And the terrorists would also know the custom Kenworth, more than $900,000 worth of truck, was thickly armor plated and any conventional hijacking was impossible. And since the terrorists wanted the cargo intact, the use of rockets would be ruled out—too much danger of the fuel blowing and taking the trailer with it.
And there were other points that Barry and Cutter had very carefully gone over with Jackson and George and Bonnie: the terrorists had tried repeatedly to run them off the road. They had failed every attempt, with a heavy loss of life. Being terrorists, the end justified any means. Barry had no family to worry about; that could not be said for any of the others.
George had been appalled. “Are you saying that the terrorists might actually think of doing harm to my mother! Good Lord, man! The woman is nearly seventy!”
Cutter had shaken her head at the man’s naivete. Barry had sighed and said, “George, you told me you’d been in Lebanon. Tell me what you saw over there. Or did you just look at the scenes without them really registering in your brain?”
“But that was over there! This is America. We have laws and rules and …”
“Damn it, George!” Barry roared at the man. “When in God’s name are you going to climb down off that lofty moral perch you’ve placed yourself on and tell the American people what terrorism is all about and support this government’s efforts to fight it?”
George had fixed his semifamous steely look on Barry. It was wasted. Barry had never been intimidated by any member of the press and damn few other people in his life. George dropped his gaze.
“That’s what you want from us, isn’t it, Barry? You want the press—the national press, especially the broadcast media—to take a hard-line stance against terrorism.”
“That’s right, George. You’re right.”
“You want us to advocate and give our blessings to a no-holds, kick, gouge, bite and stomp, gutter type of warfare against the world’s terrorist groups!”
“That’s right, George!”
“It’ll never happen.”
“Why not? Terrorism—unchecked—is going to touch hundreds of lives in every country of the world. Men, women, kids. Young or old. George, I am fully aware that the majority of the press will never go for what I’m advocating. But if just a few would stand up and say: ‘We’ve had it! That’s it! We’re urging the world’s law enforcement personnel and military forces to fight the terrorists in the same manner as they wage war against the innocents of this world: down in the gutter, using gutter tactics.’ ”
George grunted. A smile had played across the man’s lips. “You should have been a politician, Barry. You’re very convincing. But the answer is still no. I am going to file a report on terrorism in this country, and it’s going to be a hard-nosed look at it. But I will not sanction lawlessness to combat lawlessness!”
Barry looked at him, a smile on his lips. “Then why don’t you go public with what Cutter and me are doing?”
George had walked away.
Jackson had said, “The Air Force has already assigned people to keep an eye on Cutter’s family. I’ll arrange for people to keep an eye on George and Bonnie’s close relatives!”
“It won’t be enough, Jackson.”
“I know it.”
“Don’t you believe for an instant the terrorist groups working in America haven’t pinpointed George and Bonnie’s relatives for strikes.”
“I am fully aware of that, Dog.”
“You sure have started taking a hard line during the past ten days,” Cutter noted.
“Yeah,” Jackson said. “I didn’t tell either of you. My oldest kid’s in the Navy. Was in the Navy. He was in a cafe in Manila when it was hit by terrorists. Looked like he was going to make it. He died four days ago.”
They linked up with Interstate 80 and rolled west. In Ohio, the Interstate system got all screwed up. Interstate 80 melted into nothing and changed to 76. A few miles later, 76 just quit and 71 took its place.
“What the hell happened to the interstate system around here?” Bonnie radioed.
“I don’t know,” Barry said. “Maybe they changed engineers.”
“Ought to be a story in there somewhere.” George took the mike.
“When you get through with this one.”
“That’s a big ten-four!” the nationally known TV commentator laughed.
They rolled on through the night, hitting snow just west of Akron.
“The hell with this!” Barry said. “I’m heading south.”
When 76 died an unnatural death, Barry headed south on 71, rolling through the early morning hours. He edged south and west, taking numerous two-lanes, toward Dayton. It was slow going, the snow still hanging with them, mixed with freezing rain.
