Mike Maden - River of Gods

“One,” Troy said, serious as a heart attack. He wanted to tease his way out of Judy’s doghouse.

“Two beds,” Judy corrected. She punched Pearce in the shoulder. “Two trailers , now that I think about it.”

Judy had only planned to shower, but as soon as she toweled off and re-dressed in her dirty clothes, she got the bright idea to lie down on the bed for a few minutes to rest her aching back. She passed out immediately.

Three hours later, a soft knock on the door startled her awake.

“Ms. Hopper? Are you decent?” Holliday whispered.

Judy bolted upright, dazed and groggy. “Uh, yeah. Come in.”

The door pushed slightly open and Holliday slipped in, shutting it swiftly behind him as if he were sneaking between barracks in a prison camp. The bachelor officers’ quarters were little more than a motel room—a bedroom with a desk and TV set and a bathroom.

“Sorry to wake you, but we have a situation,” Holliday said.

“What situation?” Judy swung her legs off the bed and reached for her boots.

Holliday touched a finger to his lips as he removed a handheld scanner from his pocket. He waved it back and forth as he moved toward the bathroom, then thrust the bug scanner through the bathroom door and checked the readings. “We’re clear here.”

“So what’s the situation?” Judy asked again.

“It’s your friend Pearce. He’s gone.”

“What do you mean he’s gone? Is the plane still here?”

“Yes, and fueled and ready to go, and your package arrived from our friend in Colorado.”

“‘Our friend’? How do you know her?”

“Margaret and I go back a long way. We actually dated in college for a few months. But she thought I was a flake because I wanted to join the Peace Corps after graduation, so we broke up. But we remained good friends ever since. She even nominated me to be the ambassador to Morocco, but when she resigned, Diele had me replaced and I was shitcanned to this backwater. Turns out this place is getting more interesting by the day. Here.” Holliday handed her a slip of paper.

“GPS coordinates.”

“Your new destination, just over the border in Mali. Got them thirty minutes ago.”

“Why isn’t she communicating with us directly anymore?”

“Margaret thinks her communications are being monitored, so she had to backdoor this through your man Ian.”

“Who’s monitoring her?”

“Not sure. That’s probably why she’s going dark for a while. You and your team will be on your own until further notice. Any idea where Pearce might have gone?”

“Without these coordinates? No. You’re sure he’s gone?”

“He’s not at the plane, he’s not at the hangar, and he’s not in his quarters. I can’t exactly tell Captain Sotero he’s gone missing. She’s already cockeyed about this whole thing. The last thing we want is for her to unleash base security for a manhunt.”

Judy stood up. “I’m going to grab some more coffee, then I’ll head back over to the plane.”

“If Pearce doesn’t show up, will you still take the mission?”

She shrugged. “Of course. Mike Early is an American, isn’t he?”

Holliday’s voice took on a fatherly tone. “Couple of things. You’re aware that this mission is strictly off the books, right? I know Margaret burned some bridges when she was in office, but now she’s persona non grata all over D.C., like she’s got the plague or something.”

“She told me as much when she called me.”

“That means you’re not legally crossing into Mali airspace.”

“Shouldn’t be much of a problem.”

“Not unless you get into trouble. If you do, the American government won’t be able to help you, because you’re breaking the law.”

“We’ve never counted on anybody to help us. Especially the feds. No offense.”

“The Air Force might also arrest you when you return, since you’re originating your flight from one of their air bases. They’ll track your plane to and from Mali using your IFF transponder.”

“Still not a problem. I can shut it off from the cockpit before we enter Mali airspace.” That was illegal under international air traffic regulations, but Judy believed it was better to ask for forgiveness than permission when it came to operational security.

“Right, and you’ll need to. But once you do, any military aircraft that encounters you will assume you’re either hostile or criminal and will likely shoot you down.” Worry framed his kindly face.

“This ain’t my first rodeo, Mr. Holliday.” Judy tried to comfort him with a smile.

“You’re a very brave young woman.”

“I’m a pilot for Pearce Systems. It’s what I do.”

“And what is Pearce Systems, if I may ask?”

Judy had to think about that. She’d been away for several months now. Heard through the grapevine it had changed a lot.

“It’s a private security and technology firm. Drones, mostly. Air, sea, and land.”

Holliday frowned, curious. “And here you are on a drone base. That’s quite a coincidence.”

“Gee, it is, isn’t it? I hadn’t thought about that until now.”

He tried to read her guileless face. “Are you a drone pilot, too?”

“Me? No, I’m terrible at it. Even with haptics. I fly by feel, not numbers.”

“But a drone is safer, isn’t it?”

“Sure, at least for the pilot. But I don’t fly to feel safe. I fly because I love it. It’s what I was born to do.”

“Well, I’ll say it again. You’re a very brave young woman. Best of luck to you.”

“Thanks. We’re gonna need it.”

Glory Box Café

Coeur d’Alene, Idaho

7 May

It was 3 a.m. when the blond woman with a French-braided ponytail and a Colorado Buffalos ball cap slipped into a padded booth. A few locals lingered in the main lounge. Sleeve tattoos and pierced noses, mostly. Dusty moose heads, snowshoes, and salmon trophies adorned the rough-timbered walls. A performance space in the corner was empty save for a mic stand and an empty stool. She could smell the sweet tang of pot in the air.

A heavy Hispanic kid with a mop of curly hair and a pencil-thin beard ringing his jawline dropped a large plastic tumbler of ice water and a menu in front of her. His black T-shirt was stained. Pink letters read GLORY BOX. She asked for coffee and he asked what kind, they had a bunch. “Strong,” was all she said. But he was slurring his words, probably stoned, so she added, “Caffeinated,” and as an afterthought, “two eggs, fried hard.”

She sipped the coffee and waited. It was all she could do. Ian had managed to get her the address safely. She used every trick in the book to get here without being followed—cash only, no cell phone, and the blond wig being the three most important. Now she sat in the all-night café and waited for Ian to contact her again.

Margaret Myers took another sip. She guessed the coffee was Sumatra, but she wasn’t sure. It was strong, all right, and a little burnt. But she wasn’t here for the coffee.

The Hispanic kid and the cannabis aroma brought back memories. She was glad she had waged war on the drug lords. A lot of bad hombres got planted in the dirt, and drug violence had decreased dramatically on both sides of the border now that President Madero was in charge down there. The irony, of course, was that marijuana had been legalized in several states since then, including her home state of Colorado. There was much further to go in the drug war, but President Greyhill wasn’t the man for the job. Maybe her critics were right. Maybe the nation would never have the wherewithal to fight it like a real war. If that was true, legalization was inevitable, and it wouldn’t end with marijuana.