Rig Warrior

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  But the road has its own code; the only code long-distance haulers will answer to. And all the Rivers drivers knew there was not a drivers in the cafe that didn’t know who they were and what they were up to. Silently knew. And that silence would stay on the road.

  The three wildcatters from the West Coast, Woodchuck, Big Foot, and Hawkeye, stayed at the table. Along with Montana, Cottonmouth, Cajun, Swamp Wolf, Horsefly, Coyote, Shiny, Slim, Barry, and Kate.

  “Any of you boys married?” Barry asked.

  They shook their heads.

  “I been knowin’ Dolittle since we was boys,” Hawkeye said. “We grew up together,” he added, his voice thick. He cleared his throat and stook a sip of coffee. “You couldn’t get me away from this operation with a pry bar.”

  Barry looked at Big Foot, waiting until the waitress had poured them all fresh coffee and left. Someone slugged the jukebox; Narvel Felts was singing “One Run for the Roses.”

  Big Foot summed it up this way: “My home is the road, and I mean that literally. I sleep in motels and hotels and rest areas.”

  Vague, but Barry and the others understood. Barry glanced at Woodchuck.

  Woodchuck said, “Oh, I’ll just go along for the ride, I reckon. I always did like a good fight.”

  “Here it is,” Barry said. “Me and Kate. Shiny and Beer Butt. Horsefly and Coyote. Swamp Wolf and Cajun. Cottonmouth and Montana. Slim and Hawkeye. Woodchuck and Big Foot. We’re going to have to stock up with ammunition and other emergency gear. The money I wired for is in. So I’ll tell you what I’m buying with it. Motorcycles.”

  The truckers began grinning.

  “A couple of dune buggies.”

  The grins became wider.

  Barry tossed some money on the table. “I know some of you boys can buy dynamite. Get as much as you can. Do it now. We’ll all meet at the intersection of Interstates 8 and 17 tomorrow. We’ve all got boosters on our CBs. Stay on channel thirty-one. If we get separated after we bust up the facility in Arizona, head for Utah.” He pointed to a spot on a Utah map. “Right there. Take some time out to check your wills. For a fact, some of us won’t be coming out of this alive. I’m calling my attorney right now. I would suggest you all do the same.”

  Barry rose from the table and walked to a bank of pay phones, dialing Ralph Martin’s number back in D.C.

  The news he heard was not good.

  “Justice has the wheels in motion, Barry. There will be warrants out for you by the end of this week. Give it up. If you don’t, you’re tossing your career and future right out the window.”

  Barry thought of the now-dead men and women he’d released from the Texas experiment station. He thought of the … he-didn’t-know-how-many more scattered around the nation, tortured, drugged, raped. “I’m in this until the end, Ralph.”

  “Then you’re a goddamned fool.”

  Barry didn’t feel like arguing that with the man.

  “What do you think you are, or have become, Barry? Some white knight in an eighteen-wheeler?”

  “That’s a good song, Ralph.”

  “What?”

  “The song.”

  “You want to change your will, Barry?” Ralph’s voice held a flat note.

  “Everything to Kate. If we both go out, you have your instructions.”

  “I think I’ll be talking with you very soon, Barry.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. From some goddamned jail.” He hung up.

  When Barry returned to the table, Woodchuck and Big Foot were gone, along with Cottonmouth and Montana. Some of the money was gone with them.

  The matter of explosives was being taken care of.

  Shiny said, “I know an old boy who’s got a fifty-caliber machine gun he’d like to get rid of.” He looked at Barry. “You interested?”

  “You know where the money is.”

  Shiny and Beer Butt left the table.

  “I got a buddy in Tuscon runs a cycle shop,” Hawkeye spoke. “He owes me a couple of real big favors. I think me and Slim will head thataway.”

  Barry signed some checks and handed them over.

  Slim and Hawkeye left the table.

  Horsefly’s hands were coated with ointment and bandaged. His shifting hand was not as badly burned as his left hand. He could still drive. He said, “I know where I can get some stuff we’ll probably need ’fore all this is over.” He picked up the rest of the money from the table.

