Chapter 42
I stayed on my knees next to the fresh mounds, paying my last respects to the dead. But as insensitive as it felt, I knew there was no time to dwell on what I could not change. More important was taking this time to gather some intel.
Even though it was still early in the day, there was only dim light due to the camouflage netting draped over everything. I saw several Hummer vehicles, the hood of a truck sticking out from behind another hut, and a tanker trailer up against the fence line. The word ammonia was emblazoned across the tank. Ammonia was one of the components for processing raw opium. My brain wasn’t completely scrambled. I remembered that fact.
All the vehicles were painted in standard military drab, except the dark-colored sedan, which had just brought me here. It was the car with the flat tire and stranded motorist. I should have recognized it before the ambush, even though I had only seen it once previously. I had seen it while parked outside the National Forest entrance waiting for a tree-planting crew to exit. I had been so intent in looking for a truck or van full of day laborers that the sedan with four guys in it had slipped out right in front of me. So I could have avoided being ambushed and being imprisoned by just being more observant. But then it was dark, and I wasn’t looking for it, not thinking about it. I was only thinking about seeing the Sheriff, getting on with exposing this whole affair. I had not prepared myself for any deviation from just getting it done. My mistake.
Further down, I saw at least three other huts. Those were probably living quarters for the captors and their captives, which now included me. All of these huts and vehicles were encircled by a high chain-link fence, topped with razor wire. This roughly square fence was maybe 100 feet from the gate. There was also a gate in this inner fence. It was like a small prison within the bigger double fence line that imprisoned the entire valley. There was also fencing that ran from the small inner prison to the outer perimeter fence, making a corridor maybe 10 yards wide between the gates. All this was an imposing barrier to those trapped inside.
I heard an engine running somewhere behind the first hut. It was probably a gasoline-powered generator to run the lights and other equipment since there were no visible power lines coming in. Not far away was a stream that flowed outward. That would be the waterway marked on the topographic map I examined. The stream didn’t appear to be very deep, maybe two or three feet at most. The double fence line ran through the water, dipping down a bit in the deeper water, and probably contacting the streambed. That portion of the fence had two vertical rows of razor wire on top of it so that the entire fence line retained its full seemingly unscaleable height around the entire area.
Mason finally grew tired of waiting for me to get up. He roughly grabbed the handcuffs and yanked me to my feet. I felt much better now. Just that short period of rest helped revive me. Mason shoved me forward.
I thought further about the dead man on Monarch Trail. His Afghan comrades in this compound must have been sorely disappointed when he was brought back dead. Gates probably made sure all of them saw the body so that they would realize the consequence of escaping, even though Gates’ men had not actually killed him. It didn’t matter. The Afghans wouldn’t know that. So the message he wanted to deliver came through loud and clear. If you escape, you die.
“If you don’t keep moving, you can join your friends right now,” Mason threatened. He pushed me forward, and I complied. The camouflage netting became much less dense, so it was considerably better lit here. I was soon wading through rows of tall flowers. Poppies. They were everywhere. If they filled the valley, there would be hundreds of thousands of plants, maybe millions of them. Among this sea of plants were several dark-skinned workers, all of them wearing turbans. Some were pulling weeds. Some were hauling buckets of water to feed the plants. Others were slitting flowers, a step in the harvesting process I recalled reading about on the Internet. They were all under the watchful eyes of men in camouflage uniforms who carried rifles and side arms. This operation might be crude, but it was huge.
Mason said, “Soon enough you will be working alongside them. But right now we need you over by the river planting trees. That’s what we’re supposed to be doing here. Gotta keep up appearances.”
There was no camouflage netting over the river. They had to keep that clear in the event someone flew over and looked down. The stream had to be visible. A river that disappeared in a burned-out valley might be noticed. The netting over the rest of the valley would likely go unnoticed from any significant height. It would take very close scrutiny to detect it. There were a couple other workers along the river also planting trees. They wore hats over top of their turbans. Part of the cover. Turbans were not normal attire in Montana. A hat was crammed onto my head by Mason.
He attached ankle cuffs to my legs to hamper my movement. He made sure they were so tight that I winced with the grip. In my condition, these shackles really weren’t necessary. While I had recovered some of my faculties, I wouldn’t be able to run far without falling down. But for Mason, any pain he inflicted on me was deriving him pleasure. He flashed me a toothy grin. At least he undid the handcuffs so I could work. I wanted to rub my wrists to ease the pain and restore circulation, but I really didn’t have the energy for even that simple task. I did, though, point to the river, and asked, “May I?”
He nodded. I staggered over to the creek, got on my knees, removed my hat, and splashed water over my head and neck to clear the cobwebs. I filled my hands again and again to awaken my foggy brain. I then drank water from my cupped hands. It was cool and sweet. I felt better.
“Break’s over,” he barked.
I stood up, watched the other tree planters briefly, and then hobbled over to a box of pine seedlings. I poked a long-handled trowel into the ground to make a hole, stuck the roots of a plant in the hole, and lightly tamped the earth down.
“Well done, Mr. Parker. Cooperate like that, and I’m sure you will do just fine here.” Then he stepped up very close and whispered, “But before I put a bullet in your brain, you are going to know pain for what you did to me.”
Being on Enid Powell’s S list now seemed trivial compared to this. Today had started on a high. This morning, I was on my way with Jeff to reveal all this illegal activity right here in Spring Valley. I had a plot for my book. I was meeting Allison later for dinner. I felt like my litter label was coming off, and a new confident life was emerging.
But now the full realization hit me. This day had turned to shit. I really was litter again.