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23

What does the Tao intend us to do? Why, to choose, make our own choices. Which we can't help doing, even when we choose to follow someone else's orders or advice. Or when we choose not to choose, for that too is a choice, with effects on ourselves and on others. The Tao intends us to navigate our own way among the shoals and whirlpools of life, learning as we go.
 

Hopefully keeping an eye on our life task as we steer. Not some goal or task that someone else—our parents, our peers, society—has selected for us, but the goal and the task that each of us chose for this life before we were born into it.
 

Such remembering is easier said than done. Our Essence knows, and undertakes to remind us; but given the pressures and distractions of life—perhaps what others think we should do—too often we don't notice or heed those nudges and impulses. So it can be useful to sort out for ourselves what our life goal and life task might be.
 

But if we go astray, we are not damned. The Tao damns no one. We don't even damn ourselves. We simply experience results, and take responsibility for our actions. There are lessons and growth in every choice we make. No choice is wasted, and the Tao continues to love us unconditionally.

From The Collected Public Dialogs
of Ngunda Elija Aran 

 

The old Dodge all-wheel-drive carryall looked like a lot of vehicles used by backcountry types—large mud tires, a front-mounted winch, and camouflage paint, recamouflaged by dried mud and road dust. A spotlight, cleaned of mud, was mounted in front of the driver's door, available for poaching at night. The Colorado license plates were not those it normally wore, back home in Albuquerque. They'd come from a junk vehicle.

It was Lute Koskela who drove, though the rig was not his. They'd set up this operation on a tight timetable, and he was the one who'd scouted the area. He drove slowly, without lights, till the ill-graded gravel road took him into pine forest. There, dimmed headlights would not be visible from a distance, and in the forest they were necessary; trees drastically reduced the natural twilight. Now he watched for the faded pink surveyor's ribbon he'd tied round a tree more than two weeks earlier. An old inconspicuous ribbon, taken from a roadside tree miles away, a meaningless leftover from some years-old survey job. Which was exactly how he'd wanted it to look.

He was perhaps an hour behind schedule, the result of slow service at a restaurant, and a flat tire. But they'd continued. Sarge wanted to get it over with, and the delay didn't seem serious. And Lute wasn't much given to reading omens into things. By nature, he was alert and observant, and by training and experience doubly so. Spotting the ribbon, he turned off the graveled road onto a primitive truck trail, which wound half a mile to the forest's edge. There he parked, the carryall screened by a fringe of saplings. Then he and the others climbed out.

Sarge, the large black man who owned the carryall, removed a panel in a false deck in back, exposing a shallow compartment. By flashlight he took from it five M-16s, five web harnesses with appended gear, and an Uzi. Then he replaced the panel and the carpeting that covered it. From a pocket on their harnesses, five men took night goggles. They'd traveled light. They didn't expect a serious fight, or any fight at all, and should be back before dawn.

A sixth man stood by, scar-faced from a broken bottle in a bar fight, and with one leg surgically shortened after an ugly wound in Nigeria. He was taciturn in almost any circumstance, and at a time like this said nothing at all. When the five were ready to go, Koskela spoke to him, quietly and needlessly. They'd been over it before, but under the circumstances, redundancy was advisable. Excusable at least.

"We should be back by daylight," he said. "If we're not, hang out here till nine, then drive to Big Spring Campground. You know the drill."

The scarred face jerked a curt nod, clearly visible by night goggles. The five then walked out into the rangeland, and Lute took a compass shot; after that he'd guide mainly on stars. Then they set off across the grassland, and were swallowed by night.

* * *

When Lute had scouted the area, he hadn't expected to carry out the operation till the following May. Typically, Carl hadn't considered the problems, including snow cover, when he'd called Lute in Portland. Lute had half expected snow by now, which would preclude the operation. He'd made that clear before leaving Montana, and later on the phone. Carl hadn't been happy. He wanted Ngunda dead long before spring. He'd actually sounded worried that someone else might kill the guru first, denying him involvement.

So Lute had rented computer time at Kinko's in Pueblo. On the Web, he checked out the thirty-day weather outlook for the region. A dry autumn was expected.

