The Terrorist Plot at Gopherville by Steve Bartholomew - HTML preview

He continued walking. Another man crossed his line of sight, much like the first he had seen, but closer now. Then several others passed by. They made no sound, said nothing. Bradshaw approached the side tunnel and stopped, listening. Somewhere to his right, he heard a low murmur of voices. Or rather it was one voice speaking to someone else. The listener responded only in monosyllables or grunts. Bradshaw strained to make out what the man was saying.

The voices stopped, but then there was the sound of approaching foot steps. Bradshaw waited. In a minute, two men appeared. Unlike the other men, these were better dressed. They carried no tools. One man wore an oldfashioned business suit, rather shabby looking. The other was dressed in work clothes, but they were clean and fairly new-looking. He carried a bundle wrapped in cloth under one arm.

The two men stopped a few feet away. They seemed to look right through Bradshaw without seeing him.
“How many on this shift?” the man in the suit asked.
“Eleven,” the other answered. “Listen, I got a bad feeling about this…”
“Shut up,” Bill, the suit said. “We been all through this. Dead Rock is played out. We’re up to our teeth in debt. The only way is to sell out without having to pay off the crew. You know that. Any white men on this shift?”
“Naw. Six Indians, five Chinee. Nobody’s gonna miss them. Still and all…”
“I told you to stop thinking. You wanna get paid or don’t you? Just do it. I’ll be waiting up top.”
The other man didn’t reply. The suit turned around and went back the way he had come. Bill unwrapped his bundle. It was four sticks of dynamite, taped together. He put them in the side tunnel where the crew had gone. Then he struck a match and lit a fuse.
“Fire in the hole,” he said, just above a whisper. Then he turned and went back the way the suit had gone.
Bradshaw stared in horror at the dynamite, at the sputtering fuse. He had an urge to scream, yet found he could barely draw breath. He thought of getting to the fuse and yanking it out. But he was terrified. The thing might go off at any second. Finally he found the will to move, turned and began to step away from the side tunnel. He wanted to run, but it was like trying to swim through molasses – he watched himself moving in slow motion, as if time itself had nearly stopped.
Then there was a great blow against his body, a sound so loud it could not be heard, a great wind and darkness.
Some time later he was aware of pain. The darkness was still there. Pitch black. He wondered if he was blind. He groped about on the ground and somehow found the hard metal shape of his flashlight. He clicked the switch, but nothing happened. Bradshaw felt the sharp edge of broken glass. He was still wearing his knapsack, thank God. He remembered the emergency candles. His fingers seemed made of wood, as he fumbled open the pack, rummaged through till he found a candle. Then he found matches, struck one and lit the wick. In the flickering light, he was horrified yet again, remembering what had happened.
The side tunnel was gone. In fact both the side tunnels were gone, both right and left. In their place was a pile of rubble. Bradshaw himself found he was covered with blood. He felt a wound on his head, with more bruises over most of his body.
Somehow he got to his feet, wondering what to do. His candles would not last long. How long had he been underground, anyway? How long had he been lying unconscious? There was only one direction he could go. He began to walk.
He heard a sound – chink, chink, chink. The sound of metal tapping rock. He began to follow the sound. He turned right into another tunnel, still following. The chinking sound grew louder. At last he made out a dim light far down the tunnel. He kept walking.
That was when he first met Oscar.
Oscar was tapping patiently with a small hammer against a quartz crystal embedded in the wall. Bradshaw could make out a fine thread of gold deep within. The gnome glanced at Bradshaw, then returned to his work. A soft yellow light came from a lantern on the floor. It made the crystal sparkle.
“The men…” Bradshaw licked his lips, trying to think of what to say.
“I couldn’t help them either,” the gnome said. “What you saw happened a long time ago.”
“The tunnel – they were buried alive.”
“Yes. And they do not rest,” Oscar said. “They will not rest ever.”
Bradshaw thought a minute, watching Oscar tap on the rock. He didn’t seem to be making much progress.
“What do they want?” Bradshaw asked.
“To be remembered,” the gnome said.
Oscar had led Bradshaw out of the mine. He had simply gestured for Bradshaw to follow, saying nothing more. Oscar had saved his life. They had been friends since then. But Oscar didn’t want to go back to the mine. The dead should be left alone.