Barry radioed Wright-Patterson AFB and told security they were coming in for some rest and food.
Security waved them on through and they followed a Jeep to temporary quarters and some hot showers and hot food.
Cutter shook him awake some seven hours later.
Barry was instantly awake. “What’s the matter?”
He was reaching for his jeans and boots.
Cutter shoved him back down on the bed. “Nothing’s the matter.” She slipped into bed with him. “Now.”
“Don’t look so damned smug,” Barry told her.
They were heading south, to eventually hit Interstate 40 and take the southern route to the coast. The weather reports stated that a massive storm was nearly paralyzing everything north and west of Arkansas.
“I’m not smug. Just content.”
“Don’t get emotional about me, Cutter,” Barry warned her. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”
She shifted in the custom seat and stared at him. “I’m career Air Force, Barry. I’m going to stay with special ops just as long as they’ll have me. And I’m going to stay single. So relax.”
Barry allowed himself a smile. “And enjoy?”
“You certainly seemed to.”
“I can’t argue that.”
Still snowing but not sticking, and the further south they rolled, it was less snow and more rain. Weather reports stated it was a massive front, and it was stalled, producing snow and rain from California to Ohio.
“How long is this mess going to last?” Cutter asked.
“A couple of days, at least. Maybe longer. Yeah. I know what you’re thinking: ideal weather for a strike.”
Cutter looked at a road sign. “I seem to recall there are some lonely stretches between Nashville and Memphis.”
“There’s a dandy stretch of interstate right up ahead.” They were just a few miles north of the Daniel Boone National Forest. “About twenty-five miles of nothing.” His eyes flicked to his mirror. “And that damn van is still hanging back behind George.”
“How long’s it been back there?”
“I picked it up just south of Lexington. But I can’t tell how many people are in it.”
Cutter lifted the mike to the military radio. “George? See if you or Bonnie can tell how many people are in that van behind you.”
“I spotted it some time back,” Bonnie radioed. “A driver and a passenger is all I can make out. Both men.”
“Tell her we’re pulling over to the shoulder. They do the same. Let’s see what happens.”
Nothing. The van rolled on past. Neither man looked at the Kenworth as they drove by.
“Could be something, could be nothing.” Cutter vocalized the frustration. “And with those damned smoked windows I couldn’t tell if there was anyone else in the van.”
Barry waited for fifteen minutes, parked alongside the Interstate. George eased the Bronco up close and he and Bonnie got out, climbing up into the truck and sitting on the big bunk in the sleeper.
The temperature was falling fast and the weather was turning just plain lousy. Rain lashed at the truck and visibility was dropping fast.
“The problem with being bait,” Bonnie said, “is that you never know when the rat is going
to try to steal the cheese.”
“Or how,” Cutter added.
The two women had been getting along better, or at least trying to.
“If that van held hostiles,” Barry said, “I think they’ll hit us just up ahead.” He twisted in the seat and looked at Bonnie. “You drive the Bronco, Bonnie. I want George free to lend us a hand if it comes to that. And it probably will, for you both are marked as being with us. But I warn you now: if you have any doubts, get clear and stay clear. If you exchange lead with these people, they’ll mark you down as their enemy, now and forever.”
“We’ll be right behind you,” Bonnie said.
George and Bonnie back in their Bronco, Barry said, “Take the wheel, Cutter. I got a bad taste in my mouth about this.”
They pulled out onto the slab. There was no other traffic. The police band scanner’s red light stopped.
“Couple of eighteen-wheelers jackknifed on Seventy-five,” the voice of dispatch said. “Mt. Vernon exit. Southbound traffic is blocked.”
That exit was just about two miles behind them.
Cutter smiled grimly. “How convenient!”
Barry picked up his Uzi and chambered a round. “Let’s take it to them, Cutter.”
