The Last Pilgrims (27 page)

“Easy, boss; that’s more than one question.”
Pano looked at him with a grin on his face. “First, let me say—and
I mean no sarcasm or disrespect—that going back that way,” he
pointed towards the surface, “will get you killed with 100%
probability. Head rolling on the ground, neck-spewing blood
everywhere—the whole nasty mess that goes along with beheadings.
However… going this way,” he said as he indicated down the tunnel,
“who knows? Maybe death, maybe not. So, I’ll tell you what. Let’s
get moving and I’ll fill you in along the way.”

“Ok, Pano… you have the torch. You lead the
way.”

Pano took the lead, but kept a manageable
pace, considering that they had a good half a day’s walk ahead of
them.

“This tunnel was built during the last
decade of the 20
^th
century, before the unprecedented
violence that led to the border becoming one of the most violent
and deadly places on Earth. It was managed on both ends by federal
forces working in conjunction to maintain the monetary benefits and
the necessary edifice of the so-called ‘War on Drugs’.

“Although governments and protected cartels
brought drugs into the United States on aircraft, boats, and even
submarines, this tunnel was still one of the primary routes for
‘official’, or, ‘white’ drugs in the world. ‘White drugs’ were
those that were imported illegally by government agencies, shell
organizations, and some crooked local officials to finance and
support black operations and the secret agendas of the power
elite.

“One of the largest ‘white drug’ operations
in the world had been exposed in the late 1980s. Members of the CIA
and other covert operations agencies were exposed by some suicidal
media types to be flying drugs into what was then Arkansas and a
few other centrally located states. The contract mules usually flew
into small rural airports where they would hand the drugs off to
selected criminals, who would sell those drugs in the inner cities
in Los Angeles, New York, Chicago, etc. The operations brought in
billions of dollars for black operations around the world, and kept
up an increasing need for higher taxes and government spending on
the War on Drugs.

“After that operation was blown, it was
decided that replicating it would be too complicated, it had too
many moving parts, and was too easily exposed. So, not long after
that, this tunnel was constructed to streamline and simplify the
system.

“As cover, the US and Mexican governments
would ‘discover’ hundreds of drug tunnels in the opening decades of
the 21
^st
century; and they would be reported on widely.
That gave citizens the mistaken idea that these types of operations
were temporary, ineffective, and subject to exposure.

“All of that aside… when the collapse came,
with everything else going on in the world; the eradication of most
borders; the end of the drug trade; the death of most of the
interested parties; the tunnel was abandoned and, soon, it wasn’t
even a memory.”

“So how did you know about it?”

“That, boss, is a meaty mystery, wrapped in
an enigma tortilla, smothered in creamy top secret sauce. It will,
however, become clear enough in time.”

“You aren’t going to tell me?”

“As I said, you’ll find out soon
enough.”

“Something tells me that I might have jumped
out of the frying pan and into the fire.”

“The tunnel does run both ways, boss,” Pano
retorted, dragging his finger across his throat, simulating a cut
by a knife.

In a movement so fast that Pano didn’t even
have time to react, English seized the diminutive assistant by the
throat and lifted him clean off of the ground, slamming him into
the wall of the tunnel.

“Give me one reason that I shouldn’t just
snap your neck and leave you here to rot!” he growled.

Pano’s face turned red, and he struggled to
speak, his feet dangling helplessly in the air. “Because…,” he
grunted, “the people waiting for us… at the end of the tunnel… will
be very unhappy if I am not with you.”

He slowly lowered Pano back to the ground,
releasing his grip. “I suspect you need to start being more
forthcoming with me, Pano, if you don’t want me to go ahead and
just risk their displeasure.”

“Sheesh, boss! Lighten up! We need to get
you another tunic.”

“How about you just tell me what is going
on?”

