mind. But he knew this exercise couldn’t fail to be interesting, whatever the result. He had learned that McPheeters was far away, back at the courthouse where he was supposed to be, coordinating the movements of the strike force.
“What do you know about this McPheeters?” Harry asked.
“Howard? He’s reliable, very efficient, a formidable personality,” Turk said, sounding very sure of himself. “Why do you ask?”
“I wouldn’t trust the man.”
Turk was brought up short. One of the transmitters had come to life. It was Davenport, who was in command of the units moving in the direction of Alpha Mountain.
“Excuse me,” he said to Harry, then lifted up the speaker. “This is Xanadu One. What is it, Frank?”
“We have a stall. A truck is trapped in the mud.”
“Well, get it untrapped.”
“We’re doing our best, Turk. There’s a man coming up from town to free it.”
“Can you go around it meanwhile?”
“That’s the thing, Turk. It was one of the lead trucks. And you know how the road is, especially with this goddamn rain coming down. We’re just going to have to wait here for a while.”
“How long is a while?”
“As soon as the guy from Maxie’s Garage gets here. Half an hour, I don’t know. Maybe forty-five minutes.”
“Shit. All right, do the best you can.”
Already, twenty minutes out, Turk’s elaborately contrived two-pronged advance, directed at Lunar and Rain mountains, thought to be the two likeliest redoubts of the marijuana business, had become bogged down in the mud.
Harry felt it poetic justice that an operation requiring millions of dollars and sixty men armed to the teeth should have to rely on a mechanic from Maxie’s Garage to get underway.
Turk was so furious over the delay that Harry decided not to antagonize him with such a gratuitous comment. Instead, as delicately as possible, he asked him if McPheeters had concurred in the scheduling of the invasion.
“No objection at all. We were perfectly in accord. I don’t know why you say I shouldn’t trust him. I’ve worked under him for years.”
Turk clearly was not about to allow anything to interfere with the consummation of his dream. No matter what Harry said, the only voice he was ever going to listen to was his own.
But Harry was fast coming to the inescapable conclusion that the only reason McPheeters might condone Turk’s scheme, however wild or preposterous, would be to ensure its failure.
The transmitter crackled again. It was a federal marshal who wished to know whether the strike against Charlie Mountain should be put off until the truck in the second column was extricated from the mud so that the two columns might attack simultaneously. Turk informed him that he was putting off nothing.
From the air—if the weather had allowed anyone to fly up into it—the two columns, the one advancing, the other mired in the treacherous terrain, resembled twin snakes on diverging roads. Each column consisted of maybe ten or twelve vehicles of one sort or another. When they were all in motion the clouds of exhaust fumes that they collectively produced made for a noxious and murky atmosphere.
And where was the man from Maxie’s Garage? An hour had gone by, and he had not arrived. Davenport’s eradication team, as the invasion organizers called it, remained where it was, motionless in the shadow of Lunar Mountain. The rain storm was growing worse. Thunder rumbled north and west of the mountains, greenish-white flashes ignited the sky, giving the whole landscape a vaguely sinister, phosphorescent look.
In the green rusted pickup in which Harry and Turk were installed, the radio receivers were filled with voices, some of them recognizable to Harry, others unfamiliar. All sought guidance from Turk. The reports were of more rain through the night. The roads, never in the best of condition, would be inhospitable to a Sherman tank, were such a thing available to the eradication forces.
Again and again came
“What do you know about this McPheeters?” Harry asked.
“Howard? He’s reliable, very efficient, a formidable personality,” Turk said, sounding very sure of himself. “Why do you ask?”
“I wouldn’t trust the man.”
Turk was brought up short. One of the transmitters had come to life. It was Davenport, who was in command of the units moving in the direction of Alpha Mountain.
“Excuse me,” he said to Harry, then lifted up the speaker. “This is Xanadu One. What is it, Frank?”
“We have a stall. A truck is trapped in the mud.”
“Well, get it untrapped.”
“We’re doing our best, Turk. There’s a man coming up from town to free it.”
“Can you go around it meanwhile?”
“That’s the thing, Turk. It was one of the lead trucks. And you know how the road is, especially with this goddamn rain coming down. We’re just going to have to wait here for a while.”
“How long is a while?”
“As soon as the guy from Maxie’s Garage gets here. Half an hour, I don’t know. Maybe forty-five minutes.”
“Shit. All right, do the best you can.”
Already, twenty minutes out, Turk’s elaborately contrived two-pronged advance, directed at Lunar and Rain mountains, thought to be the two likeliest redoubts of the marijuana business, had become bogged down in the mud.
Harry felt it poetic justice that an operation requiring millions of dollars and sixty men armed to the teeth should have to rely on a mechanic from Maxie’s Garage to get underway.
Turk was so furious over the delay that Harry decided not to antagonize him with such a gratuitous comment. Instead, as delicately as possible, he asked him if McPheeters had concurred in the scheduling of the invasion.
“No objection at all. We were perfectly in accord. I don’t know why you say I shouldn’t trust him. I’ve worked under him for years.”
Turk clearly was not about to allow anything to interfere with the consummation of his dream. No matter what Harry said, the only voice he was ever going to listen to was his own.
But Harry was fast coming to the inescapable conclusion that the only reason McPheeters might condone Turk’s scheme, however wild or preposterous, would be to ensure its failure.
The transmitter crackled again. It was a federal marshal who wished to know whether the strike against Charlie Mountain should be put off until the truck in the second column was extricated from the mud so that the two columns might attack simultaneously. Turk informed him that he was putting off nothing.
From the air—if the weather had allowed anyone to fly up into it—the two columns, the one advancing, the other mired in the treacherous terrain, resembled twin snakes on diverging roads. Each column consisted of maybe ten or twelve vehicles of one sort or another. When they were all in motion the clouds of exhaust fumes that they collectively produced made for a noxious and murky atmosphere.
And where was the man from Maxie’s Garage? An hour had gone by, and he had not arrived. Davenport’s eradication team, as the invasion organizers called it, remained where it was, motionless in the shadow of Lunar Mountain. The rain storm was growing worse. Thunder rumbled north and west of the mountains, greenish-white flashes ignited the sky, giving the whole landscape a vaguely sinister, phosphorescent look.
In the green rusted pickup in which Harry and Turk were installed, the radio receivers were filled with voices, some of them recognizable to Harry, others unfamiliar. All sought guidance from Turk. The reports were of more rain through the night. The roads, never in the best of condition, would be inhospitable to a Sherman tank, were such a thing available to the eradication forces.
Again and again came
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