Drought (15 page)

‘Go on,' said Charlie, swallowing beer and wiping his mouth on the side of his sleeve. ‘What are you going to do? Wait on the bridge till the prison bus comes past and then jump on top of it?'

‘Who do you think I am? Spiderman? I'm going to do what we used to do with those Taliban trucks in Helmand. I'm going to blow out their tires just before they reach the intersection so they have to take the off ramp up to North Alder Avenue.'

‘Supposing they don't?'

‘They'll still have to stop, even if they stay on the freeway.'

‘But then what?'

‘That's when I confront them with the RPG and tell them to let Tyler off the bus or else.'

‘Supposing they say no? Supposing they say, “You won't blow this bus up so long as your son is on board”?'

‘They won't. People don't think like that when they're being threatened with a weapon. You know that. They just want to get themselves out of danger.'

‘OK … supposing they do let him go. Then what?'

‘I hightail it south on North Alder Avenue and then I take a left on Baseline and keep going until I hit downtown.'

‘And you don't think the cops will have put out an APB on you?'

‘That's why I'm heading downtown. The cops will be too tied up with the water riots to worry about looking for me.'

Charlie thoughtfully finished his beer, and called out, ‘Rosa! Bring us another two beers, will you?'

‘Not for me,' said Martin. ‘I need to keep a very clear head for this.'

‘OK,' said Charlie. ‘Supposing I don't own those weapons any more. Supposing I sold them. Like, what use are two sub-machine guns and an RPG to an old fart like me with only one arm? If I tried to fire them –
shit
– I'd only spin around in circles.'

‘Charlie, you still have those weapons because they're part of your life. Those weapons are a testament to the fact that you were a fighting man once, and not just a one-armed cripple.'

Charlie look at him narrow-eyed. ‘Well, you're right, of course. I forgot that you were trained in all of that psychiatric shit. OK, you can borrow them. But only
borrow
, and don't go killing anybody, OK? If you kill anybody I'm going to say that you took them from me without my knowledge, because there's no way I'm going to prison for facilitating no murder, no way. Not with one arm, and not in a prison with no fucking water.'

Martin checked his watch. ‘Thanks, Charlie. I don't have any idea if this going to work but you know what they say about desperate times.'

Rosa came in with another beer for Charlie, but before she could give it to him he said, ‘No, Rosa. On second thought, put the top back on it. I'm going to need a clear head, too.'

‘What, for watching
The Young And The Restless
?' Martin ribbed him.

‘No,' said Charlie. ‘I think you're going to need back-up. I'm coming with you. It's about time I got out of this goddamned chair and did something that takes a bit of nerve. The hajjis may have left me with only dickskinner but my balls are still intact.'

He phoned Peta. He was already formulating in his mind what he was going to do, and even though he knew it was extreme, he couldn't think of any alternative for protecting his family. When he was in the Marines he had earned a reputation for coming up with tactical solutions that appeared at first to be madness, but which had almost always saved lives. That was how he had earned the nickname ‘Angel'.

His motto had always been ‘
Don't hope that the worst thing that you can possibly imagine isn't going to happen, because it will, and a whole lot sooner than you think
.'

‘Sweetheart,' he told Peta, ‘we're going to have to leave, like today.'

‘Leave? Why? What are you talking about? We can't
leave.
Ella's still sick and Tyler's being arraigned tomorrow.'

‘Is your water back on?'

‘No, not yet, but we still have plenty of that bottled water you brought us.'

‘Peta, I don't think your water is ever going to come back on. Not until it starts raining, and even then it's going to take weeks for the aquifers to fill up again.'

‘So what are we supposed to do?'

‘First off, I'm going to go get Tyler.'

‘I don't understand you. They're taking Tyler to prison.'

‘Not if I have anything to do with it, sweetheart.'

Martin explained to her what Saskia had told him and what he was planning to do. She listened in silence, but when he had finished she said, ‘You're crazy. Do you know that? You're totally, utterly crazy.'

‘All right, I'm crazy. But what else can I do? Watch my family dying of thirst, or worse?'

