The Midnight Special

“Well--, you wake up in the mornin',” I sang aloud, “And you hear the work bell rang…”

My thoughts had wandered back to the song I’d heard in a certain Vietnamese restaurant when it finally hit me that my boss and friend Malcolm Forbes was a traitor. It had been so transparently obvious, it shamed me not to have figured it out earlier.

Meanwhile, the 6-year-old girl in front of me giggled. I didn’t know if she was laughing because I suddenly burst into song, or because I was wrapped up in a blanket. Her lovely mother sat next to her, my ice-cold bare feet under her shirt, warming on her bare abdomen. But so far, that woman’s only reaction was a curious smile and eyes twinkling with mirth. To my left, the cream-white, plasticized components of the infamous Phantom Drone were stacked in an almost-pyramid on the dusty concrete floor. Its power pack was charging, plugged into an outlet shared with a nearby ice machine. I kept singing.

“…And they march you to the table, you see the same old thang.”

“Dante?” the woman warming my feet asked.

“Ain’t no breakfast on the table, ain’t no pork up in the pan.”

“Boy, what do you think you’re doing?”

“Daddy’s being silly, Mommy!” the girl snickered.

I could smell dust, freshly mown grass, and women’s perfume. I looked up to the concrete high school stadium that shadowed the three of us, and finished the verse.

“But you’d better not complain boy… you’ll get in trouble with the Man!”

Was it my imagination, or did I hear “Man” echo off the cavernous concrete walls? The air seemed pregnant with song, ready to give melodious birth, but no one sang that chorus. Not even me.

“How about we sing a song we both know?” the woman suggested.

“I wanna sing too, Mommy!” the little girl chimed.

“Newsflash Leticia, I’m a fugitive. I stole the Phantom Drone so I could turn it over to the Chinese for a boatload of money.”

Leticia gasped and flinched as if struck, dropping my feet to the concrete, her face agape in horror. But soon, the shock in her face twisted to anger.

“You traitorous jackass!” she shouted and slapped me across the face. Hard.

“Mom! Now was that nice?”

“You had me aiding and abetting a fugitive?” the slapper continued. “What if I had gone to prison, you fool? My baby would have grown up without me!

“But baby…” I protested.

“Don’t ‘baby’ me, you…”

“I’m trying to make things, right, Leticia! I’m going to return the Phantom Drone to its rightful owners and surrender myself to the FBI, okay?”

“Mommy, you said a dirty word! You said the Ay Ess Ess word.”

“Shush, Melody!” her mother retorted, and turned back toward me throwing – I think they call them ‘jazz hands’? “Well praise the Lord, you saw the Light! And how long will you be in prison?”

“Miss me already?”

“Shut up! If you hadn’t made me leave my phone, I’d call the Police on your lying ass right now!”

“Mommy, you swore again, Jesus can hear you. Stop it!”

“Will you relax, Leticia? I’m doing the right thing, here.”

“What do you want Dante, a trophy? Thank God you don’t have any children; the poor things would be devastated. But how long will your faithful wife have to wait till they let you out of Federal Prison?”

“First, spouses don’t wait for people in prison Leticia; they dump them like garbage and go bang someone else,” I riposted, “Second, if I play my cards right, not one day.”

That made her step back before a curious, “Oh? And how will you pull that off?”

“Well, I’ll need your help. Can I count on you?”

Her face went from surprise to suspicious.

“I don’t know,” she countered. “Have you hurt anyone?”

“Not a soul. Not really. And when I’ve returned the Drone, it’ll be no harm done.”

Letica stood up and closed her eyes to take a deep, calming breath. I would have stood up to meet her but I was still wrapped in a sheet. So, I sat where I was. Also, my feet, like my hands, were on fire.

Upon opening her eyes, my woman looked down and said, “Fine! Maybe you belong in prison, but you came clean and did the right thing before anyone got hurt, so I’ll extend grace to help you. What do you need me to do?”

“Thanks. Tell me you know Jess Wainwright’s number.”

Here, the woman sighed again and glanced away from me. But she did answer, “Yeah, I know his number. Bradley made me delete his little brother’s number from my phone, but I’d already memorized it by then. Jess did the same thing after Darlene made him delete my number. Oh, poor Darlene…!”

“Yeah, she’s super dead. You’ll need to go by a big box retailer, and while you get me some new clothes…”

“I thought you wanted me to get you clothes from a thrift shop?”

