38
As a result of the conversation with Captain LeMaitre, Dan was able to involve the RCMP, who had Constable Klassen from the Hazelton detachment make the 130-mile journey to Stewart and “poke along the docks a bit,” as Lance put it.
Constable Klassen made occasional trips to Stewart to keep an eye on things there and already knew the denizens of the small town well. He had run into Wharfdog Charlie on a number of prior occasions. He had a respect for all people, until they gave him reason to believe otherwise. The worst offence Wharfdog had ever committed was that of public drunkenness, which was, unfortunately, an offense he committed more or less continuously. This time, Wharfdog told an amazing, unbelievable story, but with such detail and consistency upon retelling that Klassen figured there must have been some kernel of truth to it. He had been given TTIC’s number before he started his investigation, and now asked Wharfdog how he felt about telling this story to some other people.
“Sure, no problem,” Wharfdog Charlie replied. “Just so long as they don’t piss me off. Sure.”
The call was put through TTIC’s exotic speakerphone system, so that Klassen and Wharfdog came through with crystalline clarity for the whole group.
“You’re on our speaker system, Constable Klassen,” said Dan. “Maybe give the mike to, uh, what’s his name, Charlie?”
“Fine by me, sir,” said Constable Klassen in distant Stewart, BC. “Here he is.”
“How many’ov you fuckin’ assholes are in on this telephone conversation anyway, eh?” asked a truculent Wharfdog, when he got on the phone. “Oh, just a couple of us, Mr. Charlie,” said Dan. “Just a couple.”
If he had been honest, he would have said that there were about 25 people in the main control room, and that every word of the fully duplexed conversation was being broadcast through the large control room speakers. Given the importance of the call, it had been piped to Langley as well and, for all he knew, from there to the Pentagon and the White House Situation Room. Because the call originated from the microphone inside a police cruiser, and >was transmitted via satellite to a ground station in Vancouver, and from there to the Heather Street complex, it was also being relayed through a crowded RCMP conference room, in which 15 or 16 people were listening. A more forthright answer would probably have been that there were maybe 100 in on the call.
Wharfdog processed Dan’s answer with suspicion. “What do you want to know, then?” he asked.
“Can you describe what you saw?” asked Dan.
“It was the strangest looking boat I’ve ever seen,” said Wharfdog. “It came in very low in the water. But I’ve seen it before, the same one. It might be a little submarine. Tiny little fucker, eh.” He paused for a second.
The voice of Klassen came on the line. “Hang on guys, he’s just taking a slurp here.” He sounded embarrassed.
Admiral Jackson was one of the many higher-ups in on the call. “Oh Jesus Christ,” he muttered to himself.
“The hatch slid back,” continued Wharfdog. “And dammit, some guy hopped out and hugged two guys by this truck. This box truck. On the wharf. And then these mechanical arms come out of this boat thing, and there was another platform on rollers and shit, eh. It kind’ov loaded itself into the back of the truck and like holy shit, these pallets came along and—”
“Charlie,” interrupted Dan. “What kind of material was—”
“Don’t interrupt me, asshole. And it’s Wharfdog to you. In fact, it’s Mr. Wharfdog.”
Wharfdog and Dan continued to interrupt one another, drawing the spiral of Wharfdog’s elliptical descriptions out farther and farther. Eventually, amidst a chorus of fuck you’s, and asshole this and that, the tortured recitation of the Stewart reload from submarine to truck was provided to a raptly attentive audience. In the middle of it, Wharfdog was even able to give three of the letters on the license of the truck — DGO.
“I remember because it’s a funny spelling of my name, you know, D-O-G,” he said.
“Well, thank you, Mr.Wharfdog,” Dan was able to say at the conclusion. “You’ve been a great help and we all appreciate it.”
“I thought it was just a couple of you, you said. Now it’s ’we all’,” said Wharfdog.
“OK, there are a few more than a couple. But thanks.”
“Fuck you too, asshole,” came the tart reply. “Fuck all of you.”
At that point, the call was abruptly ended. An uncomfortable silence filled the TTIC control room, interrupted by a short burst of laughter from Turbee. “Turbee, will you please shut up,” Dan said impatiently.
“I just can’t believe this,” said Turbee. “Here we are, the cream of the Intelligence Community, some of the smartest people on the planet, some of the most connected people on the planet, sitting on top of a multi-billion dollar computer, in the center of a trillion-dollar Intelligence Agency, with the ability to pulverize entire countries into powder if we wanted, and we’re listening to a guy with a name like Wharfdog, who lives inside a pickle jar, he’s so hammered, calling us from the middle of nowhere. And we sit here in stunned amazement, listening to every syllable. I’m rolling on the floor with laughter here.”
He giggled again, and was actually close to rolling on the floor to demonstrate, until he saw the sober and worried look on the faces of many of his colleagues. No one else was laughing.
“Shit, I’ve done it again, haven’t I,” he said, when he realized that the only person seeing humor was him. “Dammit. Sorry people. Shouldn’t have laughed. Sorry. Very sorry.”
It was one of the most critical aspects of Turbee’s disorder; he had almost no understanding of traditional humor. He laughed when he shouldn’t, and didn’t laugh when he should. He couldn’t read the facial expressions or the fine shadings in tones that were at the soul of comedy. In his attempts to compensate for this lack of understanding, he often forced himself to laugh in situations that he thought would be seen as comical. As it did now, this often resulted in highly inappropriate behavior. Although few knew it, this was the reason he compulsively watched and re-watched TV series such as the Simpsons, Bugs Bunny, and all the rest. He studied humor like most people would have to study the mathematics, engineering, and programming that came so naturally to him.
Looking around, he quickly realized that no one in the room was willing to listen to explanations like that at the moment. Grabbing his rolling IV stand, he retreated to his desk and began aimlessly tapping on the keys of his computer. The rest of the group ignored him and began to discuss what they would do with the new information from Wharfdog Charlie.
The trip from Stewart to the American border had been long, and, as Yousseff had insisted, there had been no breaks. Ba’al and Izzy had taken turns driving and sleeping, but they were both exhausted. Their trip had started more than 48 hours earlier. They had flown from Vancouver to Prince George, rented the van, and driven from there to Stewart. Then, after a wait of some six hours, they had connected with Jimmy, loaded the explosives, and started their lengthy southward journey. At Fernie they had turned off the highway and headed toward the Akamina-Kishinina. The last two hours had been spent bouncing over the bumpy, rutted, potholed road from Fernie to the park.