“There is only so much that I can tell you,
boss,” Pano said, rubbing his neck, trying to regain his composure.
“I assure you, that the people who wanted me to get you out of La
Chimenea Castle are very interested in you, and they might be able
to help you get whatever it is you want. You are just going to have
to be patient. If they wanted you dead, you’d be back there, and
you’d already be a foot shorter.”

“You are the one who is too short to be a
spy.”

“And you are too grumpy and neurotic to be a
knight.”

The tunnel was tall enough that they could
stand upright, but the feeling of claustrophobia increased with
every step they made. About 6 feet wide at the base, the tunnel was
reinforced along most of its run with concrete, and about every 50
feet or so, there were heavy supports made of steel or thick,
wooden beams. Conduit with electrical cable running through it was
attached along the roof, and there were lights—long out of
service—evenly spaced about 20 feet apart throughout the whole
length of the tunnel.

Without access to electric lights, Pano and
English relied on the burning torch, and, as insurance, several
more torches had been pre-placed at regular intervals along the
way.

English had some experience working
underground from his early days with the Scots Guards before he had
done his tour in SAS. The Guard unit he was assigned to primarily
served as a ceremonial unit, but they were also in charge of
security in and around many of the prominent royal and governmental
facilities in London. Their function often required that they work
in ‘Underground London’, securing the tunnels, tubes, and
underground railway facilities—some hundreds of years
old—throughout the city, during state functions.

The Guards had taught him patience, respect,
and the importance of form and tradition. However, his time in SAS
had taught him to survive, to improvise, and to adapt. Unhappily,
no one had taught him how to maintain hope and faith in a world
that seemed to be collectively flying by the seat of its pants. In
his current world, the things he despised the most—disorder and
chaos, interspersed heavily with tyranny and despotism—seemed to
rule.

In the service, when he had worked in the
tunnels under London, he may not have appreciated the mission, but
he trusted in the system of order and honor he and his fellow
soldiers lived by. In battle with the SAS, he may not have thought
much about the politics and agenda behind his country’s mission,
but he absolutely relied on discipline and duty in order to stay
both alive, and sane.

Over two decades ago, if he had been killed
in the line of duty in Afghanistan, Libya, Syria, or Iran, his name
would have been inscribed on the SAS regimental clock tower at
Sterling Lines. Because of that, surviving a mission was referred
to as “beating the clock.” Oh, how ironic were those words today!
He had indeed beaten the clock… and now here he was, centuries in
the past, trying to find some way to get back home… whatever that
meant now. He figured that the old regimental clock was probably
gone now.
The mind reels
, he thought.

Inscribed on the base of that regimental
clock at Sterling Lines was a verse from the
The Golden Road to
Samarkand
by James Elroy Flecker:

We are the Pilgrims, master; we shall go

Always a little further: it may be

Beyond the last blue mountain barred with
snow,

Across that angry or that glimmering
sea.

He was beginning to realize that his hope
was not in a return to some old and archaic sense of militaristic
order, rooted in the inordinate reliance on enforced and inorganic
systems designed to replace a more basic and natural life. That
life now seemed so artificial. He thought of the Vallenses and all
of their predecessors—
the meek of the earth
. For thousands
of years, Kingdoms, princes and predacious religious authorities
have tried to stomp out any peaceful people that—enabled and
emboldened by their simple faith, their simple nature, and their
work ethic—refused to become dependent on those same
authorities.

He thought about those peaceful farmers and
ranchers in the Vallensian lands. He knew that anger and hatred—the
foul product of the dark and bitter hearts of men—would be
relentless in their attempts to root them out of the land and erase
them from the world.

The Vallenses were the real pilgrims… maybe
they were even the last pilgrims. It was they who were always
moving across the mountains and even the angry and glimmering sea
if needs be, in order to find a place where they could live
peaceably by the dictates of their God and their consciences. To
English, they seemed to be the only truly free men—even amidst
their bondage, struggles, and persecution.

