we get out of here to the other side of the road, comprende?'

'I understand, señor. Into the grass at the other side of the road. We hide.'

'We hide; we work our way up the hill in the grass, and when everyone starts running around, we join them!'

'¿Cómo?'

'Twenty-odd personnel,' said Kendrick, checking his pockets and removing the two tins of fuel, replacing them in his trousers, then ripping the coat off his back and the tie off his neck. 'We're only two of them in the dark, but we'll be making our way over the hill and down to the dock. With two rifles and a Colt .45.'

'I understand.'

'Here we go,' said Evan as he awkwardly, painfully bent down and picked up the rubber-handled tree clipper and a machete.

He crawled through Emilio's opening and rose to his feet, studying the whirring, life-threatening machinery. Some things had not changed, they never would. Above on the left, bolted into a fifteen-foot-high tar-covered pole, was the main transformer, the shunt wires carrying the major load of power to the various offshoots, the cables encased in rubber conduit at least two inches in diameter to prevent seepage from water—rain and humidity—which would short-circuit the load. Ten feet away on the ground and diagonally opposed above the two black squat main dynamos were the grid plates, whirling maniacally on flywheels on top of the machinery, changing one field of energy into another, protected by a heavy latticework of wire and cooled by the air that had open access. He would study them further but not now.

First things first, he thought, moving to his left and extending the telescopic tree clipper to its full height. Above in the floodlights the saw-toothed jaws of the long instrument gripped the upper shunt cable, and as he had done with the wire cutters on the tail assembly of the helicopter, he worked furiously up and down until his professional instincts told him he was within millimetres of the first layer of coiled copper. He gently leaned the extended metal pole against the fence and turned to the first of the two main dynamos.

If it were merely a question of shorting the island's electrical power, he would simply continue slicing into the transformer's conduit while gripping the nonconductive rubber handles and let the short take place by angling the metal clipper into the metal fence when he struck cable. There would be a brief electrical explosion and all the power terminated. However, more was at stake; he had to face the probability that neither he nor Emilio would survive, and a damaged transformer cable could be repaired in a matter of minutes. He had to inflict more than damage; he had to cripple the system. He could not know what was happening in San Diego, he could only give Payton's forces time by disabling the machinery to the point where it would take days to replace, not repair. This island compound, this headquarters of a government within a government, had to be immobilized, isolated, without means of communication or departure. The transformer was, in actuality, his backup, his far less desirable option, but it had to be there and ready to execute. Time was everything now!

He approached the dynamo, cautiously peering into the enormous wire-encased flywheel. There was a horizontal space, no more than half an inch wide, separating the upper and lower screens of thick latticework that kept objects of any size from penetrating the whirring interior. That space or something similar was what he had hoped to find, the reason for the machete. Sections of all generators, needing air, had openings of extremely limited dimensions, vertically and horizontally; this was his. It was either his or he was its in death; one slip meant instant electrocution, and even if he avoided death by millicounts of high voltage, he could be blinded by the exploding streaks of white electric light if he did not turn away in time, keeping his eyes tightly closed. But if he could do it, the island's generator would be shut down for major replacement. Time… time might well be the last gift he had to give.

He pulled the machete out of his belt, sweat pouring down his face despite the wind from the flywheel, and inched the blade towards the horizontal space… Trembling, he yanked the machete back; he had to steady his hands! He could not touch either edge of the narrow space! He tried again, inserting one inch, then two, and three… he rammed the heavy blade inside, snapping back both hands before the blade made contact and lurched to the ground behind him, his face and eyes buried under his arms. The self-contained electrical detonations were ear-shattering, and despite his tightly closed eyes, white blinding light was everywhere in the darkness.

The flywheel would not stop! It kept chewing up the primitive metal of the machete while spewing out bolts of Frankensteinian electrical charges, spitting jaggedly, violently into the fence.

Kendrick leaped up, shielding his eyes, and, step by cautious step, crossed back to the tree clipper, its saw-toothed jaws embedded in the transformer's conduit. He gripped the rubber handles, and in desperation crashed them back and forth until the jolt threw him off his feet. He had struck the cable proper and the telescoped metal clippers fell into the metal fence. The whole generator complex went mad, as if its electrical inhabitants were infuriated by mere man's interference with his superior inventions. Lights went out everywhere, but there were still blinding, erratic, jagged streaks of electrical lightning within the lethal fenced enclosure. He had to get out!

