“Okay, but how does that concern us?” the tattooed lady asked.
“We heard one of the men, an Iranian national, tell his friend that a truck carrying some nuclear material along with a load of Pits was going to be attacked when it reached the Atlanta area later this evening. He went on to say the material would then be activated.”
Tom looked at the driver. “The FBI has been notified and will be working with the State Troopers. Of course, for security purposes, the police were only told about a possible hijacking attempt, not about the cargo.”
“Good,” Tattoo said, again glancing at her watch. “Well, let’s get started. By the time we perform our pre-op’s and initial communication checks, it’ll be time to roll.”
Tom motioned to Marc and Rebecca. “Follow me. I’ll show you where you’ll be riding.”
Trailing behind Tom, they made for the four vehicles lined up just outside of the building. Tom motioned to Rebecca. “You’ll be sitting right behind me in the front MGT, code named, G-1.” He then pointed toward the last vehicle in line. “Mr. LaRose, you’ll be sitting behind the driver in that one, G-4.” You’ll each have a side window seat and you’ll be equipped with helmets and headphones. We’ll instruct you how to use them. Remember the number one rule, if you see something, say something. Do not hesitate. Communicate your suspicions to the team leader immediately. The team leader will pass the information onto the mission coordinator who will decide what action, if any, will be taken. Do you understand?”
Rebecca and Marc nodded.
The truck drivers climbed into their respective cabs, then the security personnel got into their assigned transporters. Along with the driver, there were three security people assigned to each MGT. Like Marc and Rebecca, everyone was outfitted with helmets, a set of headphones and mikes. All the security officers carried a nine-millimeter Glock sidearm neatly secured in its holster, and except for the driver, the remaining officers also carried sub-machine guns that, to Marc, looked surprisingly like Glock pistols on steroids. He recognized the guns as the new APC-9Ks, Austrian-made automatic weapons capable of firing over a thousand rounds per minute with a single pull of the trigger. Marc figured from the size of their magazines, they each carried thirty rounds. Each member of the detail also carried extra magazines on their belts.
Thirty rounds fired at full automatic could be mistaken for a man zipping his fly, Marc mused. He sat behind the driver and Tom sat in the front passenger seat. He saw Tom glance at his watch.
After calling for radio checks to make sure communications between the vehicles were operating properly, Marc heard someone, apparently the mission coordinator, call for the lead MGT, code named G-1, carrying Rebecca, and the first tractor-trailer truck, code named T-1, to start out. G-2 fell in behind the lead semi.
A long five minutes later, the same voice came over the radio with the command for the second semi, T-2, and its accompanying security vehicles, G-3 and G-4 to move out.
By the time the second semi with Marc’s MGT had cleared the Site, he noted that the lead truck with its accompanying security vehicles had been swallowed up in the darkness of the unlit country highway. From the limited radio chatter advising of each semi’s progress, Marc knew Rebecca was somewhere up ahead.
Fifteen minutes passed and Marc’s section of the convoy was rolling through the town of Beech Island with its family-owned food markets, laundromats and gas stations displaying the now familiar metal security grids over their windows. A short while later, the procession turned onto the four-lane ring road that took them around the city of Augusta. Despite the melee that had occurred at the Savannah River Golf Links earlier in the day, the city looked to have returned to somewhere near normal. Few cars were on the road and the streetlights cast their usual yellow glow. Most of the houses were darkened, their inhabitants having turned in for the night. Marc watched his unit’s semi, T-2, lumbering ahead as it drifted onto I-20, the interstate that would take them to the Atlanta Metro area, two and half hours to the west.
Marc found riding in the Mobile Guardian Transporter fairly comfortable, but he knew the vehicle was not built for its accommodations. It was built to protect a lethal cargo, probably the world’s deadliest, from falling into the wrong hands. Although the MGT’s exterior appeared somewhat odd at first glance, given its wide axles and low roofline, riding in it gave Marc the impression that it was heavy and sturdy. The rhythmic thumping of the vehicle’s thick, oversized tires on the concrete pavement was muted and hardly perceptible. When the driver needed to accelerate, the MGT’s engine responded effortlessly with minimum engine noise.
