24 Declassified: 03 - Trojan Horse by Marc Cerasini Page A
Authors: Marc Cerasini
Tags: Fiction, General, Suspense, Media Tie-In, Thrillers, Action & Adventure, Espionage, Terrorism, Computer viruses, Award Presentations
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faithful and supporting husband in your acceptance speech.”
Teri smiled, catching Jack’s eye in the mirror. “You and Kim are always first on my list, Jack. You know that.”
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18 19 20 21 22 23 24
THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLAC E
BETWEEN THE HOURS OF
8 A.M. AND 9 A.M.
PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME
8:03:41 A . M .PDT Angeles Crest Highway Angeles National Forest
Although it was not nearly as spectacular as the fa mous Sierra Nevadas to the north, the San Gabriel Mountains and its surrounding national park had a more distinct advantage for the people of L.A.—it was only a thirty minute drive from the Glendale corridor. The San Gabriels were forested with oak, pine, and cedar and graced with clear streams, small lakes, waterfalls, and steep canyons perfect for fishing, hiking, and camping.
Several roads climbed into the 700,000-acre park, all of them twisting, steep and narrow, but the main route through the mountains was the Angeles Crest Highway. It rose steadily from La Canada Flintridge, eventually peaking at nearly eight thousand feet above sea level, before descending to an eventual end in the flat, blasted wasteland of the Mojave Desert.
Veering off a sharp curve in this highway was an unmarked road. At the end of the short, bumpy dirt path, flanked by tall pines, sat three wooden buildings, several picnic tables, a flagpole, and a half-dozen tents. This small no-frills campground had been established by two inner city churches in the late 1980s—the Lion of God Church in South Central, Los Angeles, and the Baptist Church School of Compton, a small Christian congregation operated out of a dilapidated storefront.
With a sharp cliff presenting perfect vistas of higher mountain peaks, they could give urban kids a few days of escape from the scorching heat of the city and fulfill their mission statement for all retreats: here the children could witness the glories of God as reflected in nature, rather than the sins and hubris of mankind cast in concrete; they could inhale the scents of plants and trees instead of smog; they could listen to birdsong, while they received biblical instruction, instead of the constant assault of subwoofers in gangbanger SUVs.
Nine of the kids who’d come for this particular retreat session—four boys and five girls between the ages of twelve and fourteen—were now seated around a pair of picnic tables. Breakfast had ended, the paper plates had been gathered up, and Reverend Landers, tall and reed thin with a hide like brown leather and white hair bristling over an expansive forehead, was leading them all in a goodbye prayer.
Fifty feet away, twenty-five-year-old Laney Caulder emerged from the camp’s largest building to stand on its porch. Squinting against the morning glare, the slender young African-American woman with long hair braided into a beautiful cascade of cornrows, looked away from the yellow sun blazing in the sky before covering her head with a baseball cap.
“Sure is gonna be hot down in the city. I almost hate to leave these mountains,” Laney said.
Behind her, a heavyset black woman in her late fifties rolled out of the building on an electric wheelchair.
“It’s hot all right,” Rita Taft observed. “But I can feel a chill in the wind coming off the highlands. Winter’s coming. In a couple more weeks the Reverend’s gonna have to close this place down till spring.”
The older woman scanned the distant mountains with tired eyes. Then, using a chin control to operate the wheelchair, she circled around to face the younger woman.
“Back when this place first opened up, back twenty years ago, you could see snow on the mountains every summer—even in July. But this year’s different. With the drought and all, there’s been no snow. Not one little flake.”
Rita paused, fixed her gaze on the younger woman. “I been thinking that maybe things are better without the white powder, if you know what I mean...”
Laney
Teri smiled, catching Jack’s eye in the mirror. “You and Kim are always first on my list, Jack. You know that.”
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9
10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17
18 19 20 21 22 23 24
THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLAC E
BETWEEN THE HOURS OF
8 A.M. AND 9 A.M.
PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME
8:03:41 A . M .PDT Angeles Crest Highway Angeles National Forest
Although it was not nearly as spectacular as the fa mous Sierra Nevadas to the north, the San Gabriel Mountains and its surrounding national park had a more distinct advantage for the people of L.A.—it was only a thirty minute drive from the Glendale corridor. The San Gabriels were forested with oak, pine, and cedar and graced with clear streams, small lakes, waterfalls, and steep canyons perfect for fishing, hiking, and camping.
Several roads climbed into the 700,000-acre park, all of them twisting, steep and narrow, but the main route through the mountains was the Angeles Crest Highway. It rose steadily from La Canada Flintridge, eventually peaking at nearly eight thousand feet above sea level, before descending to an eventual end in the flat, blasted wasteland of the Mojave Desert.
Veering off a sharp curve in this highway was an unmarked road. At the end of the short, bumpy dirt path, flanked by tall pines, sat three wooden buildings, several picnic tables, a flagpole, and a half-dozen tents. This small no-frills campground had been established by two inner city churches in the late 1980s—the Lion of God Church in South Central, Los Angeles, and the Baptist Church School of Compton, a small Christian congregation operated out of a dilapidated storefront.
With a sharp cliff presenting perfect vistas of higher mountain peaks, they could give urban kids a few days of escape from the scorching heat of the city and fulfill their mission statement for all retreats: here the children could witness the glories of God as reflected in nature, rather than the sins and hubris of mankind cast in concrete; they could inhale the scents of plants and trees instead of smog; they could listen to birdsong, while they received biblical instruction, instead of the constant assault of subwoofers in gangbanger SUVs.
Nine of the kids who’d come for this particular retreat session—four boys and five girls between the ages of twelve and fourteen—were now seated around a pair of picnic tables. Breakfast had ended, the paper plates had been gathered up, and Reverend Landers, tall and reed thin with a hide like brown leather and white hair bristling over an expansive forehead, was leading them all in a goodbye prayer.
Fifty feet away, twenty-five-year-old Laney Caulder emerged from the camp’s largest building to stand on its porch. Squinting against the morning glare, the slender young African-American woman with long hair braided into a beautiful cascade of cornrows, looked away from the yellow sun blazing in the sky before covering her head with a baseball cap.
“Sure is gonna be hot down in the city. I almost hate to leave these mountains,” Laney said.
Behind her, a heavyset black woman in her late fifties rolled out of the building on an electric wheelchair.
“It’s hot all right,” Rita Taft observed. “But I can feel a chill in the wind coming off the highlands. Winter’s coming. In a couple more weeks the Reverend’s gonna have to close this place down till spring.”
The older woman scanned the distant mountains with tired eyes. Then, using a chin control to operate the wheelchair, she circled around to face the younger woman.
“Back when this place first opened up, back twenty years ago, you could see snow on the mountains every summer—even in July. But this year’s different. With the drought and all, there’s been no snow. Not one little flake.”
Rita paused, fixed her gaze on the younger woman. “I been thinking that maybe things are better without the white powder, if you know what I mean...”
Laney
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