I left Nash to organize and gather his family to join my own. He called Becky, his wife, and arranged things on our home phone, which both pleased and impressed me. He carefully placed the 12 gauge near the back door from the garage into the kitchen, but high on a nearby shelf.  Not the quickest or greatest place for immediate access, but with children around, a reasonable move. I watched him also check the action on the pump.  I assured him that the chamber was locked and loaded with the magazine full of first a shotshell, then one loaded with 30 caliber balls, and the rest with magnum single slugs.

“There’s little question about this being serious,” Nash murmured under his breath as we went inside.

“What’s going on?” Mary inquired, walking in from the living room.

“I have to drop Nguyen, Quincy, and Kingsley at the Marriott, and Nash’s are coming by for dinner.  Do I need to pick up anything?”

She looked at me quizzically, like I was leaving something out she might need to know, but already too experienced and wizened to say anything about.  That would come later, I knew.

Nguyen, Kingsley, Quincy, and I grabbed some chunks of leftover Christmas prime rib, made thick, sloppy sandwiches, and downed them with mayonnaise, lettuce, tomato slices, and Lion coffee. I was paying too much to have the beans shipped in from Hawaii, but nothing else matched the Kona stuff.  No drinking of alcohol heading into a late afternoon voyage of mystery and discovery that lay just ahead.  No signpost up ahead stuff but still quite possibly the stuff of the Twilight Zone. We packed up their bags and loaded the Rover, checking my usual three pieces of firepower but also tossing in an M-60 Machine gun with four hundred round belts, just in case.  The sniper rifle from Weatherby might have been more appropriate if there was going to be action but, against a real sniper at range the 7.62 rounds had an impact beaten zone range of over a thousand yards plus put a cyclic rate of fire of around 600 a minute.  That’s ten per second.  Putting thirty or forty rounds on or near a target area would likely dissuade any potential enemy, or anyone else for that matter, from sticking around and possibly avoid killing.  A killing would mean investigations and allegations, and my cover would have to be blown, and I’d be done.  It would be nothing like on Mallorca because there was no way, and I knew it, that the Agency would back my play if I was involved in a terminal shooting on U.S. soil, especially if the guy was an informant, or more, of the DEA.  But still, the assassination attempt had been surprising, close, and very close to being successful.  One way or the other, Phil had to go, and that had to happen fast.

Unloading and setting up the special tripod I’d found for the machine gun would be difficult if the snow what was left of the snow and ice, was more than a foot deep by the time we got out there. Normally, the weapon was used as a squad automatic rifle and fired from a front-of-barrel twin-legged folding support system, but the tripod added a level of accuracy and steady fire that could not be overlooked.  Only in the movies, like the entertaining but ridiculous Rambo thing, did men fire the weapon from a standing position.  That might work at a range of ten feet or less, but not in most of real life.   The weapon with a single clipped belt of 7.62 ammunition weighed in at around thirty-four pounds, and the tripod another twelve pounds.  Not exactly stuff that Sylvester Stallone could drag around, point, and then respond to its continuous recoil when firing.  The entire rig Stallone used in the movie only weighed 18 pounds and fired blanks, so there was no real recoil. Firing from the hip, his style, is possible, but the most inaccurate way possible to apply the real capability of the firearm

I pulled the Rover out of the garage, turned it around, and stopped.  The scene in front of me was like from a Technicolor movie, with the storm all but gone and the huge dropping of blown snow and ice evaporating faster than it could melt in the afternoon sun, which was painfully bright once more.  The river was even visible in the clear, bright atmosphere at six thousand feet, as it wound its way, dividing the lowlands of Albuquerque and below in half.  A bright sliver of silver in a many-shaded brown series of vistas dotted with stands of pinon, pine groves, and volcanic rock and dirt.

There were still a few cars on the road as driving in New Mexico was not like driving in the Midwest or other places I’d lived that had real winters.  The drivers just didn’t go out until nature fixed it all, so they would not have to endure learning how to drive in truly slippery or deep snow conditions.

I laid out a plan of action before reaching the Marriott, where they were to stay.  Before I could get into it, Nguyen reached forward and turned on the radio.  I was still very much in the Christmas season, and another carol was playing.  It was John Lennon doing his War is Over or Happy Christmas as it was first called when it came out after I got out of the hospital after the valley… “and so happy Christmas for black and for white for the yellow and red ones let’s stop all the fight.”  Nguyen turned his face to look directly at me, with one of his uncommon, enigmatic expressions of smiling.

“War is not over,” he said.

“Okay,” I replied, giving him back my own smile.  “Happy Christmas, it is to be. This Happy Christmas mission.”

“Why does it need a name?” Quincy asked from the back seat.