Inside the vehicle were three rows of seats. The front passenger seat was for Tom, his submachine gun lying across his lap. Marc sat in the second row of seats behind Charlie, the driver. Another agent named Glen rode on the seat beside him. Tyrone, the lone African American in the group, rode on a single seat behind Marc. Tyrone appeared to be in charge of a stack of gear stashed in the corner next to his seat, probably more armament or firefighting equipment, Marc figured. Although the vehicle’s windows were tinted, their configuration allowed for a mostly unobstructed 360° view around the vehicle.
On the road, everyone spoke into their microphones. Whatever was said was heard by everyone, including those in the other MGT’s, plus the occupants of the semis. So chatter amongst the crews was discouraged and held to a minimum.
The night was clear and with a full moon, visibility was excellent. The traffic conditions were perfect to transport a truckload of nuclear weapons over interstate highways.
Although the speed limit on the open road was seventy, the convoy moved along at a steady sixty-five miles per hour, the standard limit for Department of Energy transporters. Traffic was moderate, allowing for a relatively steady stream of cars, vans and tractor-trailer trucks to move past the convoy. Marc kept an eye on the line of traffic as it passed by him, alert to anything suspicious. The trouble was, he wasn’t completely sure what something suspicious might look like.
An hour into the trip, Marc saw a road sign indicating the exit for Lake Oconee. As the convoy passed by, he noticed the convergence of the on and off ramps was lit-up from the lights of various eateries and gas stations that dotted the area.
A perfect location for anyone watching and waiting for a particular vehicle to pass by.
As the convoy re-entered the darkness of the open road, Marc’s mind drifted back to the events of the day and what had brought him to where he was, traveling to Atlanta in the middle of the night in a Department of Energy security vehicle. Despite the long day at the golf course and the ensuing terrorist attack, then his trip to the irrigation plant with Rebecca, Marc had to force his senses to stay sharp. Following a truck carrying a load of triggering devices for the world’s most powerful nuclear bombs had really put a cap on his day. He suspected however that this day was far from over.
Outside of the occasional “Radio Check,” initiated by the mission control officer wherein the commander of each vehicle in the convoy replied with the standard “10-4,” the ride to Atlanta seemed to proceed smoothly. That was, until they were about a half hour east of the city when a semi, hauling an unmarked trailer passed Marc’s MGT, then changed lanes and slid in between his vehicle and their assigned semi, T-2.
Before Tom could communicate the issue to G-1 and the lead MGT, another semi passed them at a high rate of speed. Charlie calmly steered their vehicle into the passing lane and slowly worked his way past the intruding semi, reclaiming the position directly behind the tractor trailer they were guarding, T-2.
“Fucking truckers. Some of them think they rule the road,” Charlie blurted into his microphone.
“Hey, watch what you say about us truckers,” a female voice came back over the radio. Marc recognized the voice as the driver of T-1, the one with the daisy tattoos.
A minute later, the voice of the mission control officer came on the air. “All units, the city of Atlanta’s coming up in just a few. You’r
e familiar with the drill. Stay sharp. Stay alert.”
Marc felt his MGT decrease its speed as the convoy entered the outer band of Atlanta’s city limits. Despite the hour, the night sky burned with yellow light that reflected off the low hanging clouds. Years of experience sitting surveillances, first as a state police investigator looking for criminal suspects, then to the garden variety marital complaints in his role as a PI, Marc was a veteran, always looking for that something, that one thing that seemed out of place. Despite this, Marc was keenly aware he was operating in a completely different environment compared to the sparsely populated Adirondacks of upstate New York.
One thing remained the same, however. Small time burglars and cheating husbands as well as professional thieves and gangsters all eventually made the same mistake. As hard as some may try, something made them stand out from their surroundings. A lit cigarette in a dark corner, exhaust rising from the tailpipe of a parked car on a cold night, a clear windshield on a vehicle parked in a light rain, even fresh tire tracks in the snow. Except for the tracks in the snow, these were the kind of signs that Marc was looking for tonight in Atlanta, Georgia in mid-April.
