It consisted of a half-burned house, a dilapidated barn, and a pond out front. As they set up camp and Hog went to work plucking the chickens, Crow roamed the farm, seemingly at random. Except Tre knew what the other man was looking for and knew it wasn’t there. How could it be? According to the information contained in the binder, the plan was to drop Wolverine Packages into wilderness areas. And the farm didn’t qualify.
Tre felt his already low spirits descend even further as he took a couple of horses down to the pond. He was riding Willie and leading a horse named Betty. As Willie put his head down, Tre found himself looking down into the murky water. That was when he saw the shadow. A rock? No, rocks didn’t have corners.
Tre felt a sudden surge of excitement, urged Willie forward, and felt the cold water rise. Then they were there, circling what was clearly a large container of some kind. “Crow!” Tre shouted. “Over here!”
Crow came, as did the rest of them, and Tre took the measurements. That meant going neck deep in the water, but he didn’t care. Not if the container was what he hoped it was. And the results were promising. The box was ten feet long, eight feet wide, and something like eight feet high. It was hard to tell because the object was sitting on a bed of soft mud. The dimensions were consistent with what the military called a bicon. But what was it doing there? Tre had a theory. The farm was only miles from the Bannock mountain range. Perhaps that was where the package was supposed to go, only something had gone wrong and the helicopter had been forced to drop the bicon into the pond. Maybe they planned to come back for it… or maybe anything. There was no way to be certain.
“This could be what we’ve been looking for,” Crow said cautiously. “But don’t get excited. There may or may not be supplies inside. And who knows… maybe it’s full of water.” Tre hadn’t thought of that and felt his hopes plummet.
“That raises another problem,” Bones put in. “We can’t open it. Not underwater.”
“How ‘bout we drain the pond?” Smoke suggested. “All we have to do is block the inflow from the creek.”
“More digging,” the Deacon said sourly.
Tre had started to shiver. Freak threw a horse blanket over his shoulders. “The sun won’t set for an hour yet. Let’s get started.”
The rest of them looked at Crow. He nodded. “You heard the man… Let’s get started.”
Tre heard the word “man” and looked at Crow. Their eyes met and Crow gave an infinitesimal nod. Tre felt a sudden sense of warmth. Regardless of what was or wasn’t in the container, something important had been won.
Tre thought two or three hours’ worth of hard work would be sufficient to block the inflow. He was wrong. Each time the bandits built a dam, the combined forces of erosion and water pressure caused a break. By the time the task was completed, a day and a half had been spent on it. And with food running out, time was critical.
Then they were on day two of the effort, watching the water level drop, waiting to find out what, if anything, they had. The draining process took two hours, and once it was over, more than a foot of water still remained in the pond. In addition to the bicon, other objects had been revealed as well, including a rusty bedspring, a couple of tires, and a golf club.
Because of the water and the mud below it, a causeway had been constructed. It was made out of boards and nails salvaged from the barn. The bandits pushed the construct up into the air and dropped it into position. There was a tremendous splash, and water flew in every direction.
Then a two-man team comprised of Tre and Knife went to work on the container. Doors were located at one end of the bicon, but they were locked and blocked by at least a foot of mud. Besides, even if it had been possible to open the box, the last thing they wanted to do was let water get inside—assuming it wasn’t there already.
So Tre and Knife had to make a new opening by drilling four widely spaced holes on top of the metal-clad container and sawing holes between them. It was very difficult since all they had to work with was a fistful of hacksaw blades. The sun was low in the western sky by the time the final cut was completed.
Tre was ashore by then, nursing a sore hand, and held his breath as Hog lifted the two-by-two-foot square of metal and Crow aimed a flashlight into the hole. That was followed by what seemed like an interminable wait before he stood and a big grin appeared on his face. “It’s dry! And it’s full. Let’s see what we have.”
Once they’d started, none of them wanted to quit, so they worked into the night. And as case after case came ashore, Tre was astonished and thrilled by what he saw. Machine guns, assault rifles, grenade launchers, and a fortune in ammo. But that wasn’t all… There were medical supplies, MREs, radios, and crates of explosives. Stuff none of them knew how to use but were eager to figure out.
Finally, after the last box had been carried to the barn, those who weren’t on guard duty celebrated by opening two boxes of MREs. After tossing the stuff that looked iffy, they had a feast. A small fire was burning at the center of the dirt floor and lit their faces from below. Crow looked around. His voice was serious. “The good news is stacked over there… But there’s some bad news too.”
Tre knew what Crow was going to say, or thought he did, but chose to remain silent. Fade took the bait. “What’s that?”
“We’ve got what?” Crow demanded. “Maybe eight tons’ worth of stuff? How are we going to get it home?” That was a very good question—and none of them had an answer.
Chapter Ten
There were rules. Lots of rules. The most important of which was, “Do what you’re told.” The corollary being, “Don’t ask questions.” Both of which were difficult for a person like Lora to follow. Especially when stupid people were doing stupid things. And that was how she got into trouble.
Lora had been at Station 2 for a week by then. Both she and Sissy had been ordered to work in Greenhouse 7. And, being new, they were assigned to pull weeds, an activity that was not only boring but largely unnecessary. Or that’s how Lora saw it. The problem was that each “house” was controlled by an overseer. And in their case that person was a dullard named Ponty. Word had it that he’d been a slave himself and had risen to his present rank by dint of hard work, stoic suffering, and unquestioning obedience. And that included an acceptance of the methodologies in place when he took over. Even if they were stupid. So when Lora suggested ways in which the operation could be improved, they fell on deaf ears. Safety, for Ponty at least, lay in keeping everything exactly the way it was.
The obvious solution was to go over Ponty’s head to Slave Master Rahman, a stern disciplinarian who liked to tour the houses immediately after lunch. Knowing that, Lora kept an eye on the door as she worked, and sure enough, Rahman arrived about ten minutes after work began. Ponty was there to greet him.
The slave master stood well over six feet tall. He had a shaved head, eyebrows so bushy they looked like caterpillars, and sensuous lips. Unlike the overseers, who typically wore bib overalls, Rahman affected a white suit.
Lora worked up her courage as Rahman and Ponty made their way down the main aisle. Then, as the men drew abreast of her, she stood. “Permission to speak, master.”
Ponty looked alarmed and was about to object when Rahman raised an imperious hand. “Permission granted.”
Lora felt light-headed. All the surrounding slaves were staring at her. The decision to speak had been a mistake. She knew that now, but it was too late. “W-w-weeding,” she stuttered. “There is n-n-o need to do so much of it.”