01-10-2024, 09:51 PM
The Mesa
Ch. 1
Testing the Waters
Albuquerque, New Mexico - May 6, 1980.
The door reads CASSIUS WHEELER | EDITOR-IN-CHIEF.
Inside the neatly organized office is a large, disorganized desk. Sitting there among the piles
of strewn papers and stacks of folders, the man himself.
At forty-eight years of age, the barrel-chested veteran hasn’t changed much since his five-year
stint in Vietnam. Shaved head, smartly dressed, eyes sharp and forward. He proved himself a
valuable asset to his platoon in the US Army and now does the same at The Albuquerque Journal.
His phone rings.
“Hello?”
There’s no one there, only a series of clicks and pauses.
“Who the hell is this? Hey!”
The sounds continue.
He slams the phone down and returns his attention to a tall stack of papers - then stops.
His eyes shift upward to a framed photo on the wall - an old black & white of him in uniform
just after boot camp. Those sounds were familiar. Ones he hadn’t heard in years. The dits and
dahs of another life.
The former communications officer scrambles to find a blank sheet of paper on the messy desktop,
hastily grabbing one of several pens from the drawer. His eyes shoot to the clock - it’s been two minutes.
Tension sets in across his brow, pulse racing, cues from days gone past. Ring dammit he thought.
The anticipation was grueling. Seconds stretching out like miles of thick jungle. Ring you bastard!
Then it did.
“I’m here, I’ve got pen and paper!”
Three seconds of silence - then the clicks and pauses resume. Cassius quickly begins logging
the incoming information. Ninety seconds later there’s nothing but dial tone.
This wasn’t your everyday kind of phone call. And why the hell was it in Morse code? A few minutes
to decipher and he’s looking down at a very concerning message.
LIFE OR DEATH GOVT INFO. MUST MEET TO TALK. TODAY 3PM GARCIAS IH25 S.
COME ALONE. I AM SERIOUS. WILL BE ARMED.
This was his Tuesday.
Hours later, he sits in a booth at the greasy spoon diner, waiting for this mystery person. Fifteen
minutes becomes thirty becomes an hour. His patience dissolves. A waitress approaches his table.
“Excuse me sir, are you Mr. Cassius Wheeler?”
“Yes ma’am.” he answers, surprized.
The woman reaches under her apron and produces a plain white envelope.
“There was a gentleman here earlier, he left this for you. Said it was extremely important. Gave me
a hundred dollar tip to make sure you got it.”
She lays the unmarked envelope on the table in front of him and smiles. He picks it up and
is interrupted.
“Oh, he said for you not to open it here. He made that very clear. DO NOT open it here.”
He stops, holding the communique in his left hand.
“Thank you.”
“You’re very welcome, you have a wonderful day!”
The lady walks away from the booth leaving him to sit and wonder. He stares at the envelope
then stands from the table and leaves the diner.
Back at the office, he sits - stewing at his desk, glaring down at the still unopened message.
His door locked - blinds closed - mind on edge. Did he even want to know what the contents were?
Then in a sudden burst he rips into it, pulling out a folded sheet of paper. He reads it once. Then twice.
And a third time.
SORRY FOR TODAY BUT TRUST HAD TO BE ESTABLISHED. NOW THAT I KNOW YOU ARE
HONORABLE, WE CAN FACE-TO-FACE. BUT NOT HERE. YOU WILL HAVE TO MEET ME IN SANTA FE.
THE ADDRESS IS LISTED BELOW. THURSDAY MORNING 9AM. YOU WILL BE GIVEN A THIRTY-MINUTE
GRACE PERIOD TO ALLOW FOR TRAFFIC. AFTER THAT I WILL BE GONE. PLEASE BE ON TIME.
THIS IS MORE IMPORTANT THAN YOU COULD EVER KNOW!
SAME RULES APPLY. TELL NO ONE. COME ALONE.
PINION BLUFFS PARK - 1013 BLACK ARROYO RD.