“Well, I guess you had to be there,’ I said, telling him the exact truth.  Those days could be talked about and written about to those who had not gone or even many who had gone but not gone into real combat.  However, likely the teller would suffer a steep decline in credibility as the reality was so far from the truth.  The Vietnam War was about one-half of one percent as popular as the totally mythical portrayal of Rambo in the movies.

“Christmas will be happy if we get there, with Quincy guiding us back into the particular spot, because I really wasn’t giving much attention to anything but getting there with him driving and me then running and crawling wildly across the landscape.  Second, the objective upon attaining the first is to stop nearby at a suitable field of fire position to emplace and set up the M60, given conditions to do that.  An alternative is to go in with the other firearms we have. There’s also a Mac Ten in a .45 automatic in the trunk if we need portable higher power.  The third objective is to find the artifact or alien bit of machinery or door or whatever it might be, and that could be problematic, as all we have is a shovel and some brooms to uncover what we might need to uncover.  Leaving you, Quincy, at the wheel for the whole operation is of paramount importance, although this time you don’t leave without me or us, no matter what.  Nguyen will man the M60 on the right flank out from the Rover, and I’ll handle the approach from the left.  We’ll soon know if we have a difficult company.  If we are alone, tracks may allow for that, depending on how much time we have to check the potential site out before sweeping or digging to find it. We want to be in and out of that hot LZ in twenty minutes, no matter whether we find the thing or not.  Quite possibly, the whole thing was dreamed up by Marlowe and his handler or Mafia Don or whomever, just to lure me to the area and then take me out.”

“Are we going to tell Tony about any of this, since he has the information that led you into the potential disaster in the first place?” Kingsley asked.

“That’s a good question, although I want to assure you that the Agency and Tony have my complete trust.  Something happened there that allowed them to be either hoodwinked by others or a mole, and I can’t think it’s a mole.  The answer is no.  We are going in without outside support that I don’t think would be there anyway because we are on American soil, and except for counter-intelligence stuff, they stay out of working inside the borders, or at least so I’ve been told and kind of really believe.”

The final strains of the Christmas carol played through.  The roads were clearing so fast that they were almost totally clear.  The Rover’s rear windshield wiper is doing wonders, with its sprayer too, to allow me to see clearly behind us, which normally would not have been important but was now of critical necessity.

I waited in the Rover while the men went inside to the lobby of the hotel using the Agency Amex card, which was made out to a non-existent company called ‘Worldwide Compass Order, Inc.’  Whether it was real or not, I didn’t truly know but assumed it was simply an account that was either secretly funded or with Amex permission.  What credit card company would not love to have cards out there that were always paid on time and had such perfect credit?  Bennigan’s was still open with only a few cars there, and I would have loved to go in, drink, and listen to old rock and roll, but that was not to be.

Once we were rolling again, headed onto the freeway, which was totally clear, and then transferring to the east-west version at the interchange to head west toward the open desert, I looked in the rear-view mirror to observe Kingsley handling the Mac Ten he had taken from behind the rear seats.  It was obvious in only a few seconds that he had handled the weapon before, although that had been possible with the Indian Ghurka forces not being supplied by the U.S. I didn’t know.  The Mac was a completely U.S.-made and stamped weapon available, unbelievably, to civilians in semi or fully automatic versions.  The fully automatic process requires one piece of paper, proper identification, and a six-hundred-dollar check to the U.S. government.

“It fires from an open bolt,” I said, watching him and the road in front of me.

“Yes, not ideal for an ambush,” he replied, letting me know that he’d never used an open bolt weapon in an ambush.

“If you’re talking about the sound of the bolt closing when the trigger’s pulled, then that’s around six milliseconds.  Our brains don’t get notified from the waves hitting our eardrums for exactly that amount of time, so there’s really no sound to give the ambush away.”

“Fort Sill, artillery school stuff?” Kingsley asked, his tone one of being impressed, not being critical of what I’d said.

“Nah,” I answered, “the A Shau valley and the jaded, dying but oh so experienced teenagers who were my best teachers after the Gunny. The on-the-job training over there was truly life and death motivational, and you either observed and learned or God came across the battlefield to take you into His loving arms.”

“Jesus, lieutenant,” Quincy said, “can you get more graphic?”

I hit a button on the radio to see if maybe ‘Brother John’ might be on, but it was not to be.  Instead, an ancient WWI war song played for no good reason given by the D.J.  “They say there’s a troopship just leaving Bombay, bound for old Blighty’s shore, heavily laden with time-expired men, bound for the land they adore. There’s many an airman just finishing his time, there’s many a twerp signing on.  You’ll get no promotion this side of the ocean, so cheer up, my lads…bless ’em all.”