On that basis, he'd gotten hold of Sarge, who'd agreed to the proposal. Sarge had always been reckless, and had so far gotten away with it. Sarge in turn had gotten in touch with others in the Southwest, from as far as Phoenix and El Paso. Four had signed on, including Romero, who'd stay with the vehicle.

There'd been a couple of worrisome days when a Pacific storm moved northwest across Baja, but it had dumped most of its moisture on the Arizona plateau and the San Juans—forty inches of snow on Wolf Creek Pass, and twenty-one at Conejos, wherever the hell Conejos was. But that ate up most of the storm, and it ran out of juice on the west slope of the Sangre de Cristos. At Lauenbruck, according to the Web, all they'd gotten was a trace, not enough to settle the dust.

The ground was drier than a popcorn fart. For his purposes, conditions were definitely better now than they'd be after the spring thaw.

* * *

A slender moon stood about forty degrees above the western horizon, with maybe three hours to go before it set. With night goggles they didn't need it. Two more miles and Lute called a break. None of them were in prime shape, nothing like when they were in active service, but they never let themselves get soft. Their endurance just wasn't what it had been. While they rested on the lumpy bunchgrass slope, he stargazed. This might, he thought, be my last gig. He'd never planned to make it a lifetime profession. Too many of the oldtimers, if they survived and stuck with it, got eccentric beyond belief. Which is all right, if that's what you get off on, he'd told himself, but for me? And some of the people you worked for were assholes through and through, no more trustworthy than a skunk in a henhouse. Others were more or less trustworthy, but ignorant. Like Carl. Carl had no idea what a job like this took.

A meteor streaked across the sky, disappearing in mid flight. Burned up, Lute supposed. He wondered if a big one would hit in his lifetime. Maybe like the one that had made Meteor Crater near Winslow. He'd visited it once, 4,000 feet across and 600 deep, made some—he couldn't remember its supposed age—twenty thousand years came to him. Someone had estimated the meteor at 85 feet across, probably breaking up just before it hit, traveling yea-many thousand miles an hour. It was hard to imagine something so small making such a big hole, but at that speed . . . He wished he could have watched it happen, maybe from the high peak north of Flagstaff, fifty miles distant.

He looked at the glowing face of his watch, and grunting, rolled to his feet. Five years ago, he told himself, you didn't grunt like that. 

* * *

Lieutenant Jerry Marovitch led his two squads in ranks to the Bell Commando, the "whisper craft" that waited, warmed up and ready on the short-takeoff strip. It could make a miles-long glide approach, drop troops from under a thousand feet, and not have to draw on engine power for another mile and a half, even given the elevation of this drop zone. Great for inserting people undetected.

He and his men had all jumped many times—qualifying jumps, training jumps, and recreational sky-diving—but none had seen combat. Tonight they just might. Not a full-fledged military encounter, but a firefight. Quite possibly with casualties, depending on the weaponry, quality and attitude of the people they'd confront.

Whatever, he told himself. What we won't do is embarrass ourselves.

He had no doubt of the outcome. He had all the advantages: surprise, and satellite info hardly short of real-time. The terrorists would be either captured or shot, depending on whether they surrendered. The OH-6G would be on hand immediately after the jump, with high-resolution night viewers. And if it came down to it, a sponson-mounted 7.62 Thrasher, and variable-proximity, anti-personnel Bummers. From a bit farther away, the noisier Blackhawk could arrive within minutes to pick up prisoners and casualties.

And if somehow the satellite data were in error, and they needed more muscle, there was a 6HD standing by on a ready pad at Carson. It could deliver the rest of the platoon within half an hour, and haul plenty of prisoners and casualties.

What he really had on his mind, though, was not casualties or prisoners or the outcome of the fighting. He was worried about any and all of the unforeseeable goofs that might occur in a maiden action. For this was the baptismal mission of the president's new, secret, anti-terrorist platoons, and he was in charge. He remembered the World War Two stories his grandfather had told, about the snafus in upper echelon planning and aerial delivery that his old unit, the 509th Parachute Infantry Battalion, had had to overcome by dint of blood and sweat, from North Africa to Germany. The cost of doing things for the first time, things no one had done before.