‘They'll arrest you as well, and then you'll be stuck in that detention center along with Tyler, and then
you'll
die of thirst, too.'

‘Peta, I survived three tours of Afghanistan. I think I can handle myself. Besides, Charlie Bonaduce is going to help me.'

‘Charlie Bonaduce? Charlie with only one arm? Now I
know
that you've lost it.'

Martin said, ‘Peta, please trust me, just this once. Pack a few things for yourself and Ella and have yourselves ready to leave by four p.m. at the latest. If I don't show, then you'll know that it's all gone wrong. I know this sounds insane, but it's the only way we're going to survive, I promise you.'

There was a long pause, and then Peta said, ‘Aren't you forgetting something?'

‘What? I don't think so.'

‘Aren't you forgetting that we're not married any more? I never did allow you tell me what to do when we
were
married, and I'm certainly not going to let you start now.'

‘Peta, I love you. You know that. I never stopped loving you. In fact I probably love you more now than I did when we were married.'

Another long pause. Then, ‘I'll think about it, Martin. If you can bring Tyler safe home this afternoon, well – I'll see how I feel then.'

‘Peta, this is nothing to do with all of those fights we had. This is a matter of survival. And I mean
our
survival. Mine, yours, Tyler's and Ella's.'

‘I'll see you later, Martin,' said Peta. ‘And Martin—'

‘Yes?'

‘Be safe, Martin. Please. For my sake.'

C
harlie led him into the spare bedroom. He rolled back the faded blue Chinese rug, and then he handed Martin a long screwdriver.

‘You'll find them under there. Don't go splintering those floorboards any, will you?'

Martin knelt down and levered up three of the dark oak floorboards. Underneath, wrapped up in heavy-duty polythene and silver duct tape, were Charlie's two Colt Commando sub-machine guns with five spare thirty-round magazines and a Russian-made rocket-propelled grenade launcher, with two grenades.

‘All clean, oiled, and in perfect working order,' said Charlie, proudly.

Martin lifted them out and laid them side by side on the bed. ‘You don't have to get yourself involved in this, Charlie. You know that.'

‘Oh, you try and stop me, Angel. My life is so fucking boring these days I feel like taking out one of these babies and blowing my brains out. The only one reason I don't is Rosa. I wouldn't like to give her all of that mess to clear up afterward.'

Martin said, ‘You can come along with us, if you like, after we've rescued Tyler. You still have water here for now, but I don't know how long it's going to be before they cut you off, too.'

Charlie laid his hand on Martin's shoulder. ‘Thanks for the offer. I'd love to come with you, but it's not just my arm that's fucked, remember. That shrapnel I took in my gut … I still have a bag. You don't want to have the Colostomy Kid slowing you down, now do you?'

Martin unwrapped the Colts and checked them over. Their weight and their shape and the smell of them was so familiar that he could have closed his eyes and felt as if he were still in Afghanistan, especially on a hot day like this. He had never handled an RPG but if Charlie said that it was in perfect working order, then he believed him. When he had still had an arm, Charlie had been a sniper, and he could strip and reassemble any weapon, American or foreign, in total darkness.

‘That magazine with the red tape on it, be careful with that one, it has tracer rounds in it,' said Charlie.

‘OK. I don't think I'll be needing those. I'll be doing this in daylight.'

Charlie reached down under the floorboards and came up with two spherical, khaki-colored hand grenades. ‘Want to take these along, too? Don't know why I kept them, to tell you the truth. Not much you can do with an M67 frag grenade except pull out the pin and blow yourself up with it, if life ever gets too boring.'

‘OK, let's take them anyhow,' said Martin. He checked his watch. ‘It's too early to go yet. I don't want us to be noticed, hanging around the intersection. What are you going to do, take your own truck?'

‘Sure. It'll be easier for both of us. You can make a clean getaway and I can head straight back home. Meanwhile … how about some chow? Rosa! How much longer is that chili going to take? You need to try some of Rosa's chili. That's my second reason for staying alive.'

