“Goddamn right!” Cutter said.
“Fantastic!” Bonnie agreed.
Barry handed her a film box. “Here’s the film you took of that firefight the other night, Bonnie. It’s intact except for our faces being censored.”
“Still shows all the gross stuff? All the shot-up bodies and all that?”
“Certainly,” Barry said with a smile. “I told you we’d be fair with you.”
“Fantastic!”
What the film held was scenes of truck-driving videos used as a training aid for SST drivers.
“Where do you think the terrorists will hit us, Barry?” George played his rehearsed part like a pro.
“Our intelligence picked up a communique giving us the exact location.” He pointed to a map. “Right here. In Kansas.” He grinned at Bonnie. “It’s going to be a bloodbath, Bonnie. And we’re not going to take any prisoners. Those orders come from the President of the United States. We’re going to kill them all. Any left alive will be tortured for information.”
“Fantastic!” Bonnie’s face was looking a little strained.
“Of course, you won’t want to see that,” Cutter said, straight-faced. “It’s very bloody. We use whips and electrical wires to various parts of the terrorist’s bodies.”
“Right.” Bonnie bobbed her head. “I understand.”
“Now, Bonnie,” George said, a fatherly tone in his words. “This is ultra top secret. None of this can leak out. It would ruin the President’s chances for reelection next year, and the party’s reputation forever. You understand?”
“Oh, yes, sir, Mr. Stanton.” She peered at the map again. Stuck her finger on the spot. “Right there, huh?” She looked at Barry.
“Right there, Bonnie. Once we get past that point, nothing can stop us. The Kansas Highway Patrol will be in on it. They want to kill those sorry bastards, too.”
“Right.” Goddamn pigs were the same all over the world, she thought. Bloodthirsty savages.
Barry put a hand on her shoulder. “I’m trusting you with top-secret operation orders, Bonnie.”
“Oh, you can trust me, Barry.”
“Right.”
“I have a question.” Bonnie moved closer, shoving a breast against Barry’s arm.
“Anything, Bonnie. You name it and I’m willing to share it with you.”
Cutter almost choked on that.
“Why will we be on secondary roads this time, and not on the interstate.”
“Because we want to make it easy for them, Bonnie. We have information that this group will be comprised of young terrorists. A lot of girls involved. Eighteen, nineteen years old. We like to take them that young. They last longer under intense torture. It’s a whole lot more fun.” He winked at Bonnie. “Some of the mercenaries are really looking forward to taking some of the girls alive. It’s a lot of fun to watch. You’ll love it.”
Bonnie looked like she’d just love to throw up. “So we move out in twenty-four hours, huh?”
“Twenty-four hours on the dot, Bonnie. You’d better get lots of rest. Cutter and I will be getting our rig ready and George will be interviewing this man.” Barry indicated an AF man who would soon be on a plane to Greece. “He’s in charge of the entire operation. So you’ll have the motel to yourself.”
Her face brightened. “Oh, I’ll be all right, Barry!”
Barry patted her shoulder. “Good. We sure wouldn’t want anything to happen to you. You’re a real patriotic young lady.”
Cutter did her best to keep a straight face.
“We’ll take the interstate down to Pueblo and pick up highway ninety-six east from there,” Barry told the group, minus Bonnie. He looked at Sergeant Gale. “You say our Miss Bonnie is burning up the phone lines?”
“If she holds that phone to her ear much longer, she’s going to have to have it surgically removed,” the sergeant confirmed. “She’s called Senator Clayton a dozen times. We’ve got a tap on Clayton’s phone. He’s arranging for a very unwelcome welcoming committee to stop your rig right here.” Gale marked the spot on the map.
“And she’s been in contact with Gene Forbes?” George asked.
“Yes,” Gale told him. “The head of your news department is up to his butt in this. He’ll be there with bells on, so to speak. Full camera crew. And”—he smiled—“the good senator will also be there. With a speech prepared, condemning the current administration and its horrible, terrible use of mercenaries to kill those wonderful sweet young terrorists. A team from the FBI has been alerted that Clayton’s group will be interfering in the transportation of legitimate military hardware. They’ll be there, in hiding.”
