Clayton

It was one of my lazy days. About once a week I go to bed about five or so in the afternoon and sleep until sunup, and fool around all day doing mostly nothing. I don't exactly get annoyed when someone interrupts the routine but prefer that it doesn't happen. I was already on the way to the kitchen for the first cup of coffee when the phone rang.

It was Roger. He rarely called as we usually ran into each other in town at least once a week and got all the conversing we needed done at that time. And he doesn't like talking on the phone any more than I do. We're both about that same age, in fact he's only a year younger, and grew up using phones that were designed for the purpose of sending and receiving spoken words. I could tolerate the flip phones because some of them were close to accomplishing that, but the slabs still try my patience.

Of course, that's only one of a few dozen things that suck about living so far into the new age. I go to a car show and see an exquisite restored '58 Chevy Impala two-door hardtop or a '75 Trans-Am, maybe something really classic like an Auburn or Packard from the '30s, then walk outside and look at the melted-down lumps that are not only ugly but have no character whatsoever. Then I look at Jessica and say "tell me again why we can't have nice things like this any more".

Jessica is twenty-nine years younger than me. She smiles and doesn't say anything. People my age probably ask more rhetorical questions than the younger ones. And no, I'm not a dirty old man and Jessica isn't a trophy wife, or 'arm candy' as they call it these days (another thing I gripe about is the mutilation of the language - after years of abuse I still cringe when I hear someone say 'comprised of' or refer to the 'tarmac' at the airport) - of course I know it happens but it still sucks to see a once-great society rotting around you. In fact she isn't a wife at all, just my best friend.

Yeah, Roger is about as curmudgeonly as I am, so we get along pretty well. His wife died young, from cancer at 38. One of those things, you hear about it now and then, and once in a while if happens to someone you know. He dealt with it mostly by applying himself more assiduously to his work. He had started a small investigative/security business about the time she was first diagnosed, and after her death it consumed most of his time. I had helped him when he was adding a cyber-security department when that became a necessity, and still pitched in on a project occasionally.

"What's up, Doc?" I greeted him.

"Just the usual," he replied. I knew better.

"You can't be ready to go fishing already," I said. It was January, the twenty-first to be precise, six days after my sixty-fourth birthday. If I worked for a living I'd have been thinking about how long it was until I could put in for my social insecurity 'benefits' but luckily I wasn't worried about that. If I made to sixty-seven and lived another fifty or sixty years I might get back most of what I had put in, or not. I'm self-employed like Roger, and each of us has put away a considerable amount of untraceable assets and had no concerns in that department.

"You have anything urgent the next few days?" he asked.

"Hardly," I replied. "Unless Jessica comes up with something, and that's unlikely." It would have to be something on the order of a serious family illness or death to get Jessica to leave our peaceful life behind even for a few days.

"Well," he said, "if you can get loose for a while and drop by, I've got something you may be interested in. You might say something of consequence."

"Not a problem. I can be up tomorrow if that's good."

"That'll work," he said. "See you then."

Since my day of rest was ended early, I called Jessica to see about lunch. She said it would be ready by noon, so come on over. We usually ate at her place or mine, usually with her cooking at either place. My culinary skills never got much beyond shoving a pizza in the oven or simple pasta dishes.

It was already almost nine, and Jessica's place was about fifteen minutes away, so I began dealing with the necessities of the day. I took a cup of coffee into what I call the 'command post' and sat down at my main computer.

After a quick for emails requiring attention, I turned to the news. That usually required only a few minutes and today was no exception. I didn't feel the need to compare the number of homicides in the major urban cesspools, even though New York was beginning to give Chicago some competition, the antics of the denizens of those jungles had long ago ceased to interest me.

The political situation was looking no better, and any serious worsening would probably await the election, just over a year away. A presidential year, it could be the nail in the coffin for the Republic. With Congress firmly in the hands of the Democrats for over twelve years now, and the presidency about to hit the mark, it looked as we were in for a long dark night.

Roger and I pretty much agree on that - only the process is in question. We both agree that that without some sort of major course correction the Republic is indeed dead, and that the choice then will be between a continuation of the slide down into the darkness, or things getting broken in a big way. We agree that the latter will be the case, but for some reason he is optimistic in spite of everything. Maybe it's some of the people he associates with.

While my view runs to the semi-apocalyptic, with the country fractured, balkanized, likely with war, famine, disease and all the other fun things Roger seems to believe there will, at some point if not immediately, be a successful insurrection that will at some point, in part, restore the original roots of the country. I'd like for him to be right.

I finished my work and got ready to leave. Like me, Jessica lives in a small, not quite secluded but fairly private place a little closer to town than mine. Town being Adamsville, population 11,436 or so, according to the sign at the city limits. Which is where I drop to ten below the posted speed limit and keep a lookout for cops. The small-town speed traps weren't bad enough, these days you got crazy cops in the most out-of-the-way places who'll shoot a citizen for any or no reason. And never be held accountable, although a cop who shoots a perp in the big cities can find himself in prison real quick if there is a color mismatch of the wrong sort. I just avoid any contact at all.