Ch. 1
Testing the Waters
Albuquerque, New Mexico - May 6, 1980.
The door reads CASSIUS WHEELER | EDITOR-IN-CHIEF.
Inside the neatly organized office is a large, disorganized desk. Sitting there among the piles
of strewn papers and stacks of folders, the man himself.
At forty-eight years of age, the barrel-chested veteran hasn’t changed much since his five-year
stint in Vietnam. Shaved head, smartly dressed, eyes sharp and forward. He proved himself a
valuable asset to his platoon in the US Army and now does the same at The Albuquerque Journal.
His phone rings.
“Hello?”
There’s no one there, only a series of clicks and pauses.
“Who the hell is this? Hey!”
The sounds continue.
He slams the phone down and returns his attention to a tall stack of papers - then stops.
His eyes shift upward to a framed photo on the wall - an old black & white of him in uniform
just after boot camp. Those sounds were familiar. Ones he hadn’t heard in years. The dits and
dahs of another life.
The former communications officer scrambles to find a blank sheet of paper on the messy desktop,
hastily grabbing one of several pens from the drawer. His eyes shoot to the clock - it’s been two minutes.
Tension sets in across his brow, pulse racing, cues from days gone past. Ring dammit he thought.
The anticipation was grueling. Seconds stretching out like miles of thick jungle. Ring you bastard!
Then it did.
“I’m here, I’ve got pen and paper!”
Three seconds of silence - then the clicks and pauses resume. Cassius quickly begins logging
the incoming information. Ninety seconds later there’s nothing but dial tone.
This wasn’t your everyday kind of phone call. And why the hell was it in Morse code? A few minutes
to decipher and he’s looking down at a very concerning message.
LIFE OR DEATH GOVT INFO. MUST MEET TO TALK. TODAY 3PM GARCIAS IH25 S.
COME ALONE. I AM SERIOUS. WILL BE ARMED.
This was his Tuesday.
Hours later, he sits in a booth at the greasy spoon diner, waiting for this mystery person. Fifteen
minutes becomes thirty becomes an hour. His patience dissolves. A waitress approaches his table.
“Excuse me sir, are you Mr. Cassius Wheeler?”
“Yes ma’am.” he answers, surprized.
The woman reaches under her apron and produces a plain white envelope.
“There was a gentleman here earlier, he left this for you. Said it was extremely important. Gave me
a hundred dollar tip to make sure you got it.”
She lays the unmarked envelope on the table in front of him and smiles. He picks it up and
is interrupted.
“Oh, he said for you not to open it here. He made that very clear. DO NOT open it here.”
He stops, holding the communique in his left hand.
“Thank you.”
“You’re very welcome, you have a wonderful day!”
The lady walks away from the booth leaving him to sit and wonder. He stares at the envelope
then stands from the table and leaves the diner.
Back at the office, he sits - stewing at his desk, glaring down at the still unopened message.
His door locked - blinds closed - mind on edge. Did he even want to know what the contents were?
Then in a sudden burst he rips into it, pulling out a folded sheet of paper. He reads it once. Then twice.
And a third time.
SORRY FOR TODAY BUT TRUST HAD TO BE ESTABLISHED. NOW THAT I KNOW YOU ARE
HONORABLE, WE CAN FACE-TO-FACE. BUT NOT HERE. YOU WILL HAVE TO MEET ME IN SANTA FE.
THE ADDRESS IS LISTED BELOW. THURSDAY MORNING 9AM. YOU WILL BE GIVEN A THIRTY-MINUTE
GRACE PERIOD TO ALLOW FOR TRAFFIC. AFTER THAT I WILL BE GONE. PLEASE BE ON TIME.
THIS IS MORE IMPORTANT THAN YOU COULD EVER KNOW!
SAME RULES APPLY. TELL NO ONE. COME ALONE.
PINION BLUFFS PARK - 1013 BLACK ARROYO RD.