I was surprised by Quincy’s use of my old but still somehow active duty with rank, but also by his revelation about what an FNG novice he was in what we were doing.

“Look, learn, and listen,” I said, going right to the heart of it.  “There are three men here making sure you learn and survive in one piece, and not one of them is you, so do what we tell you and live to fight another day.  You can get out of the vehicle and run through the snow when we arrive, and we won’t do a damn thing to stop you…except pick you up later if we make it.”

The trip out to the gravel road was tough because it took half an hour to find the connecting gravel road. The only real clue to its existence was the break in the highway’s wire that allowed it.  The snow was right at a foot in depth, which was doable but still made life difficult.

“There are tracks in the snow,” Nguyen, with his penetrating vision, picked up.  “They appear to be put there during or right after the storm, not old, or we wouldn’t be able to see them.”

“Okay,” I said, deciding for all of us.  “We’ve got to assume that attempt number two might be coming right up.  Are we in for it, or call it a day?”

“You’ve got to be kidding us,” Kingsley said, and then started laughing, soon to be joined by Quincy and Nguyen, who rarely ever laughed.  “This is what we’ve become, except for Q-boy here, who has no clue but is sure game for it.”

 “That’s it?” I asked.

“Hell no,” Kingsley replied, “It’s also the money.  You think I can find something that’s so right down my alley that pays like this?  My wife ate that last twenty thousand, and I actually started getting conjugal relations again.”

“Twenty thousand?” Quincy suddenly said.  “I got nothing.

“You ran under fire,” Kingsley said.

 Again, we all laughed as I worked the Rover off-road and toward the expected site.

“It’s all in the lyrics to the song, Quincy,” I said.  “You are neither long, short, nor tall, so you got nothing coming, until after this mission.  I’ll put you up for a star of valor on the Agency’s great white wall.”

“That’s only for dead agents, I’ve heard,” Kingsley said.

“Well, his survivors will get the twenty grand, what’s the difference?” I laughed as Quincy pointed.

“I think we’re close.”

“What do you recognize?” I asked, slowing the Rover and moving the transmission lever to low drive differential for gobs of power, but only at very slow speed.

“I sure don’t recognize that Jeep out there in the distance,” he said, as I stopped our own vehicle dead in its tracks and stared.

A cream-colored Jeep Wagoneer sat in the distance, just beyond where Quincy had been pointing.  It was idling as the exhaust was puffing gentle clouds from its exhaust pipes.

“It can’t be him,” I breathed out, leaving the Rover running in park.  “He’s a blatant target unless that’s just the bait to bring us out as targets.”

A man opened the driver’s door and stepped out, turning to place his hands on the left front fender, as if waiting to be arrested.

“The Leica lenses in the compartment, there I said over to Nguyen, holding out my hand.

The 10 by 50 stabilized binoculars were placed in my hand.  I brought the setup to my eyes and adjusted the lenses for distance.

 “It’s him,” I said, in shock. “What’s he expecting that we’ll just shoot him on sight after what he pulled.  Like he’s giving up for some other reason, or is it more complex than that?”

“What now?” Kingsley asked, none of making a move to do anything.

“Form the perimeter, just as planned.  Marlowe has placed his vehicle just beyond where our target is.  He’s not a target in his position, at least not just yet.  I will proceed toward him on foot.  The snow is about a foot deep, so I’ll move slowly and carefully.  Set the M60 and prepare for direct fire on his position. I’ll stay directionally off the gun target line so you can open up if you have to.”

“What do you think?” Quincy asked, moving around the vehicle to take over the driver’s position as I got out.

I pulled the .44 Magnum from under the seat and held it in my right hand. It was cold out, but not freezing cold.  The gun felt very reassuring. I had the same load basically as in the shotgun I’d left with Nash.  First round, a shot-shell, not fatal.  Second round, a hollow point, and finally the third round, and other hot-loaded tungsten penetrators.  I could get as serious as anybody wanted very quickly.

Nguyen and Kingsley quickly set up the M60.  If anybody with Marlowe could use glasses and see us, he’d know in an instant that this was serious firepower being brought to bear and maybe think twice.  But there was no telling about that.

I began my trudge through the snow.  Marlowe’s Jeep was about three hundred meters away, past the bush supposedly holding the artifact under its branches.  I would ignore that as the threat of Marlowe had to be handled very quickly, and also determine if he was a stalking horse, who the shooters might be drawing me out.

I instructed Quincy to hold tight no matter what happened. The Rover wasn’t bullet-proof, but it was sure as hell more protective than being out exposed on top of the snow.  The M60 would be everything if gunshots were heard.  The chances that Marlowe’s people had machine guns and knew how to use them were near non-existent.