The convoy continued deep toward the heart of the Atlanta Metropolis. Despite the hour, there seemed to be an unending stream of lights from cars, trucks and buses crisscrossing the bridges above and below the interstate highway.
The crackle of Marc’s headset brought him back to the moment. It was the pilot of the DOE helicopter flying somewhere above.
“Mission control, you have a disabled fourteen-wheeled tanker partially blocking the right lane at the I-20, route 401 interchange causing a backup. Someone’s put out a line of flares. Looks like you’ll be down to one lane, westbound, for a few hundred yards.”
Over the report, Marc recognized the sound of the accompanying helicopter’s blades slapping the air as it followed the path of the convoy from overhead.
A moment later, Marc heard the voice of mission control, “Roger that, H-1. G-1, did you copy that?”
“Roger that, brake lights up ahead.”
From G-1’s reported location, Marc estimated his half of the convoy was about a quarter mile behind the lead semi that was slowly closing in on the reported disabled tanker truck. Although disabled trucks were a common sight along any interstate, Marc also understood the role that bad actors could employ using such a tactic to their advantage.
Ahead of his MGT, Marc noticed there was a red cast in the night air made by the reflection of brake lights from the line of vehicles ahead. The ripple effect of the slowing vehicles was making its way through the line of traffic to Marc’s location.
As Charlie slowed their MGT to a crawl, Marc’s attention was suddenly diverted outside the vehicle, off to his right. Looking past Officer Glen, he noticed the darkened shape of a sedan parked in an empty lot behind a warehouse that was adjacent to the interstate. A security light at the far end of the lot revealed the silhouette of the seemingly innocent vehicle. But it was the flash of light coming from the back seat of the sedan, its side window partially open, that grabbed Marc’s attention. As his MGT slowly worked its way adjacent to the lot, a lone puff of smoke drifted from the sedan’s partially opened rear window. Instantly, Marc recognized the car. It was the vehicle the man with the Meerschaum pipe had left in after speaking with Marc earlier in the day. But what could he be doing here in Atlanta at this hour? His thoughts immediately raced to the lead semi and Rebecca.
“Stop the convoy!” Marc tersely announced into his mike.
“What’s up G-4?” The voice of mission control instantly responded.
“Possible bogey in the parking lot off to our right-hand side. A lone black sedan. Male in the back seat made threatening remarks earlier today. Believe he could be coordinating an attack.”
Again, mission control acted immediately. “Mission Control to T-1 and T-2. Cease progress. Pull off the highway and stop. G-2, wait with T-1. G-4, wait with T-2. G-1, continue on and check on reported disabled vehicle ahead. Mr. LaRose, are you still in sight of that bogey?”
“That’s affirmative. We just passed him. He’s approximately fifty yards to our rear,” Marc replied.
“The local police have been advised and will engage the subject.”
“10-4,” replied Marc.
Mission control was on the air. “H-1, did you copy? Do you have eyes on subject sedan?”
Marc again heard H-1’s rotors fighting the wind as the helicopter pilot keyed his mike. “Affirmative, but be advised, bogey appears to be on the move.”
Marc craned his neck and scanned the parking lot from his vehicle’s rear window. Although the sedan’s headlights had not been activated, Marc could see through the chain link fencing that separated the parking lot from the interstate highway. Its dark silhouette was indeed moving slowly along the rear of the warehouse.
Mission control came back on the air, “G-4, Mr. LaRose, the Georgia State Patrol has been made aware of the situation. They are dispatching a unit. They advised they will arrive in your area in approximately five minutes.
“10-4,” Marc responded. Trouble was, Marc knew the sedan could be long gone in five minutes. “Charlie, stop this thing or we’re going to lose him.”
Charlie’s head turned toward Tom in the passenger seat, apparently looking for some direction from the officer in charge of their MGT.
Marc opened his side door. “Charlie, stop this thing. Now!” Marc yelled again, removing his helmet and laying it on his seat.