  Horsefly and Coyote rose and walked out.

  “Let’s go, gang,” Barry said.

  “Goddamn fool!” Jackson said. “He’s going to wind up in prison.”

  “Or dead,” Stemke said.

  John Weston said, “I think I can delay those warrants until the first of next week. We’ll let Barry dig his personal hole a bit deeper and then we’ll have him.”

  “You’re not serious!” Borman said.

  Weston met the man’s eyes, then shifted to touch every eye in the room. “You are all familiar with what the Cowboy who sits in Sugar Cube told us privately.”

  “That was no more than wistful thinking on his part,” Jennings said.

  “I don’t think so. I’m going to meet with him tomorrow at Camp David. I think he’s going to give me the green light.”

  “What’s the latest body count out in Texas?” Borman asked.

  “Twenty-three of Jack Morris’s guns. Several of the station’s personnel.” His face tightened. “And all those poor bastards and bitches who were inmates there.”

  “I have never liked doing this to Barry,” Jennings said. “We’ve lied to him, used him, set him up, and now we’re sealing his future forever. I personally think it’s shitty!”

  Martin spoke for the first time. “Not to mention the other truckers who might come out of this alive. It’s regrettable, but very opportune, wouldn’t you all agree with that?”

  “I still think this is storybook stuff,” Jennings said. “Not to mention just as illegal as hell.”

  “But think what an edge it would give us in combatting crime.” Weston argued his case. “One man, or a half a dozen, as the case may be, with tacit government approval, with every conventional weapon known to exist at his fingertips. A fully equipped eighteen-wheeler … an SST rig. With a new identity, no past record, able to travel anywhere within the Northern Hemisphere. That’s it!” he said, excitement in his voice.

  “What’s it?” Jennings questioned, doubt edging the question.

  “The SST bit. Hell, we’ll have him actually carrying loads. He’s working for the government anyway. Will be.”

  “If he agrees to go along with this crazy scheme.” Borman dropped the other boot.

  “Gentlemen,” Weston said impatiently, “you’re all forgetting one little item: Barry won’t have any choice in the matter. It’s either accept the proposal or go to prison on a multitude of charges. He’s in a box, boys. And we’re the only ones who can untie the string.”

  “What would be his limitations?” Stemke asked.

  “That’s the beauty of it all,” Weston replied, leaning back in his chair and staring up at the ceiling. “No limits at all. The Dog would be judge, jury, and executioner. Justice would be in his hands.”

  “The Dog?” Borman asked.

  “That’s Barry’s CB handle. It’s almost poetic, boys. A snarling, foaming-at-the-mouth, fangs-bared Dog, on the side of the law, able to be unleashed at will, working for the law-abiding citizens of this nation, roaming the highways, for the most part, picking his targets at his own choosing. Be kind of nice if he had a dog with him,” Weston muttered.

  “Jesus, Weston!” Jackson said. “Don’t get carried away.”

  “Oh, Barry!” Kate said. “Look!” She pointed.

  The mutt sat by the Kenworth as if it had found a home. But it did not wag its tail at their approach.

  Barry looked at the animal. It was a mixed breed but with the Husky in it predominant. He decided that somewhere down the line, the animal’s ancestors ha
d bred with either wolves or coyotes. Barry settled on wolves, for the dog still maintained the Husky markings, but with the eyes and snout of a wolf.

  Kate knelt down and held out her hands. “Come on, boy,” she urged.

  The animal came to her, allowing her to pet him.

  “What’s that on his collar?” Barry asked.

  Kate loosened the string holding the worn piece of paper. “A note,” she said. She opened the folded paper and read aloud. “Goddamn dog bites. You find him, you can have the son of a bitch. He’s two years old. Shots are due in the fall. I called him Dog.”

  31

  Barry knew there was no use trying to dissuade Kate. Dog had found a home.

  “Keep him on the floor until we can find a place to bathe him,” Barry said. “He’s got fleas.”