19
Bonnie had picked up the same state police transmission on her scanner.
Her eyes widened as she watched George twist in the seat and pick up one of the M-16s from the rear. “We’re press, George! We’re here to report the news, not make it, remember?”
George filled the chamber with a live one and set the fire selector switch on rock and roll. “I also have this quaint desire to stay alive, Bonnie. I think it would be very difficult to report the news from the grave.”
“You’ve made up your mind, haven’t you?”
“No. I have not. Drive, Bonnie.”
The rain was whipping down in heavy sheets, the wipers on both 18-wheeler and Bronco set on full speed as the small convoy rolled along at 40 mph.
“We’re looking at about ten or twelve miles of nothing,” Barry said. “They’ll hit us any second.” He had slipped into rain gear and lowered his window. “Get in the left lane and advise Bonnie to do the same.”
“I’m sitting here with a madman!” Bonnie said, after receiving the transmission. “He’s sitting in the back with the rear window lowered. He’s armed himself with a machine gun!”
Both Barry and Cutter grinned. “He’s coming around,” Barry shouted, over the rush of wind and rain through the open window.
Cutter nodded. “Right up ahead, Dog.”
Two 18-wheelers had formed an upside-down V in the road. The slab and both shoulders were blocked.
“Eighteen-wheeler coming up fast behind us!” Bonnie radioed. “It’s straddling the line, blocking both lanes.”
“Put that Bronco in four-wheel drive and jump the median!” Barry radioed. “Get the hell out of here, you two!”
“Sorry,” Bonnie returned. “Your transmission is garbled. I can’t read you.”
Barry tossed the mike in Cutter’s lap and cursed. “They’re in it, now.”
“Their choice,” Cutter reminded him.
She slowed the rig and grabbed up the mike. “We have to stop, Bonnie. We can’t ram through. Get ready to hit the floor-boards or jump.”
A man dressed in raingear stepped out from behind one of the trailers blocking the slab and leveled an AK-47 at the Kenworth.
Barry leaned out the window and doubled him over with fire from the Uzi. Cutter had grabbed up her CAR and lowered the window. Behind them, they could hear the sounds of gunfire.
“We’re being fired on!” Bonnie’s voice screamed through the speaker, and behind her voice, the sounds of George’s M-16 barked in three-round bursts.
Slugs flattened and bounced off the windshield of the Kenworth as Barry and Cutter pulled their heads back and waited out the return fire.
Behind them, George and Bonnie dove out of the Bronco as the rogue 18-wheeler came barreling toward them. They got out just in time, rolling off the shoulder and into a deep ditch. The Bronco was rammed and knocked spinning into the median. George leveled his M-16 and made a big mess inside the cab of the offending truck. George felt slightly sick at his stomach as blood splattered the interior of the cab.
He quickly got over his fear as automatic weapons fire kicked up dirt and gravel into his face. He rolled to one side, shoving Bonnie’s face down into the west grass, getting her out of harm’s way, and then leveled his M-16 and let the slugs howl and bounce off the concrete. The raincoated terrorist ducked back behind the protection of his rear trailer tires.
“Move! Move!” Barry heard one of the terrorists on the south end yell. “Cops coming.”
“Let them go,” he told Cutter. “We don’t need the heat right now.”
“Speak for yourself!” she said with a grin, her face and hair slick with rain. “I’m freezing!”
Barry had jerked the plates off the Bronco and blew the VIN into shreds with his Uzi. He blew the radios to shattered bits with another burst. He had tossed the gear inside the Bronco to George and Bonnie told them to get the hell into his rig and get gone. He’d follow in the terrorist’s rig and catch up with them.
The entire operation had taken less than a minute. But in that minute, the rigs blocking the southbound side of the slab had pulled out, both of them running empty and both of them letting the smoke roll.