Perhaps the order and peace that he sought
could be found in helping those who so often would refuse to help
themselves. Maybe he should just go start a farm and, in this way,
return to that time of his life that held the best and most
fruitful of all of his memories.

From his earliest days as a military man, he
had always considered his uniform to be the last and best
representation of the order and symmetry of life he had learned on
his parents’ farm. Whatever difficulties or hardships there were in
farm life, they were made understandable and even enjoyable by the
knowledge that the order of nature, and the right management of
that nature, provided for and satisfied the fundamental human need
for structure, order and a connection with the creation. Somehow,
maybe sub-consciously, his mind had latched onto his tunic as a
thread or connection with all that he had lost.

He signed on as an adjutant to the King of
Aztlan, not because he admired the King, or because he saw goodness
and right in the Aztlani cause, but because of a modicum of
stability he perceived in the system and the opportunity for a
return to order amidst the insanity and chaos that reigned after
the collapse. He shook his head.
So foolish
. Order out of
chaos… isn’t that what governments and tyrants always offer men in
place of their freedom? Safety and security have always been the
legal tender used to purchase willing slaves.

Before long, he had learned that Aztlan was
just another type of insanity. His friend Phillip had,
providentially, been with him on the day of the collapse,
specifically in order to recruit him into the militia. It had been
Phillip who had encouraged him to serve Aztlan. The militia leader
wanted him to see from the inside what type of beast Aztlan might
turn out to be. Now he knew.

As he and Pano trudged their way through
miles of Mexican tunnels, he didn’t know what future awaited him,
but he did know that he was no longer going to be satisfied with a
well-kept and immaculately tailored tunic. He wanted real freedom.
Whatever that meant for him (and how could he know?), he did know
it had something to do with the Vallenses. He was now a pilgrim,
rather than a knight. It made it easier for him to see his journey
as a pilgrimage, even if he didn’t know his ultimate
destination.

“I know, you’ve been so talkative, boss—a
regular chatterbox—and I’d hate to encourage you,” Pano smiled at
him, “but we’re getting close to the end here and I wanted you to
know that… at the end of every tunnel, there is a silver
lining.”

“That’s not even good enough to be a mixed
metaphor.”

“Maybe, but it’s true. But I wanted you to
know that I had your best interests in mind when I set about to get
you out of the castle, and you need to keep that in mind so you
don’t overreact when… you see what the reason was.”

“Oh, you are just a fountain of information
and encouragement.”

“I’m just saying that you should keep an
open mind.”

He stopped and stared at Pano with a look of
resignation. “Listen, Pano, I am thankful that you got me out and
saved my life. And I’m tremendously sorry that I almost choked the
life out of you. I’m just ready to get on with this, and it doesn’t
help me for you to continue to act mysteriously.”

Pano shrugged, and started to walk on before
stopping to look back at him again, “I forgive you for choking
me.”

As they reached the terminus of the tunnel,
he noticed that, on this end, the decrepit old ladder had been
unceremoniously tossed to the side of the hole, and a newer version
stood in its place.
Someone is expecting us
, he thought.

Pano threw the torch back into the tunnel
and then ascended the ladder towards the light that streamed in
from the circle above. He followed and, in almost no time, they
were standing in a ramshackle shed surrounded by four men in light
uniforms, each with their hands at the ready on the hilt of a
sheathed sword. Pano greeted the men in Spanish and answered their
few questions, before indicating to English with a nod. The
soldiers seemed satisfied with his answers, as they relaxed a bit
and nodded a greeting to him before turning to leave the shed.

The bright light and burning heat of the day
reminded him that he was still in the desert, and that, despite the
nice respite in the cool and damp of the tunnel, they had only
traveled about ten miles from those who sought to kill him.

Cresting a small hill, English saw spread
out before him in battle array an army consisting of perhaps 2,000
predominantly Mexican soldiers. Several officers, upon seeing the
party coming over the hill, began to ride out to meet them.