“Can’t get burner phones at a thrift shop, Tisha. But you can get them at a big box store, so you know… two birds, one stone.”

“Daddy, how can Auntie Darlene be super dead?” Melody asked. “Is my real Daddy super dead, too?”

“I’ve seen burner phones in movies, but where do you buy them? Some crack house?”

“Oh, you sweet, innocent child!” I exclaimed. “Just go to the electronics department at the local big box store and get a pay-as-you-go-phone, along with a phone card worth 60 minutes. Get the cheapest one they have; we don’t need a lot of memory, Internet, good camera, or anything like that.”

“Do you think 60 minutes will be enough?”

“Actually, if it takes us more than 10, we’re doing it wrong.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously. Stick with me, babe. Yeah, I got us into this, but I’ll get us all out, free and clear. Just you watch!”

“Well, I like your confidence, Brother!” crowed Leticia with a broad, beautiful smile and hands on her full, child-bearing hips. “Mission one, let’s get you some clothes!”

“New clothes are fine,” I responded, nodding my head toward the still-frozen pile of winter gear in the pilfered laundry basket near me. “But my winter gear needs to be dried, or I’ll freeze to death trying to fly as high as I need to avoid detection. There a laundromat near here?”

*

Near as we could tell, my partner, at least, could still go public. There was no million-dollar bounty on her head as there was on mine (plus another million for the Phantom Drone itself). Further, Leticia Wainwright was not yet a known accomplice of the infamous (some say hero) Dante Johnson, for we had spent exactly one afternoon and one night in her home village before I absconded with her, and the only one who saw us together was Jess, her dead husband’s younger brother. By my calculations, it was not in Jess’ interest to rat us out. At least not yet.

So, Leticia, taking Melody with her in the blue minivan she'd traded Jess’ old green pickup truck for, took my clothes, frozen in pool water, to the laundromat first. It was close to the auto-paint shop where she’d illegally traded the truck, as we were in the… um, undocumented part of town. Where they speak a lot of Spanish. Yeah.

Taking a risk, the woman left my super-expensive artic-rated winter gear in the laundromat dryer and walked to the thrift shop across the street, where she got me jeans, a tee-shirt, and sneakers; just enough to make me not naked. She got herself an oversized hoodie and pair of cheap sunglasses. Later, Leticia would complain that I was so big, she had trouble finding clothes that would fit me. Tell me about it.

She returned to the stadium where I was finally able to get out of the blanket and into some strangers’ castoff clothing. Like it mattered. I was already married to a spectacularly wealthy heiress and Leticia clearly had a thing for me, so it’s not like I was out to impress the Ladies. Jeans without underwear is annoying, but much better than naked.

My partner returned to the laundromat and recovered my now dried winter gear, though she claimed they still smelled of pool chemicals. Whatever. Like I cared how they smelled. What I cared about was not being a chocolate popsicle.

Step one, get the burner.

Now Leticia left the kid with me, then went to the big box store in her disguise of oversized hoodie and sunglasses to get food and a pay-as-you-go cell phone. She also bought a digital tablet, and some software to go on that tablet. Against my recommendation, she returned to the stadium and dropped off the tablet before the next stage of the plan. I was glad Sergeant Wainwright had disobeyed orders in this instance because Melody had been driving me nuts with her questions, and I had been telling her every fairy tale I knew. But with the tablet, the little girl and I could play kid video games together, and I was nice enough to let her win a third of them. I larded her with praise whenever she “beat” me, and boy, that made her happy!

Then Leticia hailed me on the SF radio. The twin Special Forces radios had belonged to her now dead husband, Bradley Wainwright, who served 15 years as a Special Forces (Green Beret) Operative, and then two years after that as a mercenary. Bradley had “borrowed” the radios when he left the Army, and Leticia had been kind enough to take them so we could have encrypted and untraceable point to point communication between us.

“Forty-two, Forty-two, this is Big Trailer, over,” she reported.

“Big Trailer, this this is Forty-two. Send your traffic.”

“Yule Log secured, over.”

“Roger that, Trailer. Proceed to next waypoint, over.”

“Roger that, Forty. Big Trailer out.”

Step two, the setup.