This couldn't be that bad. The risks were less military than political. But if something went wrong, and the story leaked, the president's enemies would be on it like a Rottweiler on a pet rabbit, and his own career would be in deep shit.

* * *

Lute realized they were in the soup shortly after they'd crossed the fence onto the Ranch. A voice called for them to stop where they were and throw down their weapons. It sounded electronic, a hand-held loud-hailer. Lute hit the ground instantly, knowing intuitively the voice was backed by firepower.

"We have you in our sights," the voice continued, "and will not hesitate to shoot. Either comply or be killed."

Lute scanned the ground. Whoever they were, they had to be pros, and well trained. Airborne rangers, probably. They'd taken advantage of a topographic undulation about eighty yards ahead; had probably been watching through a periscope. Now, through his goggles, he could see where they were, but not any targets. They'd have instructions to bring in prisoners if possible, otherwise corpses.

The question was, what would it take to start the shooting? They hadn't fired when their quarry hit the dirt. That was hopeful. What was less hopeful were the penalties provided for in the Anti-Terrorism Act, a minimum of twenty years in a federal penitentiary, with no time off for good behavior.

"What now, Koskela?" Sarge murmured.

"That little draw off to our left," Lute answered quietly. "It'll give cover. Whoever wants to can stay here." It was only forty yards or so. Just near enough to be tempting.

He counted softly to three, then all but he broke for it. It took a second or two before gunfire erupted. Lute stayed for perhaps three seconds more—hopefully the ambushers had their full attention on the others—then crawled off in the opposite direction, expecting to draw fire momentarily. After the first twenty seconds he began to hope. A minute later he came to another shallow draw, and rolled into it.

He could hardly believe he was alive.

This draw was smaller, perhaps four feet wide and twenty inches deep, and its soil had stayed moist longer. And inside the fence there'd been no grazing; thus, in the draw, the grass stood some thirty inches high, hiding him from ready notice by troops on the ground. But if they searched, they'd find him. From the air, the most casual instrument scan would find him.

Koskela didn't think those things, he simply knew them. For the moment he lay gathering himself. Then he heard something that brought a muttered oath from him, the sound of a chopper approaching.

He hugged the ground more tightly, and for the first time he could remember, began to pray.

* * *

Koskela heard the little OH-6G land, heard the rotors stop, heard distant voices, and realized that if he had a chance at all, this was it. He began crawling down the shallow draw as rapidly as he could, which, given infantry and ranger training, was fast. Meanwhile the draw deepened a bit, and rising to a crouch, he began to trot.

A quarter mile later, his night goggles showed him possible salvation ahead, in the form of a windmill and a large round livestock tank. He arrived at about the time he heard the OH-6G in the air again. Peering into the tank, he saw a few inches of smelly water; not nearly enough to submerge in and hide his heat signature.

Anxiety gripped him, and he started around its perimeter. If he lay close against it on the side away from the chopper . . . 

That's when he found the burrow, apparently excavated by a coyote to shelter an expected litter. At this time of year, no one should be home. Taking off his gear, he pushed it into the hole, wriggled after it feetfirst, and pulled his M-16 in with him. Then he lay with his head inside the entrance, listening to the chopper fly a search pattern.

He prayed that the warmth of his body, where he'd lain sweating in the draw, had dissipated enough from the dry ground surface that the chopper wouldn't spot the signature. If it did, they'd trail him sure as hell. It occurred to him to wonder if his prayer had helped, but he rejected the thought even as it arose. Things like that didn't happen. In following the draw, he had inevitably come to the tank, and circling the tank, could hardly have missed finding the burrow.

His mind went to his buddies, and his abandonment of them. Rationalizing, he could have told them to surrender, but he couldn't imagine Sarge doing that, any more than he would. The others conceivably, but not Sarge. With all the shooting, he had little doubt they'd been cut down. He could only hope they hadn't all been killed.

* * *

About an hour after he'd heard the last of the chopper, Luther Koskela crawled from the burrow. He felt dangerously exposed, out in the open, and had no doubt at all he'd need to be well away from there before daylight. Meanwhile he was on foot, and a long way from safety.

 

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