Jack Martin drummed his fingers against his leg. The thin chill Rocky Mountain breeze blasted into his face as the rugged Jeep trotted along the descending highway. But he kept his window down.
The driver of the Jeep didn't mind at all; his name was James, but everyone called him "Chip" for some reason or other, and he was known for his ability to focus on whatever task was at hand, ignoring irrelevant stimuli.The task at the moment was "driving Jack Martin into town for supplies". Chip was decent enough company, even though he didn't talk much; he didn't give off that "crazy" vibe like some of the other Tiger,Tiger brethren.
Didn't mean he wasn't crazy; just that he didn't give off that vibe.
Jack watched the scenery whiz by. Chip kept it to just over the speed limit; just fast enough to keep up with everyone else, not fast or slow enough to draw police attention. They had fake licenses, of course, and somewhere along the line someone had fixed it so that said licenses would show up on the police computers as real (again Jack was astounded and disturbed by the resources Tiger, Tiger seemed to command), so trouble with the law was unlikely; nonetheless, their leader, Jerry, was not keen on anyone taking chances... ever.
Nor was Jerry one to take chances, either... even though Jack felt that his Karloffian overseer had grown to trust him, Jack was still never allowed to go anywhere by himself. It was a matter of policy; no one was. It was a shrewd strategy designed to keep any infiltrator from reporting his discoveries to outsiders, and it could certainly be said to work. Jack hadn't once been in a position where he could even think about getting a message out.
As usual when he made these little outings for supplies, he harbored the hope in the back of his mind that this would be the time; that Chip would be distracted for just a moment, and he'd get his chance. But he didn't think about it too much; the last thing he needed was to seem all twitchy and anxious. No, bored and a little bit annoyed was a much better mood to present.
"Care if I switch the radio?" he asked, preparing to do so in any case. There was far too much country music in Colorado.
"Knock yourself out," Chip replied, "I tune it out anyway."
Jack scanned the dial for something interesting, finally settling on some call-in sports show.
A sign said "Chesterburg - 21 miles".
The road to Chesterburg was a typical Rocky Mountain highway; lots
of curves, hills, and vistas. The headquarters for "Operation Barnum" was
naturally off in the middle of nowhere; far from prying eyes, but also far
from supplies. A trek in to the nearest large town (Chesterburg) was an
all-day event and, as such, was only undertaken in emergencies, not
counting the twice-weekly expeditions that two Tiger, Tiger crazies named
Steve and Dolores made for such contingencies as food and laundry.
Thus was different. Jack needed a very specific type of generator
to handle the lighting requirements of his scaled-down circus... he would
have to inspect the available supply himself, in person. It was a chore,
and one he'd have gladly pawned off on any one of the dozen people who were
working with him on his project except for two important considerations: he
didn't trust anyone else not to screw it up, and there was always a chance
he'd be able to sneak a message out.
Though Chesterburg wasn't a large town by any standards, it did
have a mall and several other places where generators could be had. Being
the Rockies, there was always a demand for them; a heavy storm could strand
people for weeks without power, and the celebrities and CEOs who had ski
chalets in the area couldn't possibly go that long without access to their
satellite TVs.
They were heading for Sears; a large-volume chain store like that
would grant them more anonymity than a smaller mom-and-pop outfit. It was
always assumed that when this all was said and done, there would be plenty
of people with badges from acronymous agencies asking questions, and a
clerk in a store that sold fifty generators a week was much less likely to
remember the faces of everyone he'd sold to in the past six months than the
co-owner of a small shop that sold one a month.
Of course, it would never get to that point. Jack would find a way
to write "fin" to this caper long before it got to the point where there
would be investigators asking questions about the horrors in the hills. He
would find a way to shut down this terror factory long before Jerry's kids
were able to commit their latest atrocity. He would do it. He would find a
way.
Somehow.