Barry climbed into the cab of the big Mack and shoved the dead driver to the floorboard. He fell with a dull thud on top of the shot-up codriver. Barry pulled out as fast as he could, straining to see through the blood-splattered windshield. He could see the red lights of the cop cars reflecting off the rain in the distance. He was running without lights, trying to get a tree-lined section of the median between the lanes before he pulled even with the several cop cars.
He just made it, and began breathing a little easier. He cut on his lights and blinked his headlights four times at Cutter; a prearranged signal to go to channel two on the CB. He reached for the mike. It was gone. Shot all to hell by .223 fire.
One of the terrorists groaned on the floor, startling Barry, for the man had what appeared to be a massive head wound. But the rain pouring through the shattered window had cleaned the wound, and Barry could see he was only nicked on the forehead.
Barry reached down and busted him on the back of the head with his Beretta and dropped the man back to sleep.
Barry put the juice to the Mack and pulled ahead of Cutter, swinging in and flickering his running lights.
They rolled on through the driving rain and occasional bits of sleet. Barry saw no more of the terrorists’ rigs; either they were running wide open, which he doubted, or more the case, they had exited off onto 150 and were paralleling Barry and Cutter.
He guessed the man he’d gut-shot had been picked up by his buddies, for he had not seen him back on the road.
He cursed. Nameless people. Faceless people. It was worse than ’Nam.
He found a rest area and signaled Cutter he was turning in. He was wearing gloves so he was not worried about leaving any prints in the Mack. He took the wallet from the dead man and then motioned for Cutter to pull up even with him. In the driving cold rain, they muscled the unconscious terrorist into the Kenworth. It was getting crowded.
“I’ll tie him up,” Barry said. “Let’s get rolling. George, up front with Cutter and keep that M-sixteen ready. Come on, Bonnie, help me roll this bastard over on his stomach and you hold his wrists together.”
Using tape from the first aid kit, Barry trussed him up and left him on the floor. “Soon as I get out of these bloody clothes, Cutter, we’ll switch places and you can dry off and get into warm clothing, then George and Bonnie. We’ll get rid of these bloody muddy clothes down the line.”
It was awkward, and there was no space for modesty, but all got dried off and changed. By that time, they were into Tennessee, Barry was behind the wheel, and Knoxville was not far off.
The terrorist was awake and watching them, his eyes filled with hatred, no fear in them.
“When we get to Knoxville,” Barry said, “call your people, Cutter. Tell them to get here as fast as possible. We got a live one!”
The terrorist cursed Barry’s back.
He was young, in his mid-twenties, but his eyes were old.
Bonnie had dropped the leather curtain and had filmed the young man. He cursed her.
“Bitch-whore! We’ll see how you can scream someday!”
She was recording it all.
“It’ll be your turn first, buddy-boy,” Cutter warned him, real menace in her voice.
The terrorist twisted on the floor and stared at Cutter. “Ah, yes. The Air Force Captain!” He laughed at the surprise that leaped into her eyes at the mention of her promotion.
“You see, Captain Cutter, we know all about your special operations team—or teams, I should say!” His eyes flicked over her, as much of her as he could see. “You’re a big strong woman. You’ll be able to take a lot of pain!”
Cutter offered no reply.
The terrorist looked at George, sitting on the bunk. “Mr. George Stanton. Your family will pay and pay dearly for your becoming involved with murderers and thugs!”
“I will say this about that.” George stared at him, his voice flint hard. “You do not want the media down on you. You really do not want the media to come out hard against you and your ilk!”
The terrorist laughed. “Don’t be foolish, you silly man. The American reporters will never advocate dealing with us the way the Dog here does!”
Keep talking, punk, Barry thought. Let your mouth dig your own grave.
But the terrorist shut up and would say no more.
On the outskirts of Knoxville, Barry pulled into a motel and found a place to park around back. He came in through the rear, so no one at the desk could see he was in a truck.
Four people in one 18-wheeler would arouse suspicion.
18 Wheel Avenger Page 14