Leticia, still in her disguise, proceeded to a public library, got on the Internet, and went to a website where local sex offenders were listed. She got the name and current address of a sex offender from the registry. Still on the Internet, Leticia used the offender’s name and address to register the burner phone. Once the phone was activated, she walked a couple of blocks to the sex offender’s home, which happened to be in an apartment block; even better. Yes, the sex offender lived within easy walking distance of the public library. Standing in the parking lot right outside the sex offender’s apartment, Leticia contacted me again.

“Forty-two, Forty-two, Big Trailer, over.”

“This is Forty-two. Proceed.”

“Stage Two completed in full, over.”

“Understood, enormous dump truck. Proceed with Stage Three.”

Step three, call Jess Wainwright on the burner phone.

I waited for a tense while. It seemed forever, but in retrospect, it was only a few minutes.

“Forty-two, Forty-two, Weasel will not respond. I say again, Weasel will not respond, over.”

I cursed in frustration.

“You said a dirty word!” Melody brayed. “Jesus heard you, Daddy!”

“I’m not your Daddy, kid.”

“Yes, you are!”

“Bradley Wainwright was your father, Miss Melody Wainwright.”

“Yes, he’s my real father, but now that he’s in Heaven, you’re my new Daddy!”

“No, I am not.”

“Yes, you are!” the child stubbornly insisted. “You love my Mommy, and that makes you my new Daddy!”

“Melody… kid…”

“Forty-two, Weasel will not respond! Request guidance, over!”

I sighed in frustration. Of course, Jess had not answered a number on his cell phone that he didn’t recognize.

“Big Trailer, text Weasel with information only Weasel would know, over.”

“Roger that, Forty-two. Texting.”

I stewed in rank jealously at the thought of what personal knowledge Leticia shared with my romantic rival, but there was no help for it.

“Forty-two, be advised that Weasel has responded to text, over!”

“What did he say, Big Trailer?”

“I’d…. rather not say, Forty-Two. Over.”

Great. Whatever.

“Big Trailer, ask Weasel if he has any encryption keys compatible with the model of our Special Forces radios. Be advised that the model number is clearly reported on the radio itself, over!”

There was quite a wait after that. At least fifteen minutes. But eventually:

“Forty-two, Weasel reports that he can have his Papa Charlie emulate such a device, over.”

So, Jess was going to have his personal computer emulate a device compatible with our SF radios. Impressive. Then again, Jess had spent 10 years in the Cyber Corps Branch of the US Army. He knew as well as I did that the DSCS (Defense Satellite Communications System) acessible by those radios could contact virtually every cell phone on earth!

I waited a few minutes. Eventually, Leticia said, “Forty-two, Weasel will download encryption key Oscar Tango Alpha to both our devices in two mikes, starting T-minus four, three, two, one. Mark!”

“Roger that Big Trailer, one minute 58 seconds remaining, out.”

After a minute and 52 seconds, a certain indicator light on the SF radio went from red to green.

“Big Trailer” I reported, “Be advised I have a green light, over.”

“Roger that, Forty-two, I have a green light as well.”

Step four. Ditch the phone and return to base.

“Big Trailer, destroy Yule Log and dispose of it in nearest receptacle. Then return to your vehicle and thence to patrol base, over.”

“Roger Wilco, Forty-two. Big Trailer, out!”

Hopefully, Leticia had physically broken the burner phone and dumped it in the nearest trash can. Then she would turn off her Special Forces radio, walk back to the library to recover the minivan, and then return to our current base under the high school stadium.

“Forty-two, Forty-two, this is Weasel, over,” quipped Jess’ lively voice.

“Weasel, this is Forty-two,” I responded. “Have you…?”

“Forty-two, how many fireworks are in the ammo can, over?”

I was impressed by Jess’ caution. First, he wanted to know if I was the real Dante Johnson despite the sound of my voice, which can be faked these days. Second, he wanted to know if I was free to talk, i.e., was I under pressure, perhaps already in Police Custody, or someone else had a gun to my head. To verify that I was me and free to talk, I had to answer his question correctly. A wrong answer would make him break contact immediately. Clever man.

“Weasel,” I replied, “Be advised that there are no fireworks remaining in the ammo can. Ammo, not fireworks belong in ammo cans, so we took all the fireworks out and stored them separate, over.”

“Roger that, Forty-Two. Go for Weasel.”

“Weasel, have you sold any drugs, over?”

“Roger that, Forty-Two, but so far, both drugs I’ve sold have been 88 percent pure, over.”

