Crossing Savage (8 page)

“Do you know what you want, Jim?”

“Sure. I'll have a bacon cheeseburger, well done, please.”

“Anything to drink with that?”

“No, water is fine. Thank you.”

“And how about you, sugar?” she asked Peter.

“I'll have the same, well done, and lemonade. Thank you.”

The waitress turned and walked back to the kitchen with the order. Peter decided he'd had enough talk of conspiracies and world domination, and he tried to start up a different conversation. “So you left the SEALs for military intelligence—a place called The Office? What can you tell me about your current work, at least that which is not bound by secrecy? I mean, do you gather intelligence from the field, or work from The Office analyzing information that comes in from others, or something else?”

Jim laughed lightly. “That's a lot of questions.”

“Sorry. I'm inquisitive. I guess it's my nature. It's just that I've never known anyone who worked in the intelligence community, and I'm curious what it's like.”

“Well, I do some field work—like today. But mostly I work with a dedicated team at The Office, sifting through information that comes in from a range of sources. Some is gathered by computers that constantly scan cell phone calls for key words or phrases—you know, names or combinations of words. Some of the intel comes from field operatives—people who are gathering bits and pieces of information. It's through these human operatives that we usually learn where the bad guys are. Sometimes we look at satellite imagery, but that's usually after we have identified a possible target of interest and we need structural information about buildings, roads, bridges, airports, and of course it helps when trying to track down and locate military machinery.”

“How many people are on your team?” Peter asked.

“The total number will expand and contract to suit the mission, but usually there are five or six, including me. All are former combat soldiers—special ops—who showed a talent for figuring out puzzles. And then I have several intel officers—analysts—who do most of the brain work.”

“And you're stationed out of McClellan?”

“That's right. The Office is located in a converted hangar near the main runway. Sometime you should come down and I can give you a tour of sorts. As you might guess, we have a lot of computing power.”

“I'd like to do that. Maybe after this mess gets sorted out and Dad is back from Alaska. I heard that McClellan was closed during the base realignment several years ago. What did they do with it?”

“It's been mostly converted to private office space, but the Federal government retained more than a thousand jobs there. The Coast Guard maintains an air station there, and then there's the regional headquarters for the Defense Commissary, the DoD microelectronics center, and the Veteran's Administration medical and dental clinics. The Office is located next door to the microelectronics center, which makes it very convenient for us to test the various little gadgets that they prototype. It's really pretty cool.”

The waitress walked over with their plates and put them on the table. “Is there anything else I can get for you?”

“Uh, no, I think we're fine. Thank you,” Peter replied with a smile.

They were both hungry, and looked at their juicy hamburgers with anticipation. Peter put the sliced pickles on his burger, along with some mustard.

“You can have these pickles, too, if you want; I'm not going to eat them.”

“Sure!” Peter reached for them with his fork and added them to his already thick burger, squishing down on the bun to make it thin enough to get his mouth around it.

As Peter started to eat, Jim noticed a gray sedan park in front of the restaurant. Two men got out and walked onto the porch. Jim heard their muffled steps pause briefly before they opened the front door and entered. They both had sunglasses on, and neither made a move to remove them. They looked around, made eye contact with Jim, then moved to the counter and took two bar stools.

The guy closest to Jim was slender. The other guy was heavier and shorter, and he wore a denim jacket that was open loosely.

Jