Collins Rhōg

Sedona AZ (October 15, 2014) – The following has been taken from Collins Rhōg’s private journal, and reproduced exactly as it was written, by his own hand. The date has been omitted, at his request, but Collins view is always captivatingly honest, full of depth and color, heart and perseverance in times of struggle. Collins spills his soul and captures his feelings with vivid imagery and heart felt emotion that oozes from the pages of this historic text.

The following is but a portholes view, from across the room of “The Life and Times of Collins Rhōg“:

If you are new to the story, it all begins at this link (click here). In previous weeks, our readers were introduced to Rhog’s story as written in his journal. Join us as we return to the Life and Times of Collins Rhōg, now 38, while he surveys the gates of Hell:

– Cambire, The Story Part 3 –

I reached the top of the hill, roughly 30 minutes after finishing breakfast. The climb had been refreshing in the cool morning air. At the peak, I held a perfect standpoint from which to observe the Vehicle Check Point. Breaking out my 20X80 binoculars, large and cumbersome, but a dream to peer through, I intently watched as the guards went about business.

First thing I noticed was a camera pre-screening all of the vehicles as they waited in line and imagined a person sitting in a cubicle, panning the cameras, zooming up on license plates and faces. This person would alert the guards to anyone that could be deemed a risk. Looking up, I noticed a metal box in the corner, roughly the size of a cookie tin, panning and tilting via a remote, although it wasn’t a camera. The border patrol was shooting a laser mic onto the windshield of every vehicle and sampling each and every conversation.

“Pretty slick,” I thought to myself. How many people guarded their conversation while sitting in line, in their own vehicle with the windows rolled up? I knew that guards rotated out every two hours, with replacements coming in around 10 minutes prior to relieving those on duty. I wanted to arrive at the beginning of a shift.

I examined the layout of the grounds, looking for a plausible escape route. It was tough as the place was buttoned up pretty tightly. All of the incoming traffic was funneled down into separate lines, which divided off like tributaries to a river, each one funneling into another, until there were four lines on either side of a central square building. Each row zigzagged, parallel with the others, preventing any driver from gaining enough speed to crash through a gate. Every line had its own gate, guard house, and guard. Roughly 10 yards after each gate, a length of tire spikes was recessed within the concrete and would instantly be raised up eighteen inches at the first sign of trouble. The gates spread straight out across 75 yards of tarmac, like soldiers standing at ready, shoulder to shoulder.

The crossing was comprised of one long row of gates divided by a central building in the middle. To the right went all of the commercial traffic and to the left went all of the public traffic. The central building was perfectly square with all of its exterior walls being a beautifully clad blue tinted glass. There were two large public waiting areas just inside both exterior walls that faced the two rows of gates. Counters were set roughly 20 feet inside each waiting area and ran parallel to those same walls. The counters were sheathed in bullet proof polycarbonate to protect the guards inside from weapons and explosions. Behind the polycarbonate I could see cubicles and desks as well as interrogation rooms and a fingerprint scanner. Just behind the central building was an add-on, nothing more than a pole building with a high flat roof, which held several bays where the agents would perform vehicle searches. Near the entrance to the bays was a locksmith’s van, its purpose was clear.

It appeared that all of the traffic coming into the border crossing was neatly buttoned up with gates, barriers, and tire spikes. Once you enter its mouth, you’re going to be chewed up, unless you’re spit out to go on your way.

Removing the binoculars from my eyes, I sat back for a moment, rubbing the bridge of my nose and tear ducts, my mind racing at 200 miles an hour. Thinking about the central building, “Could it be that’s the chink in their armor?” I took another look through the binoculars, this time with a smile on my face. True enough that would be my escape route.

My Cruiser was fitted with stout bull bars, perfect for smashing through glass walls. I just had to be certain that I ended up in the inside lane closest to the central building. There was a rather tall curb that transitioned from the drive to the sidewalk, most vehicles wouldn’t have the capability of defeating that obstacle, but my Land Cruiser would barely notice it.

“Now who’s on duty at my gate?” Focusing in on the right side innermost gate, I muttered in disgust, “Crikey, a short little fellow.” I looked at my watch, it was 1030 hours. I planned to be at the checkpoint just after 1200 hours.

Up on top of that hill, I thought about my plans, hoping I wouldn’t need to use an ER, but feeling confident if I did. I wanted a painless crossing through the VCP and a straight through shot to Republic, Oregon, stopping only for petrol. From there I’d drop off the cruiser and fly my Super Cub to Albuquerque, swap the package for a quarter-mil and be on my way. The whole thing sounded relatively easy, though I knew it wasn’t or I wouldn’t have been hired for the job.

Going over my plans, I went through the scenarios. The escape route would take me through the central building, where I stood a high chance of being shot by one of the exterior guards. I didn’t worry about the guards inside, they were well behind a thick wall of polycarbonate. I did have some countermeasures fitted to the Land Cruiser, each one designed and installed to aid in an escape, if ever necessary. One of my countermeasures was a simple smoke screen, sounds simple and it really is, but believe me it wasn’t simple to engineer. It took quite a long while and whole collage of swear words to figure out just how to make a device that would create an effective smoke screen, and what chemical agent to create that smoke.

In the end, keep it simple ruled the day. My device consisted of a holding tank (an old windshield washer tank with a pump from the wrecking yard) that fed a homemade nozzle which sprayed a stream into the Land Cruiser’s exhaust system, and the chemical agent that I found to create the best smoke was…of all things…automobile antifreeze. The nozzle atomized the antifreeze, increasing its surface area, and the waste heat and exhaust from the engine vaporized the atomized antifreeze in the exhaust pipe. Viola! Instant smoke screen! I’d never called the smoke screen into service as of yet and really hoped it would prevent me or the cruiser from being shot. That’s always a good thing…not to get shot.

Next, I needed to be sure the escape route allowed me to make it to my emergency lay up point without being followed. The guards at the VCP had two Ford Ranger trucks and an old full sized Bronco, all badged in Border Patrol garb. These were not fast vehicles, but neither was my Land Cruiser. I had the advantage of being able to drive my Cruiser balls out, whereas the guards would be hindered by the limited visibility dished out by my smoke screen. I knew it would take the guards roughly half a minute to grab the keys, get in, and start their pursuit, but by then I would be steaming at full speed down the highway which had a sweeping curve roughly a mile past the VCP. This curve was the prime spot to disperse my second round of countermeasures, homemade tire deflation devices in the shape of stars.

I had carefully designed and made each star myself and its configuration ensured that one prong was always pointed up, no matter how it landed. Every prong on the stars was a hollow tube sharpened to a point. I had engineered a break away crux at the base of each prong to better deflate a tire so, as the star was picked up by the tire, the prong penetrating the rubber would cleanly break off, leaving its hollow shaft buried to release its air pressure with greater efficiency.

It was just past 1200 hours as I entered the border crossing with unnoticeable caution, and alertness.

– Collins Rhōg

Cambire, The Story continues in the SedonaEye.com.

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