Scrambling on his stomach, his arms and legs propelling him like a racing spider's, he reached the hole in the fence, the beam of the torch guiding him through. When he got to his feet, the rifle was thrust into his hands by Emilio.

'Matches!' yelled Evan, unable to reach his own; the Mexican gave him a handful while angling the torch over to the last towel. Kendrick ran, limping to his fuse, lurching to the ground and striking half a dozen matches on a rock. As they flared he threw them on the last towel; the flame caught and started its deadly journey, slowly, relentlessly, no more than a glow in the dirt.

'Hurry!' cried Emilio, helping Evan to his feet and leading him, not to the path back to the dirt road, but instead into the high grass below. 'Many have come out of the house and are running down! Pronto, señor!'

They raced, literally diving into the grass as a swarm of panicked men, most with rifles, approached the blinding, erupting generator, shielding their eyes and shouting at one another. During the chaos Kendrick and his Mexican companion crawled through the grass below the terror-stricken crowd. They reached the road as another equally stupefied stream of men came rushing out of the long, low building that was the staff's barracks. Most were only half dressed, many in undershorts, and not a few showing the effects of too much alcohol.

'Listen to me,' whispered Evan into Emilio's ear. 'We'll get out there carrying our rifles and start up the road… Keep shouting in Spanish as though we were following someone's orders. Now!'

‘¡Traenes agua!' roared the Mexican as both men sprang out of the grass and joined the stunned, screaming crowd from the barracks. ¡Agua!… ¡Traenes agua!' They broke through the mass of excited bodies only to be confronted by the panicked contingent from the main house, half of whom had cautiously moved down the path to the dying, smoking, spitting machinery that had been the island's source of power. The darkness was awesome, made eerie by the maniacal voices shouting everywhere in the dim, intermittent moonlight. Then beams of light shot out from the house above.

'The path!' cried Kendrick. 'Head for the main path down to the dock. For God's sake, hurry! That tank will blow any second and there'll be a stampede for the boats!'

'It is ahead. We must pass through the galena.'

'Christ, they'll be at the windows, on the balconies!'

There is no other way, no quicker way.'

'Let's go!'

The dirt road stopped, replaced by the narrow path that only minutes ago had been bordered by the parallel rows of domed amber lights. They ran, Kendrick lurching in agony, down into the sunken patio, racing across the bricks to the steps that led to the main path.

'Stop!' roared a deep voice as the beam of a powerful torch swung down on them. 'Where are you… Jesus Christ, it's you!' Evan looked up. Directly above, standing on the short balcony he had stood on barely an hour ago, was the outsized yachtsman. In his hand was a gun; it was being raised, aimed at Kendrick. Evan fired his rifle at the same instant the yachtsman's weapon exploded. He felt the searing hot bullet slice into his left shoulder, hurling him back off his feet. He fired again and again as the giant above held his stomach, screaming at the top of his lungs. 'It's him! It's Kendrick!… Stop the son of a bitch, stop him! He's going down to the boats!'

Kendrick took closer aim and fired a last shot. High Noon in the Town of Corruption grabbed his throat, arched his neck, then fell forward over the railing and down into the brick patio. Evan's eyes began to close, the mists swirling about his head.

'No, señor! You must run! Get to your feet!' Kendrick felt his arms being pulled out of their sockets and his face being repeatedly, harshly slapped. 'You will come with me or you will die, and I will not die with you! I have loved ones in El Descanso—’

'What?' shouted Evan, saying nothing, agreeing to nothing, but answering everything as part of the mists cleared. His shoulder on fire, the blood drenching his shirt, he rose and lurched for the steps, somehow in the far reaches of his mind remembering the Colt .45 he had taken from the Mafioso, ripping it out of his back pocket, tearing the stretched cloth to remove the weapon too large for its recess. I'm with you!' he cried out to Emilio.

'I know,' replied the Mexican, slowing his pace and turning around. 'Who pulled you up the steps, señor?… You are hurt and the path is dark so I must use the linterna—the flashlight.'

Suddenly the earth exploded, shaking the ground with the impact of a block-sized meteor, smashing windows throughout the big house on top of the hill and sending fire up into the night sky. The generator's fuel tank erupted into the heavens as the two fugitives raced down the path, Kendrick staggering, trying desperately to focus on the wavering beam of light ahead, his knee and ankle searing in pain.