But I wasn't going to town today. A couple of miles from the city limits I turned down a two-lane state road, in decent condition considering the state of roads in general these days. My daily driver, at least the most-used one, was a '77 Chevy Scottsale, a basic work truck from those days used by farmers, tradesmen, and for general transportation for a lot of rural people. My dad bought a couple of new ones a couple of years before he retired from farming, for about $7,000 each, and kept both of them. I'd been driving this one since it was new, other than a couple of engines and transmissions and transfer case rebuilds not much work had been done on it. Not bad at close to three quarters of a million miles.

The pavement ran to within a hundred yards of the gate to Jessica's place, the remainder being a twenty foot wide chat drive laid down over about eight or nine inches of red clay gravel. Durable as pavement and didn't need constant repairs. The gate was open and I drove up to the modest ranch house and dismounted.

I shoved my favorite Springfield Armory .45 into the pancake cross-draw holster on my left side. I'm big enough to wear it comfortably and easily hide it under a jacket, but it's not comfortable to drive with it in the holster. It was in condition 1 as I approached the front door, jacket unzipped and my right hand ready to draw.

Jessica opened the door and blinked the all clear signal I followed her inside. If someone had been inside with her and she was in trouble, she would have indicated it without anyone, even facing her, knowing. She hugged me as if we hadn't seen each other in weeks, even though she had spent the last several days before my extended nap at my place. We were together probably ninety percent of the time, whether at her place or mine.

It was almost noon and lunch was ready as promised. I helped set the table and we sat down to eat. Someone not knowing us might think it was a special occasion - Brussels sprouts with bacon, macaroni and cheese the way my mother made it, a potato salad the same way. The ham was from a free-range hog from a nearby family farm that at least lived a life in the open air without being shot full of drugs. Fresh rolls and butter from the same farm rounded out the offering. Almost anyway. A jug of fresh tea, extra strong and sweet, took care of that.

"Looks like your nap was refreshing as usual," Jessica said as I poured tea.

"Still does the job," I replied. "Ready to do something completely useless for a few days?"

"Aren't I always?" she smiled. "It's your fault, you taught me how to get ditch the daily grind and live free. And the investment advice helped."

Jessica is a trust fund baby of sorts. Not on the scale of the Rockefellers or Hearsts, or the current crop of filthy rich families, but well off. Even more than my father, who left me well fixed. Jessica had grown up with the silly idea that she must go to college and become a doctor or lawyer or other respectable profession. A marriage to a college sweetheart (of the lawyer variety) left her emotionally broken and out quite a lot of money. The fact that most of her fortune was safe in the trust fund made it less traumatic. I introduced her to the family friend who had managed our financial affairs and her fortunes improved considerably.

"Roger called me this morning," I said. "I suspect I may be going somewhere soon."

"Just that?" she asked. "No more info?"

"You know Roger, never can tell."

"I know him well enough to know when he's that vague, it's probably trouble," she said. "I know you've been friends for a long time, and you trust him completely, but sometimes I worry. Rebecca is a really sweet kid, but I wonder how happy she is. Roger seems a little, obsessed, sometimes. Is he ever going to lighten up? It's been twelve, thirteen years, since Jillian died. I hoped Rebecca would be good for him."

"She has been, I think," I said. "At least, I don't like to think what he might be like if he hadn't met her. His work saved him then, gave him something to keep his mind occupied. If we do have to go away for a while, I don't know how long but probably not more than a few days, why don't you and her do something together? You haven't seen her in a while."

"No, it has been a while. I'll go up and visit for a day or two and bring her back here for a visit. She likes your place, and mine, and I like visiting there."

"Well, we're meeting tomorrow morning, early," I said. Why don't you go with me and you and Rebecca can set something up?"

"Seems like a good idea. If you're leaving for somewhere tomorrow, you should probably be getting ready."

"We won't be leaving that soon. He would have told me if it was urgent. It's most likely something he's investigating, maybe needs some technical help."

"I hope so," she said. "You've had enough scrapes for a lifetime already, most of them in Roger's company. I'll just assume that I don't need to tell you to be careful."

Jessica smiled, but there was a trace of worry in it. I felt a twinge of guilt - Jessica was really an innocent, and Rebecca was as well. Each had gotten mixed up with a guy who lived dangerously, me only occasionally but Roger regularly, and probably neither of us had been fair by not breaking the ugly news to them. They were both smart and aware of what was going on in the world, but neither was quite as conscious as were Roger and me of the cloud hanging over us. Sometime, soon, we would have to have a talk, one I was not excited about.

Jessica and I went back to my place to spend the night. Spending as much time as we did at each others' places we always had a supply of clothes for any occasion and each had our own bathroom so getting ready to go somewhere was always painless.

We seldom dressed any way other than casual, and Jessica was wearing her usual outfit of Wrangler boot cut jeans and the same type of khaki shirt as I wore. Shirts of that type - long sleeves, two patch pockets with flaps, and epaulets - were not as common for women as for men, particularly in an all-cotton fabric so she simply had them made by a tailor in Kansas City. Our winter outer garment was almost invariably the classic MA-1 flight jacket.