  Kate ignored that and put him in the sleeper.

  “Thanks,” Barry said dryly.

  Swamp Wolf and Cajun had said nothing about Dog. If Barry and Kate wanted fleas, that was their business.

  At a small town just outside Arizona, they stopped at a vet’s place and had Dog bathed. Dog tolerated it without making a fuss.

  “Got some wolf in him,” the vet observed. “And a mean look about him. I oughta muzzle him, but he seems to be taking the bath in stride.”

  Dog was weighed. Sixty-five pounds.

  Kate bought a case of Alpo, a water pan, and a food dish. Dog jumped up on the bunk and settled right in.

  “I think he belonged to a trucker,” Kate said. ”He seems to know his way around a cab.”

  “I wonder if he can drive?” Barry asked.

  Dog shifted his cold yellow eyes toward Barry.

  “Just kidding,” Barry told him.

  Barry stopped a half-dozen places looking for a dune buggy. He stuck out everywhere he looked. He gave up on the dune buggy idea and bought several motorcycles—dirt bikes, used, but in good condition. Barry and Kate tied them down inside the trailer and headed out for the scheduled rendezvous. When one was asleep in the bunk, Dog would sit in the empty seat, looking around, or lie down on the floor and sleep.

  They pulled into the rendezvous spot and linked up with the others. Barry could tell by the grins on their faces they had scored well with the supplies.

  “It’s a short run to where we’re going,” he told them. “About a two-and-a-half-hour drive. We’re going to hit them fast and hard. We free the inmates, then burn the goddamned place to the ground. After Texas, we’ll probably be expected, so heads up, people. Let’s roll!”

  But they weren’t expected. The guards had not been beefed up at all; if anything, security here was even worse than back in Texas.

  And the cells and cages and laboratory were deserted.

  “What the hell? …” Barry questioned aloud.

  “Do we burn it?” Slim asked.

  “To the ground.” Barry walked to what appeared to him to be the man in charge. “The inmates—what happened to them?”

  “A truck came early this morning,” the man replied. “Took them away. I don’t know where.”

  Barry believed him. He knew from experience that most people, when they lie, make up elaborate stories, easy to trip up. For as Twain said, no man has a good enough memory to be a successful liar.

  “And you just let them?”

  “They had government orders. If you’ll accompany me to my office, I’ll show you my copy.”

  “I’d like to see them.”

  Barry’s hand shook slightly as he read the orders. It was no less than a presidential order. In it were the facilities named to be closed. Twelve of them. But the facility in Texas has been crossed out.

  It was signed by the President of the United States.

  “Have you tried to verify this?” Barry asked.

  “Yes. I’ve called all the other CSS stations. The trucks began arriving early last night. This … particular part of the CSS is concluded, I suppose.”

  “You suppose? Aren’t you glad it’s over?”

  “Not particularly. I rather enjoyed my work.”

  Barry came close to hitting him. He steadied himself and cooled down. “What about the animals?”

  “Eh? Oh, they were destroyed. Pity, too. We had some good work going with some of them.”

  Barry walked outside before he jacked the guy’s jaw. He ordered his people back to their trucks.

  “What’s up, boss?” Slim asked.

  “It’s over.”

  “Over?”

  Barry explained, as much as he could. “There is still a lot I don’t know, but I suppose we’ll find out someday. Slim, you’re free to walk. I’ll call my attorney and have him destroy that confession.”

  Slim grinned. “How ’bout a job driven’ for Rivers Trucking?”

  “You got that.” Barry stuck out his hand and Slim shook it.

  “Let’s go home,” Kate said.

  Beer Butt honked his air horns. “Let them truckers roll!”

  John Weston sat across from the President of the United States in the den at Camp David, or, as it is now listed, Camp 3. “Mr. President, with all due respect, sir. I have to say, with my badge in my hand, ready to turn it in … you fucked it all up!”