Shots. Gunfire! Bullets snapped above them, around them, digging up the earth in front of them. Emilio switched off the torch and grabbed Evan's hand. 'It is not much longer now. I know the way and I will not let go of you.'

'If we ever get away from here, you're going to have the biggest fishing boat in El Descanso!'

'No, señor, I will move my family to the hills. These men will come after me, after my nifios.'

'How about a ranch?' The moon abruptly emerged from beyond the rushing, low-flying clouds, revealing the island's dock barely two hundred feet away. The gunfire had ceased; it started up again, but again the earth seemingly blew apart, an isolated galactic mass in frenzy. 'It happened!' shouted Kendrick as they neared the base of the dock.

'Señor?' cried the Mexican, terrified at the ear-shattering, unexpected detonation, panicked by the ball of smoke and the branches of fire that rose beyond the house on the hill. This island will go into the sea! What happened?'

'The second tank blew! I couldn't predict, I could only hope.'

A single gunshot. From the dock. Emilio was hit! He doubled over grabbing his upper thigh as the blood spread through his trousers. A man with a rifle moved out of the moonlit shadows fifty feet away, raising a hand-held intercom to his face. Evan crouched, his whole body now a festering boil, and raised his left hand to steady his right and the Colt automatic. He fired twice, one or both of his shots hitting the target. The guard reeled, dropping both the rifle and the radio; he fell on the thick wood planks and was still.

'Come on, amigo!' cried Kendrick, gripping Emilio's shoulder.

'I cannot travel I have no leg!'

'Well, I'm not going to die with you, you bastard! I've got a couple of loved ones, too, over there. Get off your ass or swim back to El Descanso and your niños!'

‘¿Como?' shouted the Mexican furiously as he struggled to rise.

That's better. Get angry! We've both got a lot to be angry about.' His arm around Emilio's waist, his barely functioning shoulder and legs supporting the Mexican, the two men walked out on the dark dock. The big boat on the right!' yelled Evan, grateful that the moon had gone back behind the clouds. 'You know about boats, amigo?'

'I am a fisherman!'

'Boats like this?' asked Kendrick, propelling Emilio over the side on to the deck, laying the .45 on the gunwale.

'You don't catch fish on these boats, you catch turistas.'

'There's another definition—’

'Es igua!… Still, I have run many boats. I can try… The other boats, señor! They will come out and find us for they are much faster than this beautiful one.'

'Could any of them make it to the mainland?'

'Never. They cannot take heavy swells, and burn fuel too quickly. Thirty, forty kilometres and they must come back. This is the barca for us.'

'Give me your Sterno!' yelled Evan, hearing shouts up on the main path. The Mexican yanked the small tin out of his right pocket as Kendrick removed his two and prised up the lids with the carving knife. 'Open yours, if you can!'

'I have. Here, señor. I go up to the bridge.'

'Can you make it?'

'I have to… El Descanso.'

'Oh, Christ! A key! For the engine?

'In these private docks it is customary to leave the key on board in case storms or heavy winds make it necessary to move—’

'Suppose they didn't?'

'All fishermen go out with many drunken captains. There are panels to open and wires to cross. Get the lines, señor!'

'Two ranches,' said Evan as Emilio hobbled to the bridge ladder.

Kendrick turned, grabbing the Colt automatic from the gunwale and digging out the solid fuel of the Sterno with his fingers. He ran down the dock throwing handfuls over the canvas of each huge speedboat, heaving each empty can into each boat. At the last boat he reached into his pocket and pulled out a fistful of matches, crouching in pain and frantically striking one after another on the wooden planks of the dock and lobbing them into the globs of scattered jelly until the flames leaped up from all the coverings. At each speedboat he fired the automatic into the hulls near the water lines, the powerful weapon blowing large holes in whatever the light alloy was that permitted the boats their excessive speed.

Emilio had done it! The deep-throated roar of the fishing yacht's engines broke through the water… Shouts! Men were racing down the steep path from the manor house on the hill, the fires beyond it now a steady glow.

'Señor! Quickly… the lines!'

The ropes on the pylons! Kendrick ran to the thick pole on the right and struggled with the knotted line; it pulled free and slipped into the water. He lurched, barely able to stay on his feet, and reached the second pylon, yanking in panic until it, too, came loose.