Jessica says my propensity for doing such things as acquiring literally a closet full of MA-1s is probably a symptom of my autism. Even if Asperger's is the most pronounced symptom. She's probably right, as I was diagnosed at the beginning of my brief military career. When I enlisted in the Air Force I was flagged upon entry for acing all the entrance tests.

When I arrived for basic training I was subjected to a lot of extra tests designed to identify candidates for certain demanding occupations. A couple of the guys who interviewed me were obviously spooks - not in uniform or even seemingly military. But the autism diagnosis probably saved me from volunteering for some dangerous jobs - it made me ineligible for most of them. But it made me aware of my condition and I am normally able to suppress or conceal most of the involuntary behaviors.

Jessica carries a compact version of my 1911. She isn't small - almost as tall as my five feet nine, and athletically built, but the fact is that most womens' hands and wrists are not as robust as those of the average man's. She handles the recoil easily enough though, and shoots as well as I do. She wears it the same way I do mine, and our jackets are sized to easily conceal our weapons.

Roger lives about twenty miles from Jessica's place, so it was a bit of a drive over. He lives on 160-acre spread, formerly mostly in cultivation but with some interesting features. Probably fifty or so acres is an artificial lake formed by building a levee around a low-lying area that gradually transitions to the high ground where the house and other buildings are located. Upon entering the property the house is accessed by a road about a quarter of a mile long, descending into the low-lying area and often flooded during heavy rains, occasionally isolating the house for some days. Not an inconvenience as Roger, like me, seldom is required to be anywhere at any given time.

We were in my Scottsdale, its four-wheel-drive and higher ground clearance handling the back roads easily. His property is about two miles from the nearest paved road, and any unscheduled visitors are assumed either to be lost or likely to have bad intentions. We crossed two small bridges on the long driveway, and I knew that Roger had prepared explosive packages that could be installed under the bridges on short notice and remotely detonated if necessary, making the road impassable. Jessica asked me a time or two if he's paranoid - I don't think so, and in his line of work he learns a lot of things. And makes enemies. Maybe he has reason to be paranoid, or at least concerned.

Roger lives in an enormous metal building, two stories high and a hundred feet long and sixty wide. It's actually a typical building used on farms and industrial installations, for storage or manufacturing work. A few other buildings are scattered around, one of them a small house much like Jessica's, only a little smaller. Roger doesn't live there, but sometimes uses it to receive guests whom he doesn't want knowing much about him. He lives in the big metal building.

I parked on a concrete pad large enough to accommodate a dozen or so vehicles, killed the engine, and we got out. About that time another truck, a large four-by-four like mine but newer and larger. Roger travels a lot and the company keeps a fleet of vehicles for that purpose. When not on the road he prefers older, utilitarian vehicles like mine. And classic sports cars, usually modified for enhanced performance.

Before we got out we noticed another truck coming in behing us. It was Roger. He exited his vehicle and came over, giving Jessica a hug and ignoring me for the moment. We see each other enough when he's home.

"Good to see you," he said. "Wish it was more often. Rebecca will be glad to see you."

Turning to me he said "I tailed you from Highway 64, you weren't followed. Just the same you should probably move your truck back under the roofed area. I'll explain once we get inside."

I moved the truck and followed them inside. Jessica and Rebecca were already chatting away. Roger and Jessica live on the lower level in an apartment of three thousand square feet or so, using a few rooms upstairs for storage. Also upstairs are Roger's offices and access to an outside escape ladder leading to a door on the lower floor, not visible from the outside. We left Jessica and Rebecca talking and went up.

"Is it my imagination," I asked, "or have I missed something significant in current events?"

"Grab a seat," Roger said, pulling one of the high-dollar office chairs over beside his. He tapped a key on the nearest computer to awaken the screen and we sat down.

"You remember the Oklahoma City affair pretty well?" he asked. "Or did you dig into it much?"

"That was almost thirty years ago," I replied. "I did a fair amount of analysis, figured out what most likely happened, and saw that it was going the way of every other event. What can you do? Unless it's time to start the revolution."

"Funny thing," he said. "That was about the time that Claire Wolf, you've read her, haven't you? She said that 'we're at that awkward stage where it's too late to work within the system, but too early to shoot the bastards.' Coincidentally or not, that was just a year or so after OK City. In any case, we are well past the point at which anything can be done politically. Whatever happens next will be determined by whether the people continue to be sheep, led by the Judas goats to the slaughter, or something else."

"Something else such as, what?" I asked. I knew generally what his belief was, but wondered if anything had changed lately. Or was he being paid to reopen the Oklahoma City affair?

"Well, you know what I personally believe," he said. "There are too many who won't go quietly for it to work. Whether there are a half billion guns in circulation, as is generally believed, or more it's going to be ugly. The left is counting on incrementally accomplishing their objective, as they have for the past fifty, sixty, or more, years. The problem of armed resistance remains, and it won't go away. If they try to eliminate the guns it'll happen that much sooner. They don't believe that will happen, so they'll try."

"And life will suck for a lot of people."

"Pretty much, but we'll make sure it sucks a lot more for them."