George’s smile was hard. “I love it,” he said, surprising them all. “I am opposed to the use of force when it is not necessary, but I am adamantly opposed to the news media compromising themselves for a political end. It’s positively disgraceful.”
None of the military people in the room trusted themselves to respond to that. And neither did Barry. None of them knew quite how to take George’s flip-flop.
“Cutter’s paper are ready?” Barry asked Barnett.
“She’s been an SST driver for two and a half years. The FBI couldn’t break her story now.”
Barry looked at his watch. After four in the morning. “I’m beat. We pull out in ten hours. I’m hitting the sack.”
Barry stood for a time in the cold night air. He had called Jackson, advising him of their plan. Jackson had loved it. All in all, a neat little operation.
Barry was still smiling as he went to sleep.
“You two take off,” Barry told George and Bonnie. “We’re picking up the mercenaries in Pueblo. We’ll meet you at the Kansas state line, on highway ninety-six.”
George walked away, toward his Bronco. Bonnie stood for a moment, looking at Barry.
“Something on your mind, Bonnie?”
“We all have to do what we think is right.”
“Oh, absolutely. No doubt about that.”
“Despite what might happen, Barry, I think you are a very brave man.”
“Thank you.”
She walked away. Barry watched her go. Still had a great ass.
“Let’s roll, Cutter.”
Rolling south on Interstate 25, Cutter said, “Are you anticipating any trouble on this run?”
Barry shook his head. “Not until after we kick the slats out from under Forbes, Clayton, and Little Miss Muffet.”
“That’s the way I see it. Now tell me your reasoning behind that.”
“I think the terrorist organizations around the world have a far greater number of supporters and sympathizers in this country than even you people realize. I think they have supporters in government, both elected and appointed, in civil service. They have them in the military, the police. And they’ve gotten wind that Senator Tim Clayton is about to put the skids under your group and me. The various terrorist groups want to see the U.S. humiliated, worldwide. And Forbes is so goddamn uncaring and Clayton so filled with self-righteousness neither of them know or care that they are playing right into the hands of the terrorists.”
“I couldn’t have put it better.”
“Thank you. It was rather good, wasn’t it?”
She muttered something under her breath and rolled her eyes.
Cutter took the wheel at Pueblo and rolled the rig on old 96 over to near the Kansas line. At Sheridan Lake, she turned the wheel over to Barry. A few minutes later, they picked up a tail: George and Bonnie. Barry waved them on ahead.
“I bet Bonnie is beginning to sweat just a little about right now, Cutter. She’s beginning to get it through her head that is not the same Bronco.”
“She must be stupid.”
“No. Just not very observant. Lots of folks look at things but never see them. She saw two radios. She just now figured out they are two CBs.”
“Where do you think they’ll hit us, Barry?”
“About halfway between Scott City and Ness City. We ought to b
e hearing something from your people at any moment.”
Their military radio began speaking to them about fifteen minutes later.
“Large crowd gathered on the east side of Dighton, Dog.”
“Hell, that’s Jackson!” Barry said, startled. He picked up the mike. “You here for the show, Jackson?”
“Moral and official support. I am still with Treasury, remember? And we take a dim view of people intercepting shipments of government weapons.”
“It’s so nice to have you people on our side, Jackson. All your official badges and stuff.”
“Don’t overdo it, Dog. You’re making me ill.”
“Tell me what to expect.”
“A large crowd of Clayton supporters. Lots of antiwar signs. Looks like something from the sixties.”
“Do I have your permission to run over the whole damned bunch of them?” Barry winked at Cutter, anticipating Jackson’s reply.
“Jesus Christ, no, Dog! Control yourself. Stick with the original plan … ” Then he realized Barry was kidding him. “You jerk!”
“Passing through Grigston, Jackson.”
