[Icelander]

Before the team leaves the Penemue, everyone attends to any calls of nature, picks up drinks and snacks for the road and an ever growing assortment of luggage, some of which is explained to Kit, but most of which isn’t. At least a couple of sturdy deck hands help them carry it off the yacht, so Kit doesn’t have to carry much more than the pig he has been entrusted with. As before, Juman and Wojciechowski carry little, but if Kit thinks of them as their security element, this bothers him less.

Kit is surprised at how little attention the pig he is carrying attracts on the way. It seems the magical trick of perception really works, well enough for a dozen people to let a man carrying a pig in a wig past them without a second glance. The two sharpshooters on the upper deck and a couple of very professional suit-wearing people Kit makes as onboard security personnel do notice, however, so, the ritual clearly has limitations. Something to keep in mind for the future.

Zamal Juman’s ‘Caddy’ turns out to be a nicely maintained black 1966 Cadillac Fleetwood Brougham. Kit raises his eyebrows, but it too polite to say anything. Noticing his reaction, Wojciechowski grins. “You’re wondering how this is covert vehicle, no?”
“Uh, I guess it’s maybe a little distinctive, boss. I mean, it’s a very nice car. A true classic. But won’t people tend to remember it?”

Juman opens the driver’s door and grunts. “Any car almost as old as I is gonna stand out, actually. But we riding with strong obeyah and if we have a bacchanal with dem cultists, no new car gonna work when we need am. But don’t worry, bai, we’re just a decoy. They supposed to waste time and energy on chasing us, so we want dem to know where we’ve been, just not where we gonna be.”

Kit nods as he moves to secure the pig in a rear seat. Wojciechowski shakes his head as he loads the trunks with gun cases and sea bags. “I thought you were supposed to be professional paranoid, Zamal. Now you’re justifying giving OpFor free information, just to drive your gas hog land-barge?”
“Dem orders. Drive any ting we want, long as am ain’t got na computer chips or electronic injectors. And you know damn well no cyar that old gonna be covert. At least am is nice.”

As the three men work, loading the car and preparing their places, Wojciechowski continues to grumble about the plan, with more long-suffering sarcasm than true heat. When they take their seats, Juman rumbles at Kit, “Don’t let am pig [soil] ma cyar, or I give you a cut tail, bai.”
“Yes, sir. Uh, sir, how do I prevent a pig from bowel movements?”

Wojciechowski snorts, “SEAL-school not teach that? Do like British. Adopt, adapt, and improve. Try changing diaper often, using tarp and towel in case of leak. Water as necessary, not more, not less.”
“Yes, si-, uh, boss. Hell, what do I call you? I guess we can’t use ranks, but are we using cover names?”

“No ranks and no sirs from now on. Let’s try to appear like normal tourists and use our regular names.” Wojciechowski points to his fellow Night Rider. “You think of Juman here as sort of counter-intelligence warrant officer. He’s not real soldier, but he’s nominally in charge, because this is spooky stuff, not soldier stuff. But he’s not officer because he’s got some fancy degree. In fact, I’m not even sure he can read. No, he’s in charge because The Powers That Be have determined that there is nobody more conniving, more treacherous and more murderous out there. If he had friends, they’d call him Zamal. You just call him Juman, at least until you can think of something worse.”

The glare from Juman could wilt a field of flowers, but Wojciechowski doesn’t skip a beat. “Me, you can think of as your Chief Petty Officer, you would call it. I’m really in charge, unless Juman gives specific orders. Which he won’t unless there’s some sort of underhanded, unethical, School of Americas, CIA-trained dirty-cop stunt to be planned, in which case you should listen to him, as he is expert. For everything else, listen to me.” Extending his hand into the backseat, “My name is Tomasz Mateusz Wojciechowski, but people call me ‘Bialego Wilka’.”