“I take it this link is both heavily encrypted and a Victor Papa November, over?”

“You take it correctly, over.”

“This sounds impressive for a trailer in the middle of the woods, over.”

“Forty-two, be advised that I have moved into the big house. All Weasel subordinates currently have their own room, over.”

“I imagine your father does not appreciate that.”

“Please be advised that my father can Foxtrot himself, over.”

Nothing to it but to do it.

“Weasel, I wish to surrender to Foxtrot Bravo India. Please advise, over.”

I had to wait almost a full minute after that, but Jess eventually got back to me with, “Forty-two, am currently arranging link up. Please stand by this freq, over.”

Like I had much choice. And “freq”, short for “frequency”, is pronounced, “freak”.

I played more games with Melody, and this time, I let her win half of them. But she got bored of the games before I did, so I ended up doing the thing where you pick the kid up, throw her in the air, and catch her. I did the other thing where you grab her arms and spin her around. We were still doing this when the lovely Leticia returned from her mission. That’s about the time Jess got back to me.

“Forty-two, Forty-two, this is Weasel,” spake he from the SF radio standing on the dirty floor.

I set down Melody, rushed to the SF radio and plucked it up, replying, “Weasel, this is Forty-two.”

“Forty-two, please be advised that the challenge is ‘January’ and the password is ‘Medium’. How copy, over?”

“Weasel, I copy challenge ‘January’ and password ‘Medium’ over.”

“Roger that, Forty-two. Stand by for the Boogey Man.”

I stood by for a minute. Then another. Leticia, Melody, and I spent an uncomfortably long time staring in rapt attention at a radio.

“Do you think he…” Leticia began, but she was cut off by a woman’s voice.

“Forty-two, Forty-two this is the Boogey Man,” the woman declared.

“That’s not a boy!” Melody claimed. “That’s a girl. Don’t talk to her Dante, she’s lying to you!”

“Melody, shush!” her mother snapped.

“Boogey Man, this is Forty-two, over.”

“Forty-two, you interrupted my dinner, so you’d better not be wasting my time. It was January since I had a steak this good, over.”

“Boogey Man, was that steak Medium rare?”

“Okay it’s you, so we can cut the crap,” the woman barked. “This is Executive Assistant Director Gretchen Melody Wainwright-Hobbes, FBI Criminal, Cyber, Response, and Services Branch. You are Dante Elijah Johnson, correct?”

“Yes ma’am, I am.”

“Mr. Johnson, are you in possession of the Phantom Drone?”

“Also, yes.”

“Excellent. How far are you from Seattle?”

“I could be there twenty-one hundred hours tomorrow.”

Actually, I could be there by fourteen hundred hours, also known as two o’clock in the afternoon, but I wanted to give myself plenty of time.

“You’re flying, right?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Excellent. Meet my team by the Space Needle tomorrow. World famous landmark -- you can’t miss it. And don’t you dare come within five miles of Sea-Tac!”

“With all due respect ma’am, I know enough to avoid airports. How do I recognize your team?”

“There will be three agents in bright red sports jackets. Bring yourself and the Phantom Drone directly to them.”

“Roger that ma’am, but I’m not bringing you anything without a deal!

“And there it is. What kind of deal would you like, Mr. Johnson?”

“What do you think? Full immunity. I don’t spend a day in jail. And as a bonus, I’ll turn states evidence against Malcolm Forbes and Haifeng Wang.”

“And your Chief Engineer, Mr. Johnson? Will you rat on her, too?”

“Not only will I not testify against Molly, but she gets the same immunity!”

“That’s an awful lot of immunity just for information we pretty much already have on both Mr. Forbes and his handler. Fortunately, Mr. Johnson, you bring something else to the table.”

“Money?” I asked, feeling that frozen pond feeling again.

“Ah, I see Dante Johnson knows what’s up!” Gretchen crowed. “There's a two million dollar bounty. Jess gets five hundred thousand. I get a cool million. The three agents on my recovery team get a hundred thousand each.”

“Why do you talk like I’m the one making those decisions?”

“Just to let you know what’s up. Deals’ done, by the way. Full immunity for you and Ms. Maguire, provided you bring yourself and the Phantom Drone to the Space Needle not later than 2100 hours tomorrow.”

“Nice try,” I sneered, “But you can’t offer me immunity. I want to speak to someone who can.”