* * * *
Brandt said to Sanderson,
“This Dead Rock Mine is the only lead we have at the moment.”
Sanderson stared morosely into his beer. Two more days wasted. Sylvia hadn’t called him. In some ways that was worse than if she had. Sanderson had heard rumors – something about a Grand Jury investigation. He looked at Brandt.
“Anything about this Oscar person? I’d bet money he’s Bradshaw’s contact, whoever he is.”
Brandt shook his head.
“I’ve talked to everyone in town that Bradshaw talks to. I’m getting the feeling we have a real conspiracy on our hands here. They all have the same story. He’s some kind of a gnome, whatever that means. Maybe that's a new term, something like a mole or a sleeper. But no one has seen this guy. Sounds to me it’s a code name. I think people know more than they’re telling. I’m beginning to suspect this Gopherville is one huge al Qaeda cell. Maybe we should get DHS to round up the whole town.”
“Maybe so,” Sanderson mused. “But that wouldn’t find us Project Emperor…”
“What about this Dead Rock?” Brandt returned to his original subject. “You were going to have someone check it out.”
Sanderson drank half his beer.
“I sent O’Reilly. A chance for him to redeem himself. He took another man with him, somebody who can read maps at least. They went up the old mine road in a Jeep Cherokee… They only got about half way there. Too many fallen snags and underbrush. That road hasn’t been used in a hundred years. O’Reilly’s going back up there tomorrow with a bigger crew, armed with chain saws. They might need another day or two to reach the mine. Probably a wild goose chase, anyway.”
“Jesus H…” Brandt had a sour look, staring out the window at the street. The weather was turning hot. The saloon was equipped with a swamp cooler that made the air feel moist. Brandt didn’t like hot weather.
“I’m going up there myself,” he said. “Tomorrow morning.”
“How?” Sanderson sounded truly puzzled. “There’s no place to land a chopper, the road’s closed…”
“Ever hear of horseback?” Brandt said. He finished his beer.
* * * *
Bradshaw had made progress. In fact, the project had gone faster than he’d expected. He thought it might take a couple of weeks to get some of the bugs out, but it was turning out a piece of cake. He had set up shop just inside the mine entrance. It was cool inside, and almost dust free. He used an old work bench he’d found there. For much of the work, he didn’t need electricity – it was simply a matter of plugging things in. When he did need power, for instance for the signal generator and oscilloscope, he fired up the old steam engine outside and started up the dynamo. He could see this new device could stand a lot of improving – in the first place, it was too large and heavy to carry around. He thought he saw some ways to fix that. But he had a feeling it might work.
On the same day Brandt decided to come up and look for him, Bradshaw snugged the final screw home on the device’s metal cover. Then he looked around for something to test it on. It occurred to him that the basic principle of operation had been known since the 19^th century. He recalled reading how Nicola Tesla had nearly brought down a skyscraper under construction using the principle of resonance. In fact he had caused a minor earthquake in Greenwich Village with a similar device. in its way, was not nearly as dramatic. possibility of causing true chaos. Bradshaw grinned when he thought about it.
He found some old burlap sacks stuffed into an ancient storage bin. They would do nicely. After checking the equipment several times, he selected one large piece of sacking. He took it outside and nailed it up on the porch outside the office shack. Then he picked up his device.
This object was basically a “black box,” except that it wasn’t black, but rather aluminum and copper. It was about twice the size of a shoe box. One of its components was a battery which Bradshaw had charged from the steam generator. The battery was the heaviest single component, one Bradshaw wanted to improve on.
When he was satisfied with arrangements, Bradshaw pointed his device at the piece of sacking, from a few feet away. He flipped a switch. There was a low humming sound. Bradshaw watched a meter on the box, carefully tuning a dial. At first nothing seemed to happen. Bradshaw shook his head. It wasn’t working. Nothing would happen... Then something did.
One moment, the burlap sack was hanging on the porch. The next moment, it wasn’t. In its place, a fine cloud of powder and lint drifted gently to the floor.
Bradshaw chuckled. He switched off the power. Then he frowned. The damn thing worked. Now, the question was, what was he going to do with it?