I didn't know exactly what that meant, but the 'we' part suggested he was an insider in whatever he expected to happen. I decided it was time to move on.

"Where does Oklahoma City fit in?" I asked.

"Even though the socio-political course is pretty much a lost cause," he said, "we aren't abandoning it. Anything we can do to expose and discomfit the enemy, we'll do. Election fraud, false flag attacks to stir up the sheeple against reformers, we investigate. Partly because it helps us identify enemies who need to be targeted in the future, and because it opens at least a few eyes, no matter how effectively it's muffled by the corporate media. This is one of those cases. I'm being compensated, by the way, at least for expenses, but it's part of the overall mission."

"You're part of the vast right-wing conspiracy?" I asked. "Or whatever it's called these days."

"To the degree that there is one, I guess so. As far as I know there isn't a huge organization working to take over the government - other than the Democrat party and their allies - if there was it would eventually be penetrated and exposed. As for organizations of various types and sizes, there are those. I've worked with some of them. There are occasional rumors of something really big, well hidden, and quite capable, but I don't know what it is."

"So what's the current project?"

"More along the lines of vexing the enemy. I'm not sure at this point how to handle if, or how much choice I'll have. Let's go back to the origin. What was your impression, upon reflection, of the OK City thing?"

"What do I think happened?"

"Yes."

"I left it where the trail went cold," I said. "I suspect that McVeigh, apparently decided that he had to strike a blow, no matter how feeble, against what he regarded - as we do - as a corrupt and evil enemy that was remorselessly destroying the greatest nation that ever existed. He must have known it would have no effect in the end, but believed he had to at least avenge the victims at Waco.

"He set out to do as much damage as he could, maybe hoping to take out as many as died at Waco, or at least a significant number. I suspect that he was under surveillance from the beginning, and the government followed his progress the entire time. For whatever reason, but most likely that they saw the opportunity for a spectacular event that would further the progress of stifling the opposition.

"Once they knew what the bomb was, knowing it wouldn't do much damage and cause few casualties, they decided to help out. Demo charges could easily be placed, especially in a building the government owned and operated. The entire building could have been brought down easily, but that wouldn't fit the truck bomb explanation. So they arranged it to look plausible.

"Since McVeigh was already planning to do it, they didn't have to arrange for a fall guy - he was already there."

"That's pretty much it," Roger said. "The fact that McVeigh eventually admitted it isn't relevant?"

"What else was he going to do? He was toast when they caught him, and knew it. He may have always expected to be caught, and die. He actually rubbed in in at the end, with the '160 to 1' comment. But what's new?"

Roger handed me an eight-by-ten color photo. It was apparently a photo of McVeigh, the infamous perpetrator sitting in a car. It appeared that he was stopped in traffic, perhaps at a traffic light. The window was down, his left arm hanging sligltly out the window. He was looking straight ahead.

"This from the big day?" I asked.

Roger had a stack of photos. He selected another one and handed it to me.

"Look at the clock."

The photo showed the same view from a slightly different angle. In the background, above the front of the truck but with McVeigh still partially in the picture, was a large sign of a type often found in front of some business, notably banks, in those days. This one looked fairly new, atop a tall brick column. Most of the ones I had seen back then were rather crude compared to the digital signage now in use. Usually it was a matrix of light bulbs, just enough to show the time and temperature and not much more.

This one was bigger and fancier, with several rows of text and colored lights. This one showed the date - APR 19, 1995. The time was 8:58 AM. I remembered the date well enough. Presumably the time was important. I remembered it was around that time, 9 A.M. or so. I looked up at Roger.

"9:02" he said. "Officially, anyway. McVeigh is sitting at a traffic light, about twelve, thirteen miles from the building. In traffic we're talking about a half hour or more. He may well have been sitting there when the bomb went off."

"Assuming it could be proven," I said, "what would the effect be?"

"Little. Probably none in the long run. But it could get attention, stir things up again. The people I'm working for at the very least want it preserved, safely, and used for whatever mileage is in it."

"Wouldn't it immediately get dismissed as a Photoshop hoax?"

Roger grinned. "Think about it." he said. "When did you get your first digital camera?"

"Beats me," I replied. "Are you gonna tell me someone has the analog negatives of those pictures?"

"Exactly. Digtal cameras were fairly new in '95. And expensive. Most people were still using the old 35 millimeter analog cameras. Especially old-school private eyes."

"Private eyes? OK, so now we have a private eye taking pictures of Tim McVeigh? Why?"

"As I said, the government was building its operation around McVeigh from the beginning. They needed to keep track of him. Sure, they had FBI and other agents following him, but to cover all their bases they employed at least one local P.I. to help. There may have been others, but we know about this one.

"He apparently had a certain reputation in the area. They approached him and told him what they wanted. Stay on top of McVeigh any time he was in the area, lots of photos and detailed notes. He followed him around for the last three weeks or so, burning through rolls of film and dictating hours of notes. They never asked much about his activities, only a report every few days. He transcribed his notes and turned them in, but they never asked for the pictures. In fact he wasn't really sure, afterwards, if they wanted pictures.