“You’ve got about fifteen miles to go. They’ll stop you on the east side of town, about two miles out. All our people are in position. Secret Service is awfully jumpy about this, Dog.”
Cutter grabbed the mike. “What in the hell is the Secret Service doing there?”
“Clayton announced his bid for the presidency about six hours ago. In Kansas City.”
“But he isn’t from Missouri or Kansas.”
“Trying hard for the midwest vote. I’m out now, gang. Stay cool and with the plan.”
Barry held the rig at a steady 55 mph. He held to the speed limit through the little town of Dighton. On the outskirts of town, they could see the lights of the huge crowd, or mob, waiting for them, blocking the road. Barry brought the rig to a halt and rolled down his window as a Kansas Highway Patrolman walked up to him.
“What the hell’s going on, Officer?”
“Beats the hell out of me, driver. About ninety minutes ago I got a call that presidential candidate, Tim Clayton, was here, with a mob. The secret service is here, all pissed-off and jumpy. Bunch of damn hippies have crawled out of the woodwork and joined in. I thought all those people were dead! Or grown up or something.”
“I still don’t understand what we have to do with Tim Clayton. Hell, I don’t even like the bastard!”
“I heard that.” He looked up at Barry. “Are you carrying armed mercenaries?”
Barry looked startled. “Mercenaries! Hell, no! I’m pulling for the Transportation Department, U.S. government. We’re SST. Taking a shipment of weapons and other materials to Fort Drum, New York.”
“Can I see your papers?”
“You sure can.”
The crowd had pushed closer, with the KHP leading the way, followed by the secret service, who was followed by a smug-looking Tim Clayton.
Both Barry and Cutter climbed down. The patrolman gave Cutter a startled look, appraised her and gave her a ten and a half, then reluctantly returned his gaze to Barry.
“Is that your partner?”
“Sure is. We’ve been together for over two years.”
“There they are!” Tim Clayton yelled. “Government employed murderers and hit men …” He looked at Cutter. “… Ah, hit people!”
Camera crews and reporters, from all networks, broke through and crowded around Barry and Cutter and the highway cop.
“That man’s damn fool!” Cutter said, looking at the nattily dressed Clayton. “What the hell is a hit people?”
“Murderers and killers!” Clayton shouted. “The President’s goons and stooges. Violations of human rights and constitutional due process. Now you all see to what levels this present administration has dragged the flag… ”
Someone handed him a bullhorn.
“… People of America!” Clayton shouted. “Open your eyes and view the horror this administration has sunk to …”
“Is that proper English?” Barry whispered to the patrolman.
“I don’t think so.”
“Friends of humanity and supporters of the democratic way!” Clayton shouted. “Surround this killer truck and help me strip away the evil shrouds of wanton destruction.”
Somebody boosted Clayton up onto the hood of the Kenworth and tossed him the bullhorn.
“I have it on the finest information possible,” Clayton yelled, “that this truck is carrying armed mercenaries. This truck, and others like it, roam the nation, highway thugs and bullies, picking fights and killing people!”
A collective OOOHHH went up from the hand picked crowd.
Barry stepped forward. Bonnie noticed then that he had not shaved in several days, and his was a naturally heavy beard. His face was shadowed. Where he usually wore cowboy boots, he now wore tennis shoes. His cowboy hat had been replaced with a Greek seaman’s hat. And he was wearing glasses. She couldn’t remember ever seeing him in glasses.
Bonnie O’Neal, super supporter of Tim Clayton, got a sudden desperate feeling that, both literally and figuratively, she’d been had by one Barry the Dog.
“Friends of a free and open America!” Clayton shouted through the bullhorn. “Supporters of due process. Champions of the depressed … ah, oppressed, the downtrodden, the homeless, the world’s … ah …”
“Huddled masses?” Barry prompted.
“Shut your goddamn mouth, you … you … truck driver!”
“I thought I was a baby killer.”
“You are!” He lifted the bullhorn to his lips. “Brothers and sisters!” Clayton spoke with reverence in his voice. “Hear my words, all you who have gathered here this momentous evening …”
“I lift my lamp beside the golden door,” Barry said.