'Stop them! Kill them!' It was the frenzied voice of Crayton Grinell, chairman of the board of a government within the government. Men swarmed on to the base of the island dock, their weapons suddenly on open fire, the fusillades shattering. Evan dived off the pier and into the stern of the yacht as Emilio swung the boat to the left, engines at full power, and curved out of the cove into the darkness of the sea.

A third and final immense detonation burst over the hill beyond the manor house. The distant night sky became a yellow cloud, then jagged streaks of white and red intruded; the last tank had blown apart. The island of the murderous government within a government was immobilized, isolated, incommunicado. No one could leave. They had done it!

'Señor!' screamed Emilio from the bridge.

'What?' yelled Kendrick, rolling on the deck, trying but unable to rise, his body jolting everywhere in torment, the blood from his wound forming bulges of floating liquid inside his shirt.

'You must come up here!'

'I can't!'

'You must! I am shot. The pecho—the chest!'

'It's your leg!'

'No!… From the dock. I am falling, señor. I cannot handle the wheel.'

'Hold on!' Evan yanked his shirt out of his trousers; pools of blood poured on to the deck. He crawled over to the shellacked ladder and, calling upon reservoirs of strength he could not believe existed, pulled himself up rung by rung to the bridge. He breached the upper deck and looked over at the Mexican. Emilio was holding on to the wheel, but his body had sunk below the bridge's windows. Kendrick grabbed the railing and got to his feet, barely able to steady himself. He lurched over to the wheel, appalled by the darkness and the swell of the waves that rocked the boat. Emilio fell to the floor, his hand springing away from the circular rudder. 'What can I do?' yelled Evan.

'The… radio,' choked the Mexican. 'I haul nets and I am not a captain, but I have heard them in bad weather… There is a channel for urgencia, numero diedseis!'

'What?'

'Sixteen!'

'Where's the radio?'

'On the right of the wheel. The switch is on the left. Pronto!'

'How do I call them?'

'Take out the microfono and press the button. Say you are premero de mayo!'

'May Day?'

'¡Si!… Madre de Dios…' Emilio collapsed on the bridge deck, unconscious or dead.

Kendrick lifted the plastic-coiled microphone out of its cradle, snapped on the radio and studied the digital readout below the console. Unable to think, the boat battered by swells he could not see, he kept tapping the keyboard until the number 16 appeared and then pressed the button.

'This is Congressman Evan Kendrick!' he screamed. 'Am I reaching anyone?' He released the button.

This is Coast Guard, San Diego,' came the flat reply.

'Can you patch me into a telephone line at the Westlake Hotel? It's an emergency!'

'Anybody can say anything, sir. We're not a phone service.'

'I repeat. I'm Congressman Evan Kendrick from the ninth district of Colorado and this is an emergency. I'm lost at sea somewhere west or south of Tijuana!'

'Those are Mexican waters—’

'Call the White House! Repeat what I've just told you… Kendrick of Colorado!'

'You're the guy who went to that Oman…?'

'Get your orders from the White House!'

'Keep your radio open, I'll take your co-ordinates for the RDF-'

'I don't have time and I don't know what you're talking about.'

'It's the radio directional finder—'

'For Christ's sake, Coast Guard, patch me through to the Westlake and get your orders! I have to reach that hotel.'

'Yes, sir, Commando Kendrick!'

'Whatever works,' mumbled Evan to himself as the sounds from the console speaker erupted in different tones until there was the hum of a telephone ringing. The switchboard answered. 'Room Fifty-One! Hurry, please.'

'Yes?' cried the strained voice of Khalehla.

'It's me!' shouted Kendrick, pressing the button for transmission, then instantly releasing it.

'For God's sake, where are you?'

'In the ocean somewhere, forget it! There's an attorney, a lawyer Ardis used for herself, and he's got a ledger that spells out everything! Find him! Get it!'

'Yes, of course, I'll reach MJ right away. But what about you? Are you—’

Another voice intruded, the deep commanding tones unmistakable. 'This is the President of the United States. Find that boat, find that man, or all your asses are in a sling!'

The swells tossed the boat like an insignificant bauble in a furious sea. Evan could no longer hold on to the wheel. The mists returned and he collapsed over the body of the fisherman from El Descanso.