"In any case, he was shooting pictures of McVeigh when the bomb went off. He heard it and felt the ground shake but didn't make the connection until later that night when he saw McVeigh had been arrested. McVeigh took off when the light changed and got out of there fast, the P.I. lost him.

"Then he got scared. He watched the news for the next couple of days, and figured out that something was up. He was pretty sure that McVeigh's arrest wasn't an accident, a mistake. They had set him up. He got out of town fast, went by his office and took his computer, all the film and notes - anything connected with the case. Then he went to his office and cleaned up there as well. Then he left town.

"He was a older guy by then, had some money put away. He went far away and hid. He had a friend in OK watch his home and office, and it was visited by some kind of spooks. They even asked his friend a few questions but he was able to play dumb. After the heat died down he sold his home and office through agents. And he's been hiding ever since."

"Why the interest now?" I asked.

"As I said, he was old then. He's thirty years older now and hasn't much time left. He's been involved with a group of dissidents of some sort. Preppers, some off-grid types, some masquerading as regular citizens to blend in. They're pretty sane, laid-back. Just trying to be prepared for whatever eventually happens. They want to put his material - the negatives and notes especially, somewhere safe. But they may want them at some point to stir up something."

"You really think the government would care, after almost forty years?"

"Not in any significant way. They could convince most of the population that the photos were fake. And nothing serious would ever come of it. But the paranoia, deep in the bowels of the beast, never goes away. They're still as obsessed with the Kennedys and King, as long ago as that was."

"Don't tell me you volunteered."

"I told them I'd come out and take a look," he said. "See what I could do."

"Where do I come in?" I asked.

"I need someone I can trust as a backup. I know some of these guys pretty well, and I trust them. But they're uneasy about moving the material. It's been there all these years, no one else has a clue where it is. I don't want to go alone, and don't want any of my employees knowing about it. The other thing is, I'd like to talk over a couple of other things."

"Where are we going?"

"Idaho," he replied. "Lots of prepper enclaves, among other things, up there. They're sending a plane to pick me up at Springfield. I figure the drive back home from the airport will be as safe as anything."

"You've already decided to bring them back here?"

"Who'd think to look here?"

"But why here anyway?" I asked.

"They don't want them there after he's gone. They don't believe anyone knows, but when word gets out he's no longer living - if anyone does know they might come looking. If these were exposed publicly, proven genuine, it could be as big as Kennedy, TWA 800, 9-11, you name it. The difference is that this is incontrovertible fact. There are people who will stop at nothing to prevent exposure."

"Where are you planning to hide them?"

"I've got a couple of places in mind," he said. "You might want to help me scout around and pick the best one."

"You're nuts. You know that, don't you?"

"You're the one who says knowing you're crazy is half the battle."

I had to admit it. I am, technically, mentally ill. But it's a rather benign affliction in my case. But if I didn't understand it, my life would be a lot more difficult. And of course I was going. Curiosity alone would be enough, but I was interested in seeing what, if anything, would happen.

---

We went downstairs to see what the ladies were up to. And ladies they are, in the old-fashioned sense. With the twenty-first century approaching the one-quarter mark, considering what the latter days of the previous century had yielded, it would be easy to believe women like that did not exist.

Jessica, a farm girl, had grown up relatively untouched by the corruption of the latter-day society. She had been fortunate enough to be disabused of any notion that big-city life was to be desired and left it. She was as much the demure, reserved country girl as she could be at thirty-one. But not naive, or a pushover for anyone. Roger and I had taught her not only to shoot handguns and long guns, but armed and unarmed hand-to-hand combat. She can take care of herself.

Rebecca was a bit different. A small-town girl from a wide spot in the road on the way to Adamsville, she had like Jessica been shielded from city life, going to a smaller school with relatively uncomplicated peers. She had gone to work in a bank in Adamsville, going to school at night working on a business degree. One of Roger's associates had hired her as an office manager, and before long she met Roger. Whatever it is that makes the most unlikely partners find each other was at work, and Roger's friend lost his office manager and Roger got another shot at life.

Rebecca was younger than Jessica by a few years, a couple of inches shorter and with a lighter build. They had the same long dark brown that was almost black hair, long and slightly wavy. When together they were often assumed to be sisters. Rebecca advised us that lunch would be ready in about fifteen minutes, so Roger and I decided to take a quick look outside and sneak a smoke.

Neither of us is much of a smoker, or a drinker either. I had been, years earlier but lost interest before the insane taxes had a chance to make me stop. Both Roger and I keep a handful of small cigars and smoke one or two a day, or some days none at all. He hadn't brought any, so we lit up a pair of my Swishers and watched as clouds suggesting a snow began to darken the sunny sky. We smoked our cigars in silence, both most likely thinking about our conversation and where we were headed. It was already noticeably cooler by the time we finished and went back inside.

Like Jessica and me, Roger and Rebecca get almost all of their foodstuffs from local producers, and both were excellent cooks. Roger is about as good as I am. Or as bad, I suppose. They had roasted a chicken that looked too big to be a chicken, or at least anything from a grocery store. Carrots and potatoes had met their fate along with the chicken, and freshly baked rolls rounded out the feast. Roger waited until the cherry pie and ice cream were dispensed with before breaking the news.