Clayton lowered the bullhorn and glared at Barry. “Will you, for Christ sake, shut your damn face!”
“Hold it!” Jackson’s voice came through a bullhorn. “Agent Jackson, Treasury Department. Just stand back and clear a path.”
“It’s about time,” Barry muttered.
16
The crowd parted, reluctantly, and Jackson stepped up to Barry and Cutter and the Kansas Highway Patrolman.
“What the devil is going on here? I was in the pace vehicle with this SST. We lost contact.”
“I’m sorry,” Barry said. “I had to stop. This mob was blocking the road.”
“And that yoyo up there had to make a speech,” the KHP said, pointing at Clayton.
Jackson turned to a young secret service agent. “Why has this been permitted? This rig is carrying weapons and decoding equipment to Fort Drum, New York.”
“I don’t know,” the secret service man said, disgust in his voice. “Where he goes”—he jerked his thumb toward Clayton—“we gotta go.”
Clayton tried to get down from the hood of the Kenworth and almost fell. Barry and Cutter had to help him down.
“Get your hands off me!” Clayton yelled, shaking them loose once he was on the ground. He faced Jackson and several FBI personnel who had gathered around, including one woman agent. She had looked at Cutter and the women had exchanged winks. “I want you agents to surround this truck and break that seal. This truck is carrying mercenaries.”
“Oh, crap!” Barry said. “This rig is sealed. People would die in there. They’d use up the air in less than half an hour.”
“You see!” Clayton shouted. “He’s afraid to open the trailer We’ve got them, people! We’ve trapped them all in a dirty lie!”
A tremendous roar went up from the crowd.
Barry waited until the cheering had died down. He looked at Clayton. “I can’t pop those seals, mister-whoever-you-are. But if this Treasury man or one of these FBI people wants to open it, that’s their concern.”
“Open the doors!” Clayton roared.
He turned to Jackson. “Are you in charge here?”
“If I were, I’d give you a ticket for obstructing traffic and cr
eating a disturbance.”
“Cretin!” Clayton hissed. He turned to an officer of the Kansas Highway Patrol. “Surround the truck!”
“I have no reason to surround the truck, Senator Clayton. It’s a truck—that’s it as far as I’m concerned. I have no evidence to show otherwise and absolutely no right to detain this vehicle.”
Clayton looked at one of his secret service guards. “Open the trailer doors!”
“I don’t have the right to do that, Senator. We’re here to guard you.”
“All right, all right!” Jackson stepped in. “I’ll take responsibility for breaking the seals.” He looked at Barry. “Let me see the manifest.”
“He’s got them.” Barry pointed to the young trooper.
Papers in hand, Jackson moved to the rear of the trailer, the crowd moving with him. The lights from the TV people illuminated the weird scene.
Clayton began jumping up and down. “Draw your guns! Draw your guns!”
“I thought you didn’t like guns?” Jackson reminded him.
“This is different. Our lives are at stake here.”
“Right,” Jackson said.
“Senator Clayton,” a reporter from another network asked, “just where did you get your information about there being armed mercenaries in this trailer?”
“From a confidential source. I can’t divulge that information.”
But he was looking straight at Gene Forbes, who was looking straight at Bonnie O’Neal, who wished the earth would suddenly open and swallow her.
Jackson opened an envelope from the packet he’d taken from the KHP and stepped up to the trailer doors.
“Draw your guns,” Clayton screamed. “Everybody get down. Those are mad-dog mercenaries in there. They have nothing to lose. They’ll kill us all.”
Clayton grabbed the KHP officer by his jacket. “Draw your guns, man!”
Clayton’s followers had hit the ground, hiding behind trees, in the ditches, behind vehicles, all with eyes wide.
“Looks like a bunch of owls,” the KHP officer commented. “Oh, all right, Senator.” He waved to his people. All four of them. “Possible combat situation. But highly unlikely,” he added.
18 Wheel Avenger Page 12