He could see all manner of possibilities.
* * * *
Brandt set out early the next morning. He had arranged to rent a horse along with some basic gear such as a sleeping bag, tent and freeze dried food. Nestled under his left arm was a 9mm Glock. He didn't think he would need more hardware. He followed the old mine road for several miles, until he came to some fallen snags. He could see why Project Emperor, But it had the O'Reilly hadn't got far. The ground was steep, and the underbrush dense. He dismounted and led his horse on a long circuit, bypassing the thickest brush. Eventually he worked his way back to the mine road and remounted. He checked his map. At this rate, it would take him most of the day to reach the mine. He hoped this trip would be worth it. Of course, he could think of it as a paid vacation in the mountains. walk into. waiting for him. Sanderson had wanted him to wait till he had some backup, or until the road could be cleared. Brandt had said, Screw that. Bradshaw or Oscar could run any minute. But I'll watch my step.
Meanwhile, Bradshaw had already run. Actually, he had departed for home. Leaving most of his equipment and tools in the mine entrance, he had slung over his shoulder a knapsack, containing only the Project Emperor device. He took a different and much easier route than the one used by O'Reilly and Brandt. There was an ancient Indian trail that ran along the ridge, and a deer trail going downhill. Going downhill was faster than going up. He reached home by early afternoon. Jane was nowhere to be seen, but he could tell she had been there. The vegetable patch was watered and weeded. Melchizidek met him at the door, stretching lazily.
“Anyone been around lately?” Bradshaw asked.
“Only nice lady Jane. I gave her a mousie.”
“And I'm sure she was pleased. Well, let's see what else is for dinner tonight.”
He went inside, took the device from his bag and placed it on the table. Then, forgetting dinner for the moment, he sat down and stared at the little silver box with its switches and dials. The device was finished. Bradshaw had not needed Then again, you never knew what you might There might be an al Qaeda cell up ahead, the DVD to construct it, his memory for mechanical details was nearly perfect. It could use some improvements, but essentially it was done.
There remained still the question: what should he do with it?

Next morning, Sanderson had a phone call from Sheriff Martinez. He took the call on his cell phone, sitting on what had become his favorite park bench.

“Just a little heads-up,” Martinez said. “This probably doesn't mean anything. But some woman is asking questions.”

Sanderson for a moment held the phone away from his head, staring at it. All he needed was one more complication in this case.

“Some woman. What sort of woman? What sort of questions?”
“I wasn't there,” Martinez said. “Deputy Hargrove was on duty. Of course, he doesn't know anything anyway. But she was asking about Tiller. She claims the deceased was her uncle. She only just heard about his sad demise. Young, pretty gal, according to Hargrove. She gave her name as Octavia Tiller. Just thought you'd like to know.”
“I'll need to talk to her,” Sanderson said. “Where's she staying?”
“Same motel as yours. Where else would she stay?”
Sanderson clicked off and stared into space for a moment. This could actually be a break. If this woman knew anything about her uncle's activities at Faustus, she might have a clue to what had become of the missing DVD. It had occurred to Sanderson long ago that Tiller's visit to Gopherville might not have been accidental. There could be a connection between Tiller and Bradshaw.
On the other hand, it was equally possible she could screw up this entire investigation. Sanderson decided he needed a beer.
* * * *
David Brandt had reached the Dead Rock mine before sunset. He hobbled the horse, then looked around outside. He found the steam generator. So much for the suspect not having electricity. He went up on the porch of the old mine office, found traces of Bradshaw's encampment. Then he went inside and nearly broke a leg when one of the floor boards gave way under him. He backed out carefully. He went inside the mine entrance, finding Bradshaw's work bench and test equipment. He shone a light down the tunnel but didn't go any further. He shut the light off and listened. There was a sound of water dripping somewhere. He heard, faintly in the distance, a chinking sound. It stopped after a moment. He wasn't sure he had actually heard it, but he thought so. A sound like someone tapping.
He backed out of the mine, then selected a place at the edge of the clearing to spend the night. Eating a cold dinner, he decided this place was definitely spooky. Bradshaw or someone else had been using the place. There could still be someone hiding out down in that mine shaft. Whoever it was, he would find them. First thing in the morning. The stars came out and blazed above him.
