“No doubt. But now it’s not about high-tech shit. It’s bad-asses, mercenaries. I ran across them in Iraq and Afghanistan. Each one making two-hundred K a year when the average grunt getting killed has to put his family on food stamps. Lot of former military. Well trained. Very well equipped. Word was, under the old administration they were running the vice president’s special executive assassination squad. You didn’t hear that from me.”
I tell him about Craig Summers and how I know him. It takes awhile and ends up being a briefing on the whole train mess my life has become since that meeting with Troy Hardesty.
For a long time, Fitz stays silent. He chews on his lower lip and scans the road, subtly checks the mirrors. “Every organization has its assholes. We had ours at Abu Ghraib, and they had orders from DOD—top assholes always get off. But Praetorian is all asshole, all the time. Ask me, I think they’re trained killers.”
We take an exit off the freeway and turn south, bumping onto a wide dirt road that runs between irrigated fields, some bright green and some brown and fallow. We’re in a flat basin marked off by bare, rugged mountains We drive toward the closest range and after ten minutes the agriculture disappears, replaced by scratchy vegetation, some cactus, rough, short bushes.
“The thing is, a lot of these contractors are on hard times,” Fitz says. “The new administration and Congress have been a lot tougher. Lots of contracts have been canceled, tasks have been returned to the military where they always should have been. Money’s tighter. Don’t get me wrong, there’s plenty still there. Plenty in black ops, in DARPA”—the Defense Department’s research outfit—“but
there’s less growth in the budget, a lot less. And you know how that affects a business, being a big-time business columnist. When the growth slows down, the shit hits the fan.”
“Profit margins shrink.”
“Exactly.”
“If only they could create their own housing bubble,” I joke.
He raises his eyebrows. “They could, with the right political connections—and an event.”
“You mean a terrorist attack. New York, Washington…”
“Hell, if I wanted to scare the hell out of Americans I’d set off a suitcase nuke at a shopping mall right here in Phoenix.”
“Sometimes you scare the hell out of me, my brother.”
The road becomes even less improved, but Fitz barely slows and his shocks are so good we hardly feel the rutted ground beneath. Foothills bend down to meet us, marked by the stands of majestic saguaros. Behind us is a long dust trail. Ahead, empty country with a road curving to the left, seeming to peter out into trackless badlands. I begin to wonder if we’ve taken a wrong turn.
Suddenly we’re on blacktop. It’s as if the truck is riding on glass. The road is wide, new, looks barely used. A dry creek passes beneath a bridge of clean, unscarred concrete. Craggy low buttes and mountains with fantastic shapes surround us, but the only sign of man is this perfect, empty road. Fitz pulls off. I can see him watching the rearview mirror, checking to see what might be behind us as the dust dissipates. I crane my neck. Nothing.
“Anybody asks, we’re geologists,” he says. “From the university.”
We drive another ten minutes and a long, low set of buildings appears on our left. They’re colored the same brown as the desert floor: two- and three-story structures that look like they run almost a mile up against a mountain. As we get closer, the guard towers and double sets of concertina-topped security fences become apparent. A blacktop perimeter road runs between the fences but has no vehicles patrolling it. We slow as a sign proclaims “Arizona State Prison Complex—Cortez Peak.” Another wide, new asphalt road connects with ours. The road goes fifty feet before it is hemmed in on both sides by the security fences. Another hundred feet and it jigs through concrete barriers and comes to a gray guard tower. The second story of the tower has large tinted windows with blue trim. The structure is shaded by an awning and surrounded by a low railing. I see no vehicles and no people.
“Let me see your printout,” Fitz says as he cruises past doing an even thirty miles an hour. “Built in 1999. Total inmate population, 3,750…Mandatory literacy, special ed, GED preparation, vocational services…The site supports its own wells, water and wastewater treatment plants…The complex maintains six kitchens that can produce 12,450 inmate meals per day and a laundry capable of washing 53,000 pounds of clothes and linen each week.” He tosses it back. “Kiss my big, black ass. We travel half a mile, and pull off. He reaches into the back and picks through several U.S. Geological Survey maps, ones with such precision that they show power lines and abandoned mines. He pulls one out.
“This map is from 2005 and there’s no prison on here.”
He indicates with a thick finger. I lean over to look and he’s right, the spot is empty. Nothing was built in 1999. He leaves the map open. I look around, relieved once again to have the .357 in my pocket, but we’re alone. From this distance, the prison nearly blends into the side of the mountain.
“Let’s take another look,” Fitz says, and the truck drops heavily into gear. He slowly makes his way another half a mile, scanning to his left. Then he spins the wheel and we bump off the perfect road into the desert. My insides tighten. On the road, escape seemed easier. Now we’re more exposed. The truck shimmies and bobs across the ground and the sound of rocks and scrub can be heard beneath the floor. Fitz goes slow. He doesn’t want to raise dust. I keep watch but it’s hard to see much. The spindly desert trees, if you call them that, are about at eye level. Good camouflage, I hope. Fitz spins the wheel and drives on the edge of a dry creek. We go uphill. The prison is completely out of sight. He drives maybe another five hundred yards and shuts off the engine. We’re facing a mountain.
He reaches behind him and unzips the duffel. He produces what looks like a weapon out of a science-fiction movie.
“Ever seen one of these?”
Part of it looks like a tricked out M-16 with a folding stock and pistol handle, but the barrel is big and protrudes from a thick housing ahead of the trigger guard and magazine. It’s sleek and black, about two-and-a-half feet long. I’ve never seen anything like it.
“Franchi SPAS-15,” he goes on. “Shotgun. Little Italian sweetheart. Help you win friends and influence people. Here’s the position for manual pump action. And this for semi-auto. Push and hold this button.” He goes through a quick tutorial and hands me the weapon. “Think you can handle it?”
I nod and take it, keeping the barrel up as I swing the stock out and lock it into position. It’s very lightweight.
“Holy shit!” I exclaim as the long, iconic weapon comes out of the duffel and into Fitz’s hands. It’s an antique. It’s very deadly. “That’s a BAR.”
“Yes it is.” He strokes it, smiles fondly. “Browning Automatic Rifle. This is a great state to be a gun collector in. It’s almost mandatory here.” The BAR was a mainstay of the military in World War II, a very badass infantry weapon that fires thirty ought-six ammunition, full-auto if you wish. It has the tough but elegant design of the zenith of American industrial power. I definitely feel as if I am back in the days at Fort Monmouth and other posts where “boys with their toys” meant guns, even among the outsider intel guys. It’s an odd feeling; somebody else’s life—not mine. Fitz brings a bandoleer belt of magazines for the BAR, hands me an extra magazine for the shotgun, and I agree to hump a daypack with water. We step out. I chamber a round into the shotgun and we hike into the dry wilderness.
“Just remember…”
“I know,” I say, brandishing the high-tech toy, “geologists from the university.”