After they had finished eating, Martin carried the two Colt Commandos out of the house and laid them on the passenger seat of his Eldorado, covering them up with a blue hand towel. He lifted the RPG into Charlie's dusty black Dodge Ram. The Ram had a knob on the steering wheel which allowed Charlie to steer with one hand, and he could operate the direction indicators and the horn with his left foot.

Before they set off, Charlie took hold of Martin's hand and squeezed it and said, ‘If this all goes to shit, Angel, at least we tried. Never stop fighting, that's what you always used to say, even when there's nothing left to fight.'

‘Did I say that? I think I've learned more sense since then.'

They climbed into their vehicles. It was so hot now that Martin could barely touch his steering wheel. He wished he could put up the top and turn on the air con, but for what he was planning to do he needed the roof down. With Charlie following close behind him he drove northward to join the Foothill Freeway. In fact Charlie was uncomfortably close behind him, what the Marines used to call ‘nuts to butts.' He waved his hand to indicate that Charlie should back off a few feet, but all Charlie did was let go of his steering wheel and wave back.

As he crossed over the freeway, Martin saw that the traffic was light to moderate, with most of it heading due westward to Rancho Cucamonga and probably beyond, to Pasadena and LA. It looked as if people were getting out of town, and he could hardly blame them. Looking back toward the city center he could see smoke rising from several different locations, and helicopters glinting as they circled over the downtown area.

He checked the time again. It was 2.02 p.m. There was no way of knowing if the prison bus taking Tyler to West Valley was going to be dead on time, or if it was going to be delayed by the riots. All he could do was wait for it to appear, and then improvise. He drove down the ramp to join the freeway, but after only two hundred yards he pulled over on to the shoulder and switched on his hazard lights. Charlie steered his Ram in close behind him, with his lights flashing, too.

Fifteen minutes passed, and there was still no sign of the prison bus; or the police van; or whatever vehicle they were using to transport Tyler to West Valley Detention Center. He saw red, white and blue lights flashing in his rear-view mirror, and started up his engine, ready to set off in pursuit, but then a Highway Patrol car sped past him, its siren wailing, with only two officers in it. He turned off his engine again, and looked around at Charlie, and shook his head.

It was 2.28 before he peered into his side mirror and saw a likely looking vehicle approaching. It was a dark blue bus, and as it came nearer he could make out the silver letters ESS on the front. He knew that Empire Security Services had a contract to carry inmates from prison to court and back again, and now that the SBPD were having to cope with riots, it was logical that they would call on them to take Tyler to Rancho Cucamonga.

He fired up his engine, and gave a whirling-finger signal to Charlie to do the same. The old Ram started up with a whistle and a hefty roar, and Charlie revved its engine up again and again, like a dragster driver who couldn't wait to get off the starting-line.

The dark blue bus came closer and closer. It was traveling at less than forty miles an hour, at most, so that when it passed him, Martin could see through the horizontal bars that lined the windows. He glimpsed two security guards, both of them wearing peaked caps, two white men with shaved heads, a black man with a woolly cap on, and right at the back of the bus, Tyler's blond hair, looking even more porcupine-like than usual.

He stepped on the gas and swerved off the shoulder on to the highway, trying not to drive too dramatically, in case he alerted the bus driver before they reached the North Alder Avenue flyover. Charlie followed, although he kept his distance this time. He knew what Martin was planning to do, and he didn't want to catch any ricochets.

Martin pulled out into the center lane, so that he was driving just behind the bus, matching its speed. Charlie stayed where he was, in the right-hand lane, about fifty yards back.

The bus driver obviously wasn't aware that Martin was close-tailing him, because he didn't slow down or increase his speed or try to take any evasive action, and neither of the security guards turned around to look at him. The bus kept going, mile after mile, with Martin keeping pace with it, his speedometer just nudging forty mph, until he could see the North Alder Avenue flyover up ahead.

This was going to take some calculation. He had attacked Taliban trucks dozens of times before, but in Afghanistan the roads were rough and rocky and the vehicles had usually come bouncing to a halt within only a very short distance – apart from which their drivers had known they were going to be shot at, and had immediately jumped down from their cabs and run away.