I looked over at Nguyen and Kingsley and nodded briefly.  They didn’t have to nod back.  They were all in.  The twenty thousand I would have to repeat was in the bag, as far as they were concerned. Nobody had mentioned how much additional money the Banker’s Life, now Principal Financial Group, was going to increase the funding for three new satellite offices or how much additional I could squeeze, con, or steal for my men.  I would do what it took.  I was putting their lives on the line, and I did not take that lightly, not after the valley.

Footfall after footfall, I marched, not bending down to avoid being shot.  There was no percentage to that.  I was a target if targeting was to be done. I didn’t even have the preparatory time and assets to go purchase white combat clothing.  My only attention was on Marlowe’s bent-over body leaning into the Jeep just ahead of me.

There were no shots, no warnings, or suspicious activity I could distinguish.  The conditions were such that it would have been very difficult to hide such activity that a real professional and experienced sniper might need to do his or her work.

I reached the Jeep and moved toward its front, where Marlowe was leaning.

“I didn’t try to kill you,” he said before I could say a word.  “I fired at you to miss each time; you had to know that.  I needed the money, which I got paid just for making it look like I was trying.”

“Stand up,” I ordered, although I did not bring the magnum up as a threat.  “I’m going to stand right next to you. If somebody wants to take me out, then they’re likely to take you out too.”

“There’s nobody here,” Phil said, coming to attention in front of me vertically.

His brown face was ashen white.  I knew he knew he was in mortal trouble, and he was.  It’s seldom in the life of most that someone with the kind of ability, potential, and experience is deciding whether you live or die. I was making that decision, and Marlowe knew it.  That he’d exposed himself to that was simply a measure of what he believed might be coming if he didn’t.  Neither the Mafia nor the Agency was going to protect him.  The payback might be monumental, but nobody was going to stop me from moving into terminating Marlowe’s existence on the planet.

“Get into the vehicle,” I said, motioning with the magnum but not in a threatening manner.  “The truck is much better protection and warmer than out here.  We have to talk.”

I turned and held up my right hand, making a fist with my fingers clenched, and then pumping my arm up and down.  I was letting them know to move in, and I knew that bot Kingsley and Nguyen would understand. It was also telling them that I thought things were under control and not going violent.

I got into the Jeep, noting how sparse the interior was compared to the newer and more upscale and expensive Rover.  I kept the magnum on my lap without having my finger on the trigger of the Smith and Wesson.  I turned to face Marlowe.

“Tell me,” I said, quietly, the engine idling to keep the warmth coming through the four dash vents.

“Tell you what, exactly,” Marlowe asked.

“What it is that’s supposed to allow you to survive this engagement,” I replied.  “You’re here because you know your life’s likely forfeit if I choose that to be.  So, save your life right here and now.”

“The FBI,” Marlowe said, surprising me.

“What the hell could the FBI have to do with any of this, and what’s your role, if any, with them?”

“They told me about the alien thing you’re working on with Los Alamos.  They’re in charge of security in that special tech area with Dr. Bethe.  They contract out to the CIA to provide anti-intelligence operations and contacts.”

“Who in the FBI? And why you of all pitiful specimens?  I asked.

 “I can’t tell you that, as you must know.”

“This is a real simple problem for me and one that is going to end very quickly for you.” I pulled the hammer on the .44 Magnum back to full cock, the sound very similar to that of taking a .45 Colt off safety.  “You can answer, or one of my men is going to be driving your vehicle and your body back to somewhere they can both be disposed of.  You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t know and fear what you’ve found out about me.  I’ll shoot you in the forehead so it will be instant.”

“Special Agent Sofie Summers,” Phil volunteered.  “She’s simply gorgeous and can’t be denied.”

“Where do you meet her?” I asked, not even knowing why I asked the question, as I tried to take in the enormity of the treasonous and murderous competition between intelligence agencies throughout the country.

I’d heard of the competition but never would have believed that it might lead to the killing of agents or the use of such low-lifes as Marlowe seemed to be.

“We meet at the nuclear weapons museum on the air base.”

I took the Smith and Wesson off full cock.  I was shocked by the new knowledge, not by the revelation of the FBI participation so much as the truth of where Marlowe and Summers met.  It was where I met Tony when he was in town. How could that be? I got into the Jeep.  I kept the magnum on my lap without having my finger on the trigger of the Smith and Wesson.  I turned to face Marlowe.  How was I to get the truth out of such a man?  There had to be more to the story, as the FBI wasn’t likely to have any knowledge at all about Hans Bethe at Los Alamos or my home address or any of that stuff. Even my work with the Agency would never have been revealed even to another federal agency of such stature.

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