“No,” asserts Juman flatly. “No one ever call him am. Mebbe he got dem big skin garmants to call him am if he pay dem extra, but nobody who knows any ting call him that Twilight, sparkly-vampire rass.”
“Hey!” Wojciechowski snaps, “You know damn well that is vile calumny. Geralt of Rivia has nothing to do with that glitterfest abstinence-only Mormon-porn. He’s got the same line of work we do. And that guy; he [fornicates].”

Kit smiles. “Yeah, man, I’ve played The Witcher. Loved that game. You’re right, Witchers are basically just like you guys in a fantasy world, hunting monsters and taking names. Well, aside from the alchemy stuff.”

“You want Trial of Grasses, boychik, I can find you right herbs. See in dark, fight monsters, maybe live forever.” Wojciechowski grins at him. “Anyway, you should read books, not just play games. Sapkowski is artist, poet, but also bit of pervert. Best in original Polish. If you are not completely useless, maybe I teach you later.”

“Yeah,” Kit replies. “If I’m not completely useless at this, maybe it would be nice to read about somebody else doing the kind of thing I’m supposed to be doing.” Looking at the pig, securely strapped in and provided with a feeding trough and CamelBak for the trip, Kit wonders, “Is this sort of thing usual in our line of work?”

Both men in the front of the car laugh quietly. Juman shakes his head. “Na, banna, am pig in the wig na usual ting for nobody. But am is harmless kind of strange, which is better than the kind we usually see. Until dem cultists find us, dis a vacation with pay, actually. So enjoy the trip.”
“About that, Mr. Juman, where are we going?”
Juman shrugs, “Anywhere we like, banna. As long as it’s away from here.”

Drumming his fingers on the dashboard, Wojciechowski muses, “We’ve been discussing that. Easiest, most logical if we drive east. Support from New Orleans if we have contact first day, then maybe some friends in Mobile. Then drive around Florida; always within reach of quick reaction force.”

With a shake of his head, Juman answers, “No, we na gonna do that. Dem cultists not supposed to find us that quickly, actually. Mebbe they know about some of our teams, mebbe they don’t. Better to avoid driving east. If dem finds us, we call Lacoste and Mr. Alexandre. Lacoste is gonna be on dem task force and Mr. Alexandre gonna have his ways. Mr. Kessler has friends everywhere; Austin, even Washington. They can get dem federal cops to fly out, arrest dem cultists.”

Grinning, Wojciechowski turns in his seat. “So! We’re not even priority bait, boychik. They’re not maintaining dedicated QRF for us and they don’t care if the cops get their grimy paws on anybody we draw out. So, if it doesn’t matter to anyone where we go, maybe we go see Area 51?”
Juman grunts, “It’s well rass. Am Area 51 just dry sand and some ‘Keep Out’ signs. I’d rather go see the Grand Canyon again, am is one proppa breathtaking natural wonder.”

“That’s not bad idea,” says Wojciechowski. “Take roundabout route, aim to end up at Grand Canyon in maybe ten days, reassess and review. We could go north first, get to Oklahoma, Kansas, maybe all the way to St. Louis. I always wanted to drive old Route 66, like Grapes of Wrath and TV.”
“Road trips on the old Route 66 is something classic cars enthusiasts do, so we’d have a reasonable cover,” Kit notes. “And if we drive all the way to the end of the old Route 66, I’ve got some friends in Coronado, not that far off.”

“Sorry, boychik,” Wojciechowski says. “SEAL friends are nice to have, but we don’t have no uniforms. California won’t let us carry concealed. Or at all. And all fine friends in the world won’t make up for facing OpFor with just dicks in hands. Think about poor Juman here. He would be defenseless.”

Juman blows a dismissive raspberry. “Dis skinny kaka hole think he vex me with am botheration. Everybody all knows I use me handgun only out of the kindness of me heart, so as not to frighten dem bad men and jumbees with me lolo. Hold dem pig, banna, let us make the exodus.”