Collins Rhōg

Sedona AZ (October 22, 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, love, 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 4 –

Downshifting the Land Cruiser into second gear, I felt the truck instantly slow, like someone jerking back hard on the reins. My heart started to ache again and my stomach was uneasy. Looking in the rear view mirror, I saw the traffic spilling in behind me. I was locked in the tube, there was no going back now.

Prepping for probable action, I flipped the first toggle switch to a smokescreen countermeasure, which routed power to the second toggle. An LED above that switch lit up, indicating it was now energized and ready to go when needed. I had wired all the Toyota’s anti pursuit countermeasures with tandem switches to prevent accidental activation.

The sun was relentless, baking everything slowly. Looking ahead, I saw the rows of cars in front of me blurred by the continuous flow of heat waves coming off of the tarmac. The line moved slowly while each vehicle was scrutinized as I made sure to keep the Land Cruiser in the right hand lane. The floorboards of the old truck were soaked with heat from the engine and were hot to the touch. Every pore of my body was tingling with that uncomfortable feeling one gets just prior to breaking a sweat, and once I had broken that sweat it poured out of me with a fervor. I could feel my wet shirt firmly stuck to my back, and my pants sticking to my legs.

“Why the hell doesn’t someone invent a seat that is open aired on your back,” I thought, wiping the sweat from my face with a handkerchief. Like a time lapse crop of mushrooms, new droplets of sweat sprouted instantly…I was miserable with discomfort, but knew that the heat would lessen suspicions as to why I was sweating so much.

“Where do you call home?” the guard blurted out with sincere rudeness. This is the same line that every guard at every border crossing uses. I’m sure it must be in their textbook protocols under Meet and Greet and Always Ask.

“Where do you call home?” Every single time I hear that question I want to say with a smile “where the heart is” but I didn’t dare, not today, and answered calmly with complete eye contact, disregarding the ache in my chest, “Poulsbo, Washington.”

The guard asked for identification and I handed him my passport; it was a flawlessly executed fake. My alias was William Terzi and I had used it on several occasions.

“How long have you been in Canada?” he asked, while thumbing through the passport.

“Twelve days,” I replied. “I have family in Kelowna and am bringing back twenty four cans of surplus spray paint which I bought on sale while visiting and that’s it…other than this iced tea,” and held up the bottle.

I had made so many crossings that I knew the next question would have been “Why were you in Canada?” followed by “Are you bringing anything back with you from Canada?” I also knew a record was being displayed on the guard’s monitor showing every time William Terzi had crossed back into the U.S. so he would know that I should be familiar with the Vehicle Check Point process, and not question me heading off his questions. I had tested what to say and what not to say on several occasions while crossing. A bit of small talk is alright, although too much and you will raise suspicions.

“May I look in the back of your vehicle,” the guard asked as he walked up to the clamshell hatch on the Land Cruiser.

“Absolutely,” I replied, “it’s unlocked.” The guard fumbled around a bit with my camp gear in the back and then closed the  hatch.

“Is your license plate TSE 664?” the guard asked from the back of the Cruiser.

I had no idea what my bloody plate number was but the truck was registered to William Terzi.

“If that’s what it says, then that’s what it is,” I replied.

The guard moved up from the rear of my truck and went into his booth. I could see him scribbling on a bright orange piece of paper about the size of a post-it note, “Bloody all,” I said under my breath, knowing what was to come.

He returned to my Toyota and handed back the passport, “Take this slip of paper and pull into bay #3.”

“What!” I exclaimed. “Are you for real? I’m being searched because I don’t know my damn license plate number!” I was pissed, though I knew that it wouldn’t help.

Exasperatedly I asked the guard, “Do you know your plate number?” but he just smiled and pointed to bay #3.

I fired up the diesel engine, “Alright! I know that you’re just doing your job,” thinking that would ease his mind a bit as I slipped the Land Cruiser into first gear, with a growl of her synchros.