“Mr. Johnson!” spoke a man’s voice suddenly. “I am Dwayne Hobbes, United States Attorney for this district. As federal prosecutor, I can guarantee you immunity.”

“Ah,” I replied, “so you’re the other two hundred thousand.”

“Excuse me?”

“500K for Jess, one mil for Agent Wainwright-Hobbes, and 100K each for the three FBI agents in my reception party equals only 1.8 million. As there’s 2 million dollars at stake, you would be the other 200,000. So, what, am I in the ballpark here, Mr. Federal Prosecutor?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the man sniffed.

“Sure, you don’t. I want that immunity agreement drawn up in writing, signed, scanned, and forwarded to the following email address!”

“Ha!” Gretchen barked. “Dwayne, I told you this guy knew what was up! Didn’t I, baby? But fair warning Mr. Dante Johson! You get yourself caught by anyone else before you turn yourself into my team, even if that someone else is also FBI, and the deal is off! You, Mr. Forbes, and Ms. Maguire will all have lifetime accommodations at Club Fed!”

“I take it Ms. Wang will be there, too?”

“The handler will be disappeared,” Gretchen spat. “We keep putting their agents in prison, but they keep coming. It’s time to send a different message. My good friends in the CIA will make sure her family gets the head.”

“What a lovely sentiment.”

“And it’s from the heart, I assure you. Send the email address."

“Yes ma’am,” I agreed, and read out the address. “If that document is not in my inbox by noon tomorrow, no deal! Oh, and I know how to read, so no funny business!”

“Deal,” Dwayne stated. “We can also…”

“It’s a pity we can’t chat more, Mr. Johnson,” Gretchen continued, cutting the man off. “I’m sure you would make a scintillating conversationist. Sadly, while we’ve done everything to encrypt this conversation and confuse the point of origin on both ends, the fact remains that Special Forces are meant to be tracked by U.S. Special Operations Command, because duh. Space Needle 2100 hours tomorrow, Mr. Johson. Don’t be late!”

And the green light for that line went red again. I lowered the radio from my mouth.

“So… that’s it?” Leticia asked.

“It’s getting late in the afternoon,” I noticed. “We need someplace to hole up before dark, and not in this town. Thank God for long summer days, huh? Come on, let’s go.”

At this, my lovely partner smiled at me and belted out, “Yonder come Miss Rosie --, How in the hell did you know?”

“Seriously?”

“By the way she wears that apron, And the clothes she wore.”

“You’ve memorized it already?”

“Umbrella on her shoulder, Piece of paper in her hand…”

I joined her for the last line, “She want to see the gov'nor, She come to free her man!”

Melody laughed at us.

“Now we can sing it together!” Leticia exclaimed, and then she threw her loving arms around me for a passionate embrace I heartily reciprocated.

*

We tested the Cloaking Device on the Phantom Drone. Apparently, whatever water had gotten in there when I crashed landed in that pool was finally out of its system, because Leticia assured me that I and the machine could not bee seen. That was good news, not only because I could go invisible again, but because I now knew there was more work to be done on my Project; I didn’t want to ship something to the military that could fail in wet weather!

I was not impressed when I finally laid eyes on the blue minivan Leticia had ditched Jess’ truck for. The thing was in bad shape. Fortunately, it only had to work an afternoon and one more day.

When the sun set, we took no chances. No hotels, motels, cabins, or Internet homes. We found a truck stop and parked in its parking lot for the night. Meldoy would sleep in her car seat -- she was a pro at that -- Leticia would sleep behind the wheel with the driver’s seat reclined back as far as it would go, and I would lay out on the seats behind her. It wasn’t long enough for me to stretch out, but I’ve had worse. We had funnels and plastic water bottles for pee. Only for number 2 would we risk going inside to use the truck stop’s restroom. No way I wanted to fumble this close to the end zone!

That night I was awoken by a a summer thunderstorm. It was raining cats, dogs, elephants, brontosauruses, and blue whales. Vicious gusts of wind rocked the minivan on its suspension. It wasn’t safe to drive in this, much less fly. I prayed it would clear up by morning.

I was shaken awake the next day, only to witness a curtain of steel-grey rain at the windows. Leticia had turned the minivan’s radio on. By that time, the minivan was full of warm human musk you could taste in your mouth, but again, I’ve had worse.

“Wake up swee… um, Dante,” she told me. “It’s time to fly.”

“The hell it is!” I protested. “Are you blind and deaf? It’s like a firehose out there!”