After a short eternity, they entered the Chesterburg City Limits,
announced as such by a large touristy painted sign portraying pine trees
and snow-capped peaks. They drove past the McDonald's (Chip scowled and
grunted at the "Umpty Trillion Sold" sign... thinking of the innumerable
cows that added up to that number) and several convenience stores, as well
as strip malls, taverns and other accouterments of civilization.
Jack's stomach rumbled as they passed a pizza parlor. He'd have to
try to coax Chip into stopping for a large pie (veggie, of course) on the
way out.
They rolled into the lot of the Chesterburg Mall at about two in
the afternoon. The sky was snow-flurry gray, and the lot was fairly crowded
with pick-ups and sports-utility vehicles. It was Saturday, the day the
mall came alive; Jack had deliberately chosen the most anonymously crowded
day of the week, in keeping with Jerry's oft-spoken wish that everybody
keep as low a profile as possible at all times.
Chip parked under a light-post at a spot where the parked
congestion was lightest (easier to find the truck should a fast getaway be
required). Of course, this meant a longer walk to get into the mall, but
after the long time on the road Jack welcomed the opportunity to stretch
his grumpy leg muscles.
They walked in the mall entrance nearest the Sears, making Guy Talk
as they went... how's about them Broncos? Yeah, gotta tune the engine
Saturday. You catch the Dirty Harry flick the other night?... Very
inconspicuous, very average.
As might be expected from the way they were dressed, the
"characters" they were portraying, Jack and Chip headed right for the
hardware section once they stepped through Sears' enormous entrance from
within the mall. There was a small display of generators, and Jack busied
himself checking the specifications on each one. Several seemed usable.
Nevertheless...
"I'm not sure about the impedence," he said to Chip.
"What do you mean?"
"I'm not sure whether one or two of these bad boys here can handle
the load."
"Any way you can check?"
"Well, I brought some notes, but not enough..."
Chip nodded understandingly. The less paper they brought with them,
the better... a car wreck, a bust on traffic charges, even a stiff wind,
these were things that could destroy the entire operation if any
incriminating paperwork fell into the wrong hands.
So it had to be expected that by chance or by fortune Jack would be
missing the one note he needed most. Just Murphy's law in action.
Or so Chip thought. Jack hoped.
"What if you call in? Anybody know where your notes are?" Chip was
taking the bait.
"Sure. Bearclaw or Suzanne should be able to find the info no problem."
"Okay. Why don't you give 'em a call, I'm gonna go get a pretzel or
something."
"Sure. Meet back here in, say, five minutes?"
"Yup."
Chip turned to lumber off toward the food court, but Jack stopped him.
"Hey, Chip," he said.
"Yeah?" Chip answered, turning.
"Whatever you're getting, get me one too." He passed the big man a
five dollar bill. Chip stuffed it into his pocket, grinned, and started off
toward food.
Jack watched him walk away for a moment, then stifled a grin. He
couldn't believe it! Just the break he needed.
He kept a nonchalant look on his face as he walked over to the
large "Map of the Mall" kiosk that was situated outside Sears' downstairs
entrance. Sure enough, there was a phone down a nearby corridor, by an
exit. He headed for it immediately.
When he reached the phone he looked behind himself surreptitiously,
in case Chip had been setting him up. But Chip was nowhere to be seen; all
he could see was the bustle of afternoon shoppers. Perfect.
He lifted the receiver and dialed an "800" number. A secretary, or
maybe an agent, whose voice he didn't recognize answered. She gave no
identification. Jack spoke the code phrase quietly but distinctly into the
mouthpiece. "Frank Buck".
"Tape is rolling," the woman at the other end answered. "Report."
"Event to occur 9/17. Colorado map coordinates follow." He listed a
set of location coordinates. He waited a second for confirmation.
"Message received."
He hung up without further communication; this was the prearranged
protocol.
A quick glance to confirm that Chip wasn't watching him, then he
dialed the camp, grinning. He had done it. Things were gonna work out okay.
He just had to ride this out through the summer. When September came, when
Jerry's kids sprang their trap, they'd be shocked to discover that the mice
were armed FBI agents, not clowns and acrobats.
He almost laughed with relief. It was as good as over.