"Alex and I will be gone for a few days," Roger announced. "We figured to give you girls a while without us in the way."

"Out of town?" asked Rebecca.

"We're going to Boise for a day or two, I'm not sure yet," he replied. "It's a fairly routine courier job, but the client is a little paranoid. So we may be here a day or two waiting for him to arrive with the goods."

Rebecca looked concerned - she knew the business Roger was in and accepted the fact that occasionally encountering unpleasantness was part of the job. My presence and the short notice, however, was a tip that it might not be all that routine. Jessica changed the course a bit.

"You're not driving to Boise, are you?" she asked.

"The client is sending a plane to pick us up at Springfield," Roger said. "You can drive us down and we'll call you the day before we come back. Chrissy can keep things under control at the office - it's pretty much on autopilot lately - so take a few days off and you and Jessica enjoy the time to yourselves."

Roger was trying a little too hard to be casual, and the girls picked it up. But they trusted us, and the worry was simply the normal reaction. Jessica smoothed things over.

"We shouldn't have any trouble finding something to do," she said. "Just keeping an eye on the properties is enough to keep us busy."

"Well, take some time to relax," Roger said. "Tomorrow's Friday, so I'm guessing the middle of next week for departure. I'll give you a call when we have a date."

Instead of taking Jessica home we went to my place. She didn't ask any questions on the way, knowing that I would enlighten her when the time was right. We went into command post and checked mail and took a quick look at the news and finding nothing demanding immediate attention, we went into the living room. We sat down on the couch and I used the remote to put on some background noise. I selected several Tangerine Dream albums, some of the '90s stuff, and adjusted the volume. Jessica leaned over with her head on my shoulder and I put my arm around her, and she waited.

"Roger has an interesting project," I said. "It's pretty strange and goes back a ways, almost before your time." I told her the whole story of the Oklahoma City affair, and what most likely happened as opposed to the official story. And what Roger had told me.

"They want him to move the evidence somewhere else, hide it again?" she asked.

"It would seem so. He wants me to go along as backup - I take it he's familiar with the people but is playing it safe."

"If something goes wrong, just the two of you a thousand miles away." she said. "I'm not sure I like it."

"Roger isn't too worried about what happens there. Apparently they think the material itself is at risk. Using a private plane to move it to who knows where, for anyone watching, will get it out of their hands and, hopefully, safely hidden. The biggest risk may be getting it from the airport to wherever Roger is taking it."

"I hope you're right."

---

Roger called late on Monday to see if a Wednesday departure would be satisfactory, and I said it was. So Wednesday morning found the four of us on the way to the airport. It was an almost two hour drive, and Jessica drove us in her '95 Ford Taurus. The blue one - she has two, one a vaguely light medium blue, the other some shade of what I call bronzy-brown. Except for color they are identical - a restoration shop run by some of Roger's connections in the prepper community rebuilt them to my specs, which included a turbocharged engine and heavy-duty transmissions made for the Ford police cars. They top out around 145 and handle as well as they go fast.

Not that they ever did it on a public road - an occasional visit to a private venue had to suffice for that. We scrupulously observe all laws, including traffic laws. Encounters with the law over traffic violations are opportunities for bad things to happen, and the declining quality of LE personnel has made that bad situation worse. Blue lights in the mirror when you know you haven't committed a violation is a sign something is definitely wrong.

Jessica and Rebecca were both carrying, as always. They would drop us at the airport without leaving the car so there was no need to disarm. Roger and I had our weaponry in our bags. We wouldn't be going through screening for a commercial flight, but Roger's contact had advised that we not be armed when we boarded. Like Missouri, Idaho is a 'constitutional carry' state, and both states recognize the others' concealed carry permits, which we all have, so we would encounter no problems related to being armed.

We went to the desk of a small charter service and located our contact, who called for someone to conduct us to the boarding area. We were early and so had a few minutes to watch the air traffic. There wasn't much traffic at the small airport with just a handful of commercial flights daily. So when we saw a Gulfstream IV rolling to the end of the runway it was probably our ride.

It was, and as they walked out the passenger door opened and two men came down the stairs. Both were younger than Roger and me, one looked to be in his forties, the other one perhaps ten years younger. Not that I'm any good at guessing ages - Jessica swears I look ten years younger than my age and I'm sure it's more like ten years older. They helped us get ourselves and our luggage aboard and ourselves seated before bothering to introduce themselves.

"I'm Frank Eastwood," the older one told us, "and this is Patrick Norris," indicating his companion. "We're part of a group that's been in business in Idaho for longer than just about any of the people who've moved here in recent years. Patrick's family and mine go way back, several generations, so we pre-date the recent influx. We were preppers before there were preppers."

"Nice ride you got," Roger said. "We should see if we get invited more often."

"We're lucky to be in pretty good shape financially," Frank said. "But the plane is jointly owned by a number of, interests you might say. And gee-fours can be had for reasonable prices, it's pretty old. A flexible air fleet comes in handy for our needs."