* * * *
Sanderson finished his beer. He decided to get some lunch, then go and look for this Octavia woman. Before he could get up, his cell phone buzzed again. This time it was one of his lookouts, letting him know Bradshaw was in town. He had been seen heading for the library on his bicycle. Sanderson clicked off and headed there himself.
He found Bradshaw at the reference desk, browsing a book on Egyptian mythology. He smiled at Sanderson.
“Mr Sanderson. Nice to see you again. Are you enjoying your stay in our little town?”
“Brad, we need to talk.”
“Well, Mrs Smithers doesn't like talking in the library. What say we stroll in the park? I always enjoy conversation, especially with a dedicated public servant like yourself.”
“We wouldn't want to upset Mrs Smithers.” Sanderson briefly considered making Bradshaw go with him to the Sheriff's office, but decided to put that off awhile. They walked outside to the park and settled on Sanderson's favorite bench. Sanderson got right to the point.
“Where have you been the last few days, Brad?”
“The last few days? My mind is sort of a blur at times. I think I was up at the old mine. Then again, I may have been abducted by Aliens. That's happened to me before. Did you know that Aliens think of earth people sort of like cosmic road kill? I hate it when they stick that thing up my butt...”
'Never mind the Aliens.” Sanderson still hadn't decided just how crazy this man was. “How long have you been back?”
“Since yesterday, I guess. Oh, look at that.” He pulled an object out of his pocket and showed it to Sanderson. It was a sizable chunk of quartz, containing a tiny thread of gold. “I guess I must have been at the mine all right, picking up crystal. You can sell this stuff to tourists, you see...”
“Tell me about Oscar,” Sanderson said.
Bradshaw blinked.
“He wasn't there. In fact, I haven't seen him. Peculiar. He said he was going along to watch out for me, but he must be busy doing something else...”
“What about Octavia Tiller? Do you know her?”
“No, should I?”
“I don't know whether you should or not. OK, Brad, that's all the questions I have for now. If you leave town or go back to the mine, I want to know about it. This is a serious criminal investigation. You understand me?”
Bradshaw nodded vigorously.
“Serious. Criminal. Investigation. Absolutely, I understand.”
Sanderson was definitely getting another headache. * * * *
David Brandt entered the Dead Rock mine some time before noon. He carried a flashlight in one hand and his Glock in the other. He regretted not having brought a hard hat. The ceiling of the mine tunnel was low; it wouldn't do to crack his skull. He proceeded cautiously down the first tunnel, examining all the equipment again, both the ancient tools left there by long-gone miners, and the more modern objects obviously left by Bradshaw. Brandt listened. He turned into the side tunnel and began to hear sounds again, sounds that shouldn't be there. Sometimes he caught a whisper of conversation, or a creak of metal. Then that chink, chink started again.
It occurred to him that his ears could be playing tricks. He stopped, switched off his light, and listened again, not breathing. He couldn't be sure. Sensory deprivation, that could be it. Then again, there was something screwy going on at this mine... Chink, chink.
He found the ladder at the end of the tunnel. He holstered his gun so he could climb down. At the bottom, he wondered what he had expected to find. more creaky wooden braces. Bad smells. getting creepy. Brandt decided if he didn't find anything definite in a few minutes, he'd go back up and wait till O”Reilly got there. He moved down the tunnel.
Another tunnel, This place was
Another sound. This sounded like a moan, a man groaning in pain. But so faint he couldn't be sure. Probably it was one of the old wooden beams creaking under stress. He felt goosebumps on his neck. He drew his gun again. He decided, if he saw anyone down here he would shoot first.
He had gone a few yards down the tunnel when he heard something behind him. It sounded like a footstep, the sound a heavy boot makes thumping on rock. He spun around, shone his light into darkness.
“Who's there? Show yourself, dammit, or I'll shoot!”
The light flickered, as if the batteries were already going dead. At the extreme range of his light, Brandt saw something, or thought he did. He made out the form of a man, at the far end of the tunnel. Brandt could barely see him in the shadows. There was something about him – he seemed to be wearing a faint yellow light on his cap, like the kind old time miners wore. Brandt for a moment forgot to shoot, straining to see. The man moved closer. Then Brandt did shoot, a wild shot down the tunnel. There was a blinding orange flash and a crash of sound. Brandt took a step backward, not seeing the open pit behind him...
