To live outside the law you must be honest.
Covert Operation......"an activity or activities of the United States government to influence the political, economic or military conditions abroad, where it is intended that the role of the United States will not be apparent or acknowledged publicly."
Teco was laboring over the words, trying to read between the lines. He was concerned, ever since he established his mobile workspace. It contained all the ingredients that he had often heard mentioned in Government reports as “bomb making supplies”. A drill press, numeric controlled lathe, saws of various configurations that would cut and shape metal and wood. A compressed air device that could send a three and half inch projectile six hundred feet in three seconds. A black powder device that could insert a projectile in hardened concrete. Pipe, propane canisters, and assorted brazing and welding apparatus and oxy-acetylene cutting torches. He had, quite frankly, all the tools available to make an exact copy of each and every tool he owned and then some. About the only thing he couldn’t make was a watch, not because he didn’t have the tools, but because he didn’t have the patience.
He did have watches, and timers, some mechanical ones for timing how long he cooked his eggs, and some electronic ones for controlling the microwave cooking device which heated most of his meals. He could stay at work for days in the trailer and it was always good to have a small refrigerator full of instant meals and a place to heat them.
"If they came for me today," he often told himself, "I would have trouble explaining why all this is necessary." “It’s the equivalent of a printing press. It’s as effective as printing money.” He would say. “I can pull this baby up to a broken rig on the highway, turn on the generator and my shop could turn new brake rotors, fix flats, install a GPS or burn you a new CD of your favorite country artist.” As he ran through the litany he realized the Government Agents would be impressed. Very impressed. They would want to see more, like a valid license, the amount and type of currency stored in the small corner safe, a registration certificate and a bill of laden. They might be real curious why he felt the need to move about constantly. He didn’t have an easy answer for that one.
Teco was a drifter, a loner, a one man show. It was dangerous to be about, in these dangerous times, as a loner. They could pick you up, park your rig at a rest area and it would take years before anyone even knew you disappeared. The way rigs moved in and out of the parking lot, you could leave it for six months before anyone would notice that one of tires might be a little low. Another three before it was flat. A rig with a flat, now that might raise some suspicion. The fact that the curtains were drawn on the sleeper cab, that wouldn’t be a problem. The only people that would notice, would be the chics making the rounds, knocking on the diesel tanks, looking for a warm spot and some ready cash.
How Teco came to this place in his life was no mystery. Three hundred thousand dollars will buy a lot of security if you work with your hands, and when you need a quick exit, selling your identity for that kind of money could be arranged. There would always be a market for a tight identity. Someone with a valid social security number, a passport, and a clean credit history. With fewer than ten phone calls he could broker YOUR identity. How much do you need? What denominations, whose currency? It could all be arranged.
Teco was a loner, but he knew how to get by. And when the shit hit the fan, he would be a survivor.