"I guess being able to bypass commercial air would be handy," Roger said. "Presumably our cargo is too sensitive for that."

"We think so," Frank said. "You'll get the whole story when we land. But essentially we need to move something, or rather some things, quickly and quietly to a place no one is likely to look."

I was guessing Roger had agreed to take the material we had discussed off their hands and hide it somewhere, otherwise we wouldn't be on a pricey jet headed for the wilds of Idaho.

After right at two hours were rolling, deplaning in a light snow and and a stiff wind. We had worn heavy leather jackets in anticipation, and between trying to carry my bags without first putting on gloves, I chose the gloves. A car was waiting - a jeep actually, a tricked-out late model - and soon we were on our way to somewhere out of the way.

---

We drove about a half hour from the airport, into a range of low mountains, large hills really, stopping in a large flat area, a square mile or so in size. The entrance was through a low area in the hills a few hundred feet wide. The road ran up over it and down into the flat area. There were quite a few buildings, but scattered widely, with patches of woods and a few large ponds. Graveled roads wound among them. Looking up at the surrounding hillside we saw other buildings, most of them rather ordinary- looking houses with a few of what looked like barns of storage buildings. A few were on top of the hills, the highest of which were under a thousand feet high.

It was to one of the houses we went, the road winding around the side of the hill to avoid a steep climb. Probably steep roads weren't practical with the amount of snow and wet weather they had. Frank parked in the driveway of a modestly large house, I saw a couple of the large metal barns common in rural areas behind it. We got out and went in.

Frank introduced us to the homeowners, a nice-looking thirty-ish couple, as Aaron and Sarah, no last names given. Probably no need, as this was to be a relatively short affair. They ushered us into what was probably a spare bedroom, of which the house was large enough to have a surplus of. Unless they had a lot of children - we didn't see any. We sat down around a small conference table and Aaron gave us the story.

"Since Roger has already given you the background," Frank said. "I'll tell you the situation. It started before my time - I was a very young child. My father, who has since passed away, was one of the founders if this group - he and several friends and family owned about 800 acres of land around here, and decided it was time to do something about the future.

"They really started getting serious about the time of the Oklahoma City affair, somewhat ironically we ended up with Jeremy showing up here. Jeremy, Jeremy Campbell to be exact, arrived while Dad was building this house. He was looking for a friend who lived in the area, and he turned out to be one of us. We figured this was about as near the middle of nowhere as he could go, so we got him a safe place to stay hidden. And he's been here since."

"He's the P.I. from OK City?" Roger asked.

"Right. He was scared, really scared. Mom and Dad kept him for a while, until a safe place could be arranged. I remember it, didn't know what was happening. I was about, let's see, almost five. Anyway, he's been here since, in a little place nearby. He's changed his appearance, and has a new identity that we believe has held up, but he's in pretty bad health and doesn't have a lot of time left.

"We're not really interested in remaining responsible for the material, and Roger has some connections that might be useful, if it's ever to be used for anything, or just kept hidden until they no longer matter. You're here to get them safely away."

"How dangerous is it, having possession?" I asked.

"Hard to say," Aaron replied. "We've had people snooping around as recently as a year ago, asking about Jeremy. Charles, the friend he came to here when he ran from Oklahoma, has had contacts in the past few months - just people who found his name on the internet and know he was an acquaintance. Those he just blows off with a `don't know, haven't seen him in years, not sure he's still alive` sort of answers. Those are easy enough, but we had a guy here last year, stayed around for a few weeks talking to real estate people and such, like he was looking to live here.

"He would occasionally bring up the subject, which was suspicious as long ago as it was, but had enough conversations with enough people that they would get onto the subject of 'conspiracy theories' and he would bring up the subject of the photos that Jeremy has. Jeremy never told anyone outside of my folks and a couple of others. That told us who he was. He went away with nothing, but obviously there is still some interest."

"Strange that someone, somewhere, is still so worried," Roger said. "As far as the public is concerned, it was over long ago. If those photos surfaced now, it would hardly matter, no matter how incontrovertible the truth. They have almost complete control of the news media - only people like us would notice and care."

"True," Aaron said. "But they don't want any loose ends, no matter how inconsequential. I suppose they treat them like police do cold cases, not really expecting to ever close them but never letting them go. And, they don't like to be thwarted. The most trivial defeat must be avenged. A psychosis perhaps. These people are not exactly sane.

"And the various dissident outfits, some of them could get some mileage out of it, in terms of credibility. As a recruiting tool."

"I can see that," Roger said. "In any case, if it has to go, we can take care of it. When do we start?"

I didn't like the way he said 'we', but I had signed on.

"We'll go see Jeremy now," Aaron said. "He's nearby. He'd like to get it over with, and we don't want you hanging around any longer than you have to - for your own good as well as our own. We're always being watched, and your visit may well be observed."

He was nearby, all right. Aaron took us to one of the buildings and we entered. It looked like an ordinary farm shop. There was a pickup truck and a small tractor, along with some tools and a couple of stacks of boxes with nothing to indicate their contents. In a small office in one corner he opened a door, revealing a stairway to an underground level.

