The Wind Guardian

Chapter 4

Chapter 4Nine miles inland from the power plant, a streamlined Dodge Ram 1500 truck lumbered slowly up a steep canyon grade along the eastern flanks of the coastal mountains. The vehicle was crystal black pearl in color with four-wheel drive and a high-wheel clearance. It had a standard transmission and a pair of high-strength, polypropylene lamps which now lit the way up the dark, uneven road.

The Driver clutched and down-shifted, causing the truck to nearly roll backward, but its all-terrain tires quickly gripped the turf and the truck continued to climb until the road gradually leveled.

Ahead was a locked gate. The truck's brake lights came on and the door opened. The driver stepped out to a strong gust of wind blowing through the sycamore trees. He glanced up at them. To the south, the mountaintops glowed from the distant lights of San Roque. Directly west was the huge, dark shoulder of the mountain he climbed, still separating him from the sea.

The Driver retrieved a set of bolt cutters from the bed of the truck. Using the headlamps to illuminate the gate, he snapped the lock and swung the gate open. He dumped the bolt cutters back into the bed of the truck, returned to the cab, and preceded through the gate.

The road ahead was dark and narrow, and equally as steep. Leaning forward, the Driver strained for a better view.

Ahead was a familiar landmark—a huge, brooding oak tree in an opening in a sloping field. He knew this place, and knew the sycamores would soon thicken and the embankment to the south would steepen into a cliff. Having scouted the road two weeks earlier in daylight, on a warm day, he had etched landmarks in his mind. He had hiked all afternoon with a daypack until the road narrowed and steepened, finally reaching the top. The further up he got, he noticed, the less traveled the road was, evident by the increasingly taller grass and lack of fresh tire tracks. Judging by what he saw, the upper portion of the road hadn't been used in weeks.

He had found the road on a standard topographical map issued by the U.S. Geological Survey, which he had conveniently downloaded off the internet. It followed through a dense grove of oaks and up a narrowing canyon filled with sycamore trees. The snaking line on the map was marked; 'Miguelleto Canyon Road.' It was a remote passage at best, used sparingly by cattle ranchers to gain access to grazing lands on the northern coastal slopes. In the lower stretches, the map indicated three creek crossings, two over cement spillways and the last over bare boulders. The road started out on asphalt, and ended on dirt, and there were two places where earth slides had covered the road, but jeep-tracks had since blazed a path around them. The upper portion of the route was nothing more than a two-wheeled jeep path.

Now, in darkness, beneath tree-filtered starlight, the Driver followed the same path he had walked two weeks earlier. His Dodge truck's hemi engine powered smoothly uphill, its headlamps bearing down on the bumpy terrain. A couple of times, he encountered steers on the road, having to nudge the animals aside. Further up he came to a second locked gate where he repeated the earlier process with the bolt cutters. This time, when he stepped out of the truck, he heard a crackling noise. Looking up he saw the dark outline of a huge, power tower. It was a place where the high-voltage power lines stretched from the power plant at Mal Loma over the mountaintops to inland cities. Hunched over like colossal, high-shouldered Martians, the silhouetted, two-legged steel towers connected one hilltop to another, linking them all the way to California's Central Valley.

Getting close, he thought.

Nearing the top of the grade, the truck came out of the sycamore trees onto a sharp, slope of starlit chaparral. The road practically vanished, steepening into tall, waving grass. As the truck climbed, nearly vertical, its engine bore down. The Driver downshifted, and the truck's engine labored briefly, until easing as the grade gave way to sky.

The Driver reached over and switched off the headlamps. The darkness was sudden and complete, causing his eyes to dilate. When his vision returned, the stars filled the night sky, and before him emerged a vast, panoramic view of the Pacific coastline.

He had summited a barren, grass-covered peak, from which one could see as far north as Point Piedras and south to Point San Miguel. West, beyond the vague white outline of the jagged surf, loomed the dark ocean. It was a perfect crow's nest. The view was unobstructed by tree, pole line, or clouds. Above was only the brilliant white starlight.

For a moment the Driver just sat there, taking it in. Then he checked his position, left and right. The mountaintop was cone-shaped and the truck was resting slightly back on the eastern slope, positioned perfectly just below the rise. He was on the dark side of the mountain, he knew. The truck could not be seen from the West, even with the most sophisticated night vision equipment, and from the East, he was a good fifteen miles from the nearest human being.

He killed the engine, and stepping from the truck, he was greeted by a shoreward breeze. It blew briskly through his short-cropped brown hair and against his handsome face. He walked slowly to the precipitous, western edge. His deep, remarkably blue eyes gazed downward intently. There, straight below him, fifteen-hundred yards away, was a small city of lights; the layout of which was completely familiar to him. Encircled in a ring of lights was an elongated building with two magnificent domes protruding from the back end. He had seen it before in daylight, had studied aerial photographs and maps, including a detailed, satellite-image downloaded on Google Earth, and what he saw now was the perfect nighttime perspective.

He nodded his head contently. There she blows.

Kneeling down, he cupped his hands, lit a cigarette, and let the wind blow a straight line of smoke eastward behind him. With hawk-like attention, he studied the topography and layout before him. From this high vantage point, the two enormous, concrete containment domes seemed dwarfed in size, gleaming white beneath the blackened sky. The perimeter fence surrounding the Plant looked like a sparkling silver chain, illuminated by evenly spaced diamonds of high-intensity flood lights. Along the eastern fence-line, the side closest to him, two stick-figures marched slowly. To the south was the Security Building, separated from the power plant by one-hundred feet of asphalt, which, from this distance, appeared to be less than two centimeters. The bulk on the Turbine Building was concealed beyond the containment domes and the auxiliary building, but the rooftop was exposed at both ends.

The Driver turned his attention north beyond the blackness of the western slope. There, before the vague white outline of the surf, was a single pair of headlights traveling slowly along the terrace. It was one of the Plant's two security mobile units; a modified eight-cylinder, Jeep Cherokee. Having completed its patrol route along the northern property boundaries, it was en route back toward the power plant.

The Driver watched it, taking a long drag from his cigarette; his practiced, deep-blue eyes flickered contently.

Behind him, to the east, there was nothing but blackness, except for a few distant lights of distant cities.

It was an absolutely clear night. Nearly perfect conditions. The wind would be a factor, strong and steady from the west, but he had accounted for that. All the necessary equipment had accompanied him in the truck and the necessary adjustments could be made easily enough. The temperature was a cool fifty-eight degrees, nearly ideal for keeping a trajectory. His line of fire would be straight for the furthest possible distance, he knew. He was lucky, he thought, to have a clear night without fog. He flicked the cigarette butt into the grass.

A strong gust of wind came against him and he braced himself with a hand in the grass. He waited for the wind to subside, then leaned forward and rested his elbow back on his knee.

The wind will definitely be a factor, he thought, but not a problem. Just a couple turns of a screw. Nothing more.

Besides, he thought, they wanted wind.