“Don’t you have to link up with the FBI at 2100?”

“It’s not a problem, babe. I gave myself seven more hours than I thought I would need. We can afford to wait for this to blow over.”

“Can we? I’ve been listening to the radio, Dante. There’s a Thunderstorm Warning for most of the state including King County, and it doesn’t end till midnight. Oh, speaking of the news, I am officially your accomplice. Yeah, they’re looking for me, now. Thanks.”

“But…”

“Mommy, I have to poop!” the little girl reported.

“It’s okay sweetie, Mommy will take you to the truck stop to potty in a bit.”

“Okay!”

It took some doing, but Leticia got into her hoodie, and then crawling over the seats, she got her daughter in a raincoat, as if anything short of a submarine would keep anyone dry out there.

“Come on!” she barked, and unbuckling Melody from the car seat, she held the girl to her with one hand and opened the door with the other. Leticia hopped out into the maelstrom with her daughter in her arms, and I slid the door shut behind them. It was raining so hard, I couldn’t even see the truck stop. Not far from the minivan, the two dissolved into the slashing grey waters.

I wanted to get on the Internet and check my email, and I wished I had a lawyer to show the immunity agreement to, but neither could be helped. The radio was attuned to a very tedious weather station, so I changed the channel.

I was rocking out to the latest in a series of classic rock hits when the door flew open, revealing a waterlogged Leticia and her equally drenched daughter.

“Leticia?” I asked.

“I’m pretty sure a Karen in the bathroom recognized me,” the woman gushed breathlessly. “She gaped right at me like a goldfish while I waited outside the stall for my daughter to finish her business, and immediately walked out with her phone against her ear!”

“Dammit!” I cried. “Close the door babe, we gotta go!”

“No kidding!”

With the door closed, we put the back seat completely down for the room. There, Leticia and Melody helped me into my pool-smelling winter gear, and then I snapped the Phantom Drone about my waist. I turned on the Cloaking Device, and Melody screeched, utterly thunderstruck, her young face ablaze with raw, unmitigated shock. Apparently, she didn’t know I could do that.

We opened the back hatch, and freaking Niagara Falls poured in.

“See you at the Space Needle!” I shouted to be heard above the raging storm.

“Godspeed Dante! Melody and I will pray for you!”

And then I took to the skies, and turned off the Cloak.

Folks, I nearly drowned in midair. It felt more like swimming than flying. As if the ceaseless torrent weren’t bad enough, vicious winds battered me about like I was a piñata at a party for one of Isabella’s grandkids. Water absolutely got into my closed, full-face motorcycle helmet. Gasping and spitting, I zoomed up with hopes of breaking through to the other side, that is, above the clouds. Inside the cloud, I thought I’d be surrounded by cotton candy puffiness, or perhaps mere fog, but it was pitch black in that thing. Then the darkness instantly turned to eye-searing blue-white brilliance, followed by the explosion of nearby mortar round, or a car bomb going off just down the street. Then black again.

It occurred to me that flying above cloud cover would be a bad idea. I was drenched to the bone; no way was I going to fly up there 60 miles an hour through subfreezing temperatures! So I dove down through the cloud, carefully watching my altimeter just in case the cloud I hoped to escape lasted all the way to the ground – that’ll happen.

I was free of the cloud but still enmeshed in watery, steel-grey fury. I fought for every inch, every second, till the power alarm went off a little after three hours into my flight. Communications with Leticia had been intermittent the whole way, but we managed to coordinate another fast charge station. I didn’t want to spend three hours messing around with a house; it was time to take chances.

I was utterly exhausted by the time I reached Leticia and Melody, as if I had run behind Matilda the whole way. The fast charge station was empty, praise the Lord. Leticia reported that she had driven through a town where there was no electricity at all. Great. Sure, temporary loss of power was relatively common during a particularly intense thunderstorm, but if it happened to me that day, I was screwed.

While the drone recharged, I called Gretchen on the SF radio, but she would not answer despite several attempts.

An hour passed, and I was back in the air after a rest and quick breakfast. It wasn’t as bad this time, but it was still wet, windy, and tiring. Plus, I lived in constant fear of being fried by any number of enormous – I mean positively gigantic -- lightning bolts that seemed close enough to touch. On any other occasion, I would have landed and sought shelter till the storm passed. No words can describe the boundless midair during a storm. But I had someplace to be, and I had to be there on time.