“Have a nice day!” I said, and let the clutch out slowly, while turning my wheel hard to the right and activating switch number two on the smokescreen. I gave a polite wave, at the same time that I gave the truck a nice helping of throttle and popped the cruiser up onto the curb and barreled straight for the plate glass window, thick white smoke spilling out her tailpipe which skulked ominously about the area. I grabbed second gear with the stick shift that was hot to the touch, buried the throttle and crashed through the tempered glass wall, an invisible shroud that broke into thousands of pieces. Glass flew everywhere. I never looked back to see the guard who had hassled me, there was so much smoke that I wouldn’t have seen him anyway.

I could clearly see the guards inside, behind their polycarbonate divider, staring incredulously at me, one plumpy fellow was pointing and screaming, “What the…?!”  I knew that they couldn’t shoot me from behind the polycarbonate and thought it ironic that what was meant to protect them was actually protecting me.

The lobby was smooth with a tiled floor and the truck had no problem crossing it in record time. For some reason I noticed that my heart no longer ached and my stomach was fine, all of my senses were snapped to attention and because of my planning I didn’t have to think about what to do, I just did it. While crossing the lobby, I noticed two of the interior cameras panning around on me and thought it only polite to give a wave and a smile. It was just after I gave the cameras a wave, using only one finger, of course, that I saw the first round exit the truck’s windscreen. It passed inches from my right ear and into the glass. I knew it was the guard that I had wished to have a nice day.

I ducked down as three more rounds instantly pierced my windscreen in a four inch grouping, this time seeing a red mist in the air and blood splatter on the windshield just below the rear view mirror, although I felt nothing.

I bombed through the second wall which crashed down with more fury than the first. Glass was cascading off of the Toyota like I was driving through a waterfall. Nailing third gear, I cleared the building and the truck hopped off of the curb and back onto the road, lurching like a dog shaking water off its body. Accelerating, I watched the tachometer, then up-shifted to fourth, smoke still spilling out of the exhaust at a frenzied rate. I briefly had the urge to drop my TDD countermeasures, but I knew that, if it was done now, they could be avoided. To increase the chance of the countermeasures being useful, I had to wait until my pursuers would be up to speed, and, as of yet, there was no one behind me.

It took about 30 seconds or so till the cruiser was making better than 95 miles per hour. I was ringing its neck the whole time, it hardly complained and didn’t miss a beat. I checked the rear view mirror for pursuers and didn’t see any, just the Vehicle Check Point amidst thick white smoke and a thinner trail of white smoke trailing out behind me. I thought that it was odd that no one was following me, but didn’t complain.

I kept on trucking as the crossing became smaller in the distance. The Toyota just kissed triple digits on the speedometer when a glimpse in the rear view revealed a flurry of flashing lights breaking through the smoke, briefly identifying my distant pursuers until I rounded the corner on the highway and lost sight of them.

Now was the time for the Tire Deflation Devices. I knew my pursuers would be flying like bats out of hell as they rounded the corner so flipped the countermeasure toggle and engaged the switch. Looking in the rear view mirror, I could make out dozens of four pronged TDDs…stars just spilling out onto the roadway beneath the thick white smoke which settled over them caressing them from view. I laughed a bit out loud, thinking about the blokes hot on my trail amidst the most action they’d ever seen in their entire lives, only to have their experience quite literally deflated and brought to an abrupt end.

I drove another quarter mile and deactivated the smokescreen. I knew that when it came to escape and evasion, human nature, for those being pursued, usually dictates to take the first right. I knew that all border patrol agents knew this as well, as it was undoubtedly repetitiously pounded into their brains during classes on pursuing a suspect so I stuck to my plan and peeled off of the highway to the left, speeding up a desolate asphalt road with a 35 mile per hour speed limit as three quail barely escaped being run over.

My emergency lay up point was about 26 miles away. I felt I had evaded my pursuers for the moment, but knew it was only a matter of time before they realized what I had done.

– Collins Rhōg

Cambire, The Story continues here.

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