Sanderson got the call late the next morning. It was O'Reilly, whose cell phone seemed to be working for once.
“We got the road clear, enough to get through with the Jeep. Brandt's horse was still where he left it. So was his bedroll and stuff. Someone has been around the mine, all right, they left some electronics junk inside the entrance. We didn't have too much trouble finding Brandt. He was the third level down. Looks like he fell off a ladder. It was only a few feet, but he must have landed on his head, broke his neck. Shoulda been more careful.”
Sanderson was in his motel room. From where he was standing, he could see his face in the bathroom mirror. It didn't look good.
“Maybe he had help,” Sanderson said after a moment. “How long do you think he was dead before you found him?”
“He also broke his Rolex. Twenty minutes after one, yesterday afternoon. Say, do you think this Bradshaw character...?”
Sanderson closed his eyes.
“Couldn't have been him. He was with me at the time. On a park bench. I was busy giving him an alibi.”
Sanderson was rattled. He reminded himself he was a professional in a dangerous business. But he was still rattled. He told himself it could have been an accident, after all. Sure, and pigs could fly. If he had not been rattled, he might have been better prepared for what happened next.
This Octavia Tiller – he was waiting for Davis to fax him a report on the background check. Sanderson wanted to know more about her. When he did, he would look her up and interrogate her...
There was a loud knock on the door. Or rather, someone pounding. Sanderson sighed. This better be important. He opened the door. It was a young, good-looking woman dressed in black.
“Are you Sanderson?” she demanded. Before he could reply, she brushed past him into the room, taking everything in with one glance. She spun about again, to look him in the eye.
“I'm Octavia Tiller, and I'm here to ask you questions.” * * * *
Bradshaw was slowly simmering a wild turkey in a big pot on top of the stove. He had found this bird early that morning, freshly killed and only slightly mutilated by the fender of some vehicle. He stirred the pot, adding a few herbs and spices. Melchizidek licked his chops.
“That Mrs Smithers is a nice lady,” Bradshaw said to Oscar. Oscar had re-appeared only a few minutes ago.
“She let me store the gizmo in her filing cabinet. I told her it's an invention I'm working on, which is true – I didn't actually claim it's my invention. Then I had a nice talk with that Mr Sanderson in the park. He's not such a bad sort, really... By the way, where have you been, Oscar? I missed you up at the mine. I thought you were going to look out for me.”
Oscar pointed north-east, in the direction of Dead Rock. He mimed tapping with his little hammer.
'Oh. You mean you were up there, but I didn't see you, is that it? You must have been deeper in the ground. What were you doing there all that time, if I may ask?”
Oscar looked directly at him.
“Accidents happen,” he said.
Bradshaw blinked, wondering what Oscar meant. Carefully, he sipped at the turkey broth. He figured he would find out what Oscar meant in due time, if he was supposed to find out.
* * * *
After Octavia left, Sanderson decided he needed a drink. Not just a beer, a drink. He called O'Reilly back on the motel phone and asked him to meet him down at the Gold Coin, which seemed to be the main saloon in town. When he got there Sanderson ordered a bourbon and soda; O'Reilly got a coke. Sanderson began playing with a book of matches. For once, he wished he had never quit smoking.
“She's too well informed, that's the problem,” he said. “She stuck that copy of the Gopherville Gazette in my face, the one with the picture of Tiller's car all shot up. She wants to know who killed her uncle and why.
Seems she's been spending her time talking to lawyers and researching Faustus Labs. I'm still waiting for our background check on Octavia Tiller. You see what I'm driving at, O'Reilly? We know almost nothing about Miss Octavia, but by now she knows almost all there is to know about us. Can you explain that to me, O'Reilly?”
O'Reilly didn't seem to think a response was called for, so he studied the ice cubes in his coke.