Tom gave Charlie a nod of approval. As the vehicle slowed to a crawl, Marc jumped out and onto the pavement. He quickly caught his balance, then ran around the rear of the still-moving MGT. Keeping low, Marc made his way off the side of the roadway toward the chain link fence. Just then, the driver of a vehicle traveling behind Marc’s MGT blinked his headlights in an apparent expression of confusion about someone running across the lane of traffic in front of him.
At least he didn’t lay on his horn. That would’ve definitely attracted the attention of the Meerschaum man, Marc thought, as he continued toward the fence. Through the links of the fence, Marc could see the outline of the sedan as it slowly continued in his direction.
Marc crouched down along the fence line, which appeared to be about six feet high. He knew he could easily scale the fence, but that could expose him to anyone in the sedan.
Suddenly there was a screeching of tires, then the sickening sound of crunching metal a few car-lengths behind Marc’s MGT. Apparently, someone had rear-ended another vehicle in the line. Noticing the outline of the sedan had come to a halt, Marc took advantage of the distraction and quickly scaled the fence, then dropped to the other side.
Marc lowered himself in the cover of thick weeds growing along the fence line. Scanning the mostly deserted lot, he estimated the sedan was about thirty yards away. It remained still, the driver apparently distracted by the accident. Adding to the confusion was the sound of multiple car horns. Because the accident had blocked the only open lane, the already slow traffic had come to a dead stop. The chorus of horns increased as the ripple of traffic behind the accident began to take the shape of a single lane parking lot. A few people got out of their vehicles, some to help with the accident, some anxiously searching for a way to get around it.
As Marc lay among the weeds surveying his dilemma, he heard, “Marc, what’s your situation?” It was the voice of mission control coming through his earpiece. Although he had removed his helmet, he’d left his headphone attached.
“Still have bogey in sight. Will keep you advised.”
“Georgia State Patrol advises their unit has been delayed due to their involvement in an automobile accident. They are in the process of dispatching another unit.”
“10-4,” Marc quietly acknowledged.
Fuck’s sake, tell me this can’t get any worse.
Marc carefully raised his head above the level of the weeds to get a view of the sedan. It had again begun its slow procession in his d
irection. When Marc repositioned his arms in anticipation of moving toward the sedan, his hand brushed against a metal object in the grass. It was a length of pipe. He grasped it and pulled it toward him. It felt cold, like a piece of steel, and about three feet in length. There was one thing he couldn’t figure out, why the sedan was moving at all? A quick glance toward the interstate gave him a clue. The reflection of brakes lights from the cars on the interstate was partially obstructed by a large billboard that Marc had not noticed before.
When he looked back, the sedan was now about fifty feet away. With the ambient light cast by the line of stopped traffic, he had a partial view of the face of the man in the back seat. It was indeed the Meerschaum pipe man. As another plume of white smoke escaped the partially opened rear window, Marc noticed the driver, sitting directly in front of the Meerschaum man. He appeared to have one hand on the steering wheel while his other hand held something close to his face. Whatever the driver was holding seemed to emit a green glow that gave the chauffeur’s face an eerie expression.
“What the hell is he holding, a cell phone, maybe?” Marc muttered to himself as the driver continued to inch his vehicle closer to where Marc was lying.
Through the din of blaring car horns, Marc could hear the sedan’s tires interacting with loose impediments that had been strewn around the parking lot. Through the vehicle’s side window, he saw that the driver’s face was locked in a sinister expression. When the vehicle came to a point where it appeared to have cleared the billboard, it came to a stop. It was then that Marc saw a hand reach up from the back seat and hover over the driver’s left shoulder. It was the hand of the Meerschaum man. He about to signal the driver to do something, possibly with the device the driver was holding in his hand. But what?
Not waiting to find out, Marc scrambled to his feet. Clenching the pipe in one hand, he sprinted toward the sedan. When he was just a few feet from the vehicle, Marc saw the driver’s surprised expression, his face still backlit by the device’s green light. Wasting no time for introductions, Marc, grasped the iron pipe with both hands in a classic baseball grip and swung with everything he had. The driver’s side window immediately shattered as the pipe passed through and made hard contact with the side of the driver’s face.
Masters of Terror: A Marc LaRose Mystery Page 21