Leticia found another fast charge station. I didn’t think I could reach it, but tempestuous winds got behind me, and I covered more distance than I expected, almost half again as much distance; just enough to reach the station. That was a bit of luck, but at the time I peed my pants; there’s no terror quite like being dragged along by a river at high speed. My luck held, for this station was empty, too. The rain wasn’t as bad, but it certainly didn’t stop. I repeatedly tried to call my new FBI contact. Nothing.

Charging done, I leapt back into the rainy sky and reached the outskirts of Seattle when my power alarm began to wail. Then, with impeccable timing, Leticia radioed in a panic.

“Dante!” she screamed, and I could hear Melody hopelessly bawling. “The cops pulled me over! I’m being arrested...” She screeched like a banshee. Then silence.

“Big Trailer, Big Trailer, this is Forty-two, report, over!” I howled into the radio. “Report Big Trailer, report! Laticia! Laticia!”

Nothing. And all the while, the power alarm wailed, and the rain poured. In desperation, I radioed Jess.

“Weasel!” I shouted over the storm and wailing alarm, “The cops got Big Trailer!”

“She’s okay, dude!” he replied calmly. “I’ll have her bailed out in an hour or so and get her an excellent lawyer. She and the kid are going to be fine!”

Now that my precious Leticia was safe – for certain definitions of “safe” -- I had more immediate concerns.

“The weather’s rough here! And Leticia tells me there’s been blackouts! Tell that FBI agent I might not get to the Space Needle by 2100. Unforeseen circumstances, man!”

“Yes!” Jess replied, with a hiss on the end of that word like a snake. “Curiously, the FBI did not anticipate the effect of the forecasted storms on your timeline, but I sure did. Dude, I don’t think you’ll make the meeting, either. See, I've turned the locator beacons of those SF radios on and then broadcast the transponder codes to all local Police frequencies!”

I could not speak for a few seconds. When I could, I howled, “WHAT?!"

“By my calculations, you should be out of power any time now, dude. And the cops will be homing in on your location.”

“Dammit Jess! Will you throw away five hundred thousand dollars?”

“Dude, I already told you, I’m a multi-millionaire. You rotting away for years in Federal Prison so Leticia can’t have you is worth far more to me than half a mill.”

“Jess Wainwright, you lying son of a…!”

“You know Dante, Leticia called me yesterday to say that she and I were officially over, and that you two shared a special song!”

“Oh, no!”

“Well, allow me!” He loudly cleared his throat, and then, “If you're ever in Houston, Well, you’d better do right.”

“Jess--!”

“You’d better not gamble, There, you’d better not fight…”

“Jess you bastard!”

“Or the Sheriff will grab ya, And his boys will bring you down…”

I began ranting vile curses at him.

“The next thing you know, dude, Whoa, you're prison bound!”

I began to hear wailing that was not the power alarm. It was sirens…

Realizing they were homing in on the radio, I hurled it away from me as far as I could. But it was too late, I had to land, and by that time, there was no place below that did not have flashing police cars moving in.

I was about a yard off a church parking lot when the power failed, and I dropped. Remembering my PLF skills, I landed painfully, but without breaking the drone or any of my bones. I tried to run, but the boys in Blue were all over, guns drawn, shouting my name, telling me what I was under arrest for, ordering me to lay down.

I lay down. They pounced and unclipped the Phantom Drone; they knew how. There, I lay on my belly with my wrists being handcuffed behind me, along with a hard, bony knee on my back, when I looked up and saw it. There. Against the stormy Seattle skyline. The majestic Space Needle.

Meanwhile, one of the officers walked up to me.

“Sorry Mr. Johnson,” he explained, “But I was paid to do this.”

Then he cleared his throat, and I kid you not, began to sing.

Let the Midnight Special, shine the light on me,

Then the cop closest to him, a woman, joined him.

Let the Midnight Special, shine the light on me.

And then almost all of them joined in, even the overweight guy with his knee in my back.

Let the Midnight Special, shine the light on me,

Let the Midnight Special shine it’s ever-lovin' light on me!

I would learn later that the Seattle Police Department had formed a special task force – Phantom Force – to bring me in, and that Jess had paid every cotton-pickin’ member of that force to sing “Midnight Special” upon my arrest. They literally recorded themselves singing the entire song while I lay on the pavement, and they posted it to social media.