At the bottom of the stairs was a large, well-lighted area, about twenty by twenty feet with three doors indicating the area was larger. It was behind one of those doors that we met Jeremy, possibly the last loose end to the Okahoma City affair.

He was old, at least eighty I guessed, and he was not well. He was sitting at a desk, working at a computer. On the wall behind him was the photo Roger had shown me, the one showing the clock, blown up to about two by three feet.

"How you feeling?" Aaron asked.

He didn't answer immediately, and I could see he was having difficulty speaking.

"Good as can be," Jeremy replied. "Are these the ones?"

"Yeah," Aaron said. "They'll take it away and hide it safely. Maybe someday they'll be seen and the truth known, or maybe not. But we'll try."

He introduced us and we sat down.

"Presumably you've heard the story," Jeremy said. "If so I don't have much to add. I got into a bad situation because of something that looked like just another job, and ended up hiding out here for the rest of my life. Which won't be much longer."

"Do you live here?" I asked.

He started to laugh, then had a brief coughing fit. When he began again, he said a few words, then struggled to make a sound for thirty seconds or so, before continuing.

"No," he said. "I work down here, and sometimes if we have someone nosing around I hide down here until they're gone. Normally I stay in the guest house. But that's about over. When I go to sleep at night I know it may be the last time, and soon it will be. And I'm ready, I just hate to leave all you younger people with what's coming. I've got all the stuff, the negatives, my notes, ready to go."

Whether he had an official diagnosis or just knew his time was up, I suspected he was right.

"You guys take care of business," he said as we left.

"We will," Aaron replied. "Wish you could be here to see it. But you've done enough, you can rest easy. Dinner is at the usual time, Sarah or will drop in to remind you. Or if you want to come up to the house before, give one of us a call.

I saw a walker and a cane behind the desk. Apparently his mobility was impaired. He looked somewhat frail, but I didn't know how he had looked earlier in life.

---

The next morning we had a leisurely breakfast, Jeremy joining us. The flight back would be short, so we were scheduled for a noon departure. Aaron showed us around the place and told us a little about the group that occupied the area. It was a big place, and the occupants were spread thin, the houses were mostly like his, on large estates with numerous buildings around. It looked like a place that would be difficult to attack, with the defenders in every place as well as scattered around the hills.

When it was time to go Frank and Patrick drove us to the airport. The jet had just taxied into position as we arrived, and we were in the air as quickly as we could get boarded and belted in. I hoped our exposure to unfriendly eyes had been sufficiently brief. Jessica and Rebecca met us at the airport and advised us dinner would be at Roger's place. Which made sense, as he needed to take the materials we had brought back to a safe place as soon as possible. For the time being he left them in his upstairs office. He told me we would take them to their hiding place the next day.

Dinner was another chicken, this one dismembered and fried. The potatoes were fried as well, with potato salad and macaroni and cheese rounding out the main course. An apple pie and ice cream followed, and Roger filled the girls in on our adventure and we asked how their days had gone.

They had spent some of their time at Jessica's place and most of the remainder at Roger's, checking on my place a couple of times. They had noticed something unusual - while returning from Jessica's place the day before they me vehicle which very obviously had just been at Roger's place, having just come up from the low road there was nowhere else they could have been.

As they passed they watched the other vehicle in the mirror and saw that it had stopped, as if watching them. A visitor looking for Roger would have either flagged them down and inquired, or followed them back. This one did neither. They described it as a white four-door sedan, but didn't know the make or model.

A city car, I thought. Someone who hadn't been here before. I looked at Roger.

"How often do people wander up here?" I asked.

"Rarely," he replied. "The last one was probably three weeks ago. I don't like the timing."

"Better get the goods buried quickly," I said.

"We'll slip out about midnight and do it," Roger replied. "If anyone is prowling around on foot, they'll be watching the house. We'll use the tunnel."

Jessica and Rebecca stayed up and watched while we worked. Roger has a couple dozen cameras, mostly around the grounds but with several monitoring the road and some areas where the area can be approached on foot.

We went into an underground area much like the one where Jeremy had been working when we retrieved the goods. I suspected Roger was deeper into the underground that I had figured. Literally in this case. Once inside, he opened a door in one of the rooms - a door even more well-hidden than the one upstairs - and we entered a small room which contained several safes. There were several small modern safes, a couple of big old ones that looked as they might have served in 19th century banks.

One of them was a huge sphere mounted on a square base.

"This is about as close to indestructible as I've got," he said. "These old cannonball safes were just about impenetrable without knowing the combination. The shape, and the manganese steel alloy makes them near impossible to drill, and you can't blow them up."

He placed the material inside and closed the door.

"It's fixed so it can't be locked," he said. "I'd hate to have to try to break in. But the contents are safe from damage from about anything non-nuclear.

"We'll just leave it here. If they're ever needed, they'll be here."

He turned off the lights and we went back upstairs. Jessica and Rebecca had not noticed anything suspicious, so we said our goodnights and went off to bed.

The next morning we reviewed the surveillance video for the hours since midnight and found nothing suspicious. Time would tell if anyone was still interested in the stuff or suspected its new location, and what they might do to acquire it.