"At least she cleared up one mystery. We know Tiller was headed for Vegas when we caught up with him. He was probably planning to drop out of sight. We assumed he had made some kind of deal either with a criminal element or a foreign agent, intending either to sell or give away Project Emperor. However, it appears he had arranged to meet his niece Octavia there. According to her, he didn't tell her why, just that it was extremely urgent. After she arrived, it took her a couple days to figure out why he didn't show up.”
“Arrived from where?” O'Reilly asked. “Where's she from, what does she do?”
“She's some kind of computer geek, from what I could make out. She flew in from India, where she's been working for some foreign company that does outsourcing. Don't tell me this is suspicious, I already know it. Question is, how much does she know she isn't letting on?”
“Shouldn't we pick her up and find out?”
“Not yet. I want you and whoever you have helping to watch her. I need to know who she talks to, where she goes, what she reads, who she calls on the phone. From now on. But don't let her leave town.”
“You got it.” O'Reilly started to get up. “By the way. I didn't tell you, we found some electronic stuff up at that mine. Test equipment, tools and things. It might be junk that came from Danny's Computer Shack. We bagged it and brought it back, if you want to see it...”
Sanderson shook his head.
“Wouldn't tell me anything. In fact, I'm guessing it was left there on purpose to throw us off track. You'd probably find Bradshaw's fingerprints all over the stuff. Somebody wants us to think he was using it. Probably this mysterious Oscar character.”
O'Reilly turned to go, then paused again.
“What did you tell this Octavia lady, anyway?”
“Nothing, of course. You think I'm an amateur? I hinted that Tiller's accident might have had something to do with drug dealers. I told her there's a criminal investigation and I can't comment. I don't think she bought it. Oh, one thing more.”
“Yeah?”
“If she goes off into a woodsy environment, don't follow her yourself.”
* * * *
Meanwhile, Sylvia wasn't having a good day either. If Sanderson had known how bad a day she was having, he might have turned in his Security badge at that moment. She had called Samuels to her office, to plan strategy. While she was waiting for him, she regarded herself in the mirror on the wall of her private bathroom. She was still a goodlooking woman, considering the amount of stress she was under. Sometimes she wondered why she had trouble attracting eligible bachelors - not that she really cared, of course. What was important was her charisma and self confidence. These qualities would get her through anything, even a Grand Jury investigation.
Turning from the mirror, she shook her head. She was puzzled about that. There had apparently been complaints made, by someone who knew more about Faustus Labs than was usually made public. If she could figure out who it was...
Samuels from Accounting arrived and was shown in by Bruce, Sylvia's secretary. He carried the usual stack of documents. When the formalities were out of the way, Sylvia said,
“This will blow over in due course. There's nothing to worry about. I just want to make sure we have all the loose ends tied up. We have done nothing illegal. That is our position, and we are consistent with that. Do I make myself clear?”
'Yes, of course.” Samuels wasn't so sure. But around Sylvia he tried to act as if he was.
“As I said before, Sylvia...”
There was a knock at the door. Sylvia looked up, annoyed. She had told Bruce she was not to be disturbed. But Bruce opened the door before she could respond.
“Sylvia, there are some men here to see you...”
“What on earth...” Sylvia felt her short fuse begin to sputter. Before she could say anything else, two men in dark suits pushed past Bruce into the room. The one in front flipped open a leather ID wallet.
“My name is Roger Snow. We are from the SEC, and we have a warrant to examine your books.”
* * * *
The next morning, Bradshaw was debating whether to go into town when he was paid a visit from Octavia Tiller. She came plowing up the dirt driveway in one of those little Japanese sport cars, leaving a cloud of dust behind her. Bradshaw thought, This place is getting to be a regular tourist attraction. Maybe I should move to the country.
Octavia spilled out of her car and descended on Bradshaw. She had traded her conservative business suit for denims.
“Are you Bradshaw?” she demanded.
He raised an eyebrow.
“I have the honor to be the same,” he replied. “Doctor Bradshaw, that is.”
She did a double take, scanning the ramshackle collection of structures around her. She said, in a calmer tone,
“We need to talk. I'd like to know what you know about my uncle's death.”
“Your uncle? And who would that be?”
Octavia frowned. “You mean you don't know? Well, maybe you wouldn't. I'm Octavia Tiller. My uncle was shot to death in a car nea