  The President laughed. “Oh, I think not, John. When I learned of those damnable experiment stations, I was sick … really, physically sick. I signed the order as quickly as possible. I … didn’t know you were setting up this Barry Rivers to take a fall for us.”

  “He’s ideal, sir!” Weston said quickly. He looked at Jackson for support. The Treasury man nodded his agreement.

  “I don’t like a good man being treated in such a manner,” the President said. “I think the … plan we spoke of is a good one. A workable one. But not starting out the way you planned. Not … well, quite like you planned.”

  The President stood up and stretched, walked to a window, gazing out. “The President of the United States must make, from time to time, some very difficult decisions. Ones that he might find personally repugnant. Where is this Barry Rivers right now?”

  “Probably still in Arizona, getting ready to head back to New Orleans.”

  “For the good of the nation,” the President muttered. “Keep that in mind always, partner.”

  “Beg pardon, sir?” Jackson said, leaning forward.

  The President turned away from the window.“Nothing. Just talking to myself. In Arizona, you say. Two full days back to New Orleans—lovely city. Two or three days there, getting everything back shipshape with his trucking company. Then two or three days back to his offices. That about the way you boys figure it?”

  They did. Both of them wondering what in the hell The Man had in mind.

  “A full week.” He sighed. “I’m going to let the chips fall where they may, gentlemen.” He looked up at the ceiling, talking to a lamp fixture. “About twelve to fifteen agents of various departments have not shown up for work. So I’m told. And Mr. Jack Morris has been rather edgy lately; again, so I’m told. Whoever Jack Morris is,” he added very quickly.

  John Weston and Jackson relaxed, slight smiles in place. The Man was going to do it, but do it his way.

  The President changed personalities as swiftly as a striking snake, fixing steely eyes on the top agents of their respective departments. A lot of press people mistakenly believed this President was not too sharp. Those who came in close contact with him in his decision making knew only too well how wrong the press types were. Not only was he extremely intelligent, but tough as leather.

  “I don’t want anything happening to innocent people,” the President said. “Women, children, the elderly … any of those aforementioned who might be related to Barry Rivers, had better be, in two hours, covered like a blanket.” He glanced at his watch, then pointed to a bank of phones. “You both have five minutes to make your calls. Do it!”

  That done, the men settled down in their chairs before the desk.

  “Set up long-term SST contracts with Rivers Trucking.”

&n
bsp; Both men knew better than to make notes. They would commit everything to memory.

  “I don’t care what they haul; they can haul dried cat shit if that’s all that’s available. But I want Barry’s friends back on the road, fully armed with SST papers. Understood?”

  Weston and Jackson understood.

  “This Morris fellow … his phones are tapped, I take it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I would rather he think Barry Rivers is dead. Is that possible?”

  “I … don’t know, sir,” Weston said. “We can probably keep both parties from making contact with each other.”

  “That will do. Do it.”

  “Uh … sir,” Jackson said. “Exactly what do you have in mind?”

  “It will develop, or it will not,” the President said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Weston smiled. “You’re going to want any and all warrants against Rivers squashed, right, sir?”

  “That is correct.”

  “Until he kills Jack Morris, that is,” Weston said, speaking around his smile.

  “If he kills the man,” the President corrected.

  “Why not just approach him, sir?” Jackson asked. “I think Rivers would do it.”

  “I would prefer to have … insurance. Thank you, gentlemen. Let’s get busy.”

  Weston and Jackson left. The President’s chief adviser entered the room and sat down.

  “You get it all on tape?” The President asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Delete any reference to me.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The Dog,” the President muttered. “I like it.”

  “Why not have something like, oh, Strike Force One?” the adviser suggested.

  “Fuck Strike Force One,” the President said. “Just call him The Dog.”

  32

  “It’s kind of … kind of, what am I trying to say, Barry?” Kate asked. “A downer, I guess.”

  “Anticlimactic.”

  She grinned at him. “Smartass!”

  Barry did not return her smile. “It isn’t over, Kate.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Too easy. Things like this don’t end with a whimper, they end with a bang. But this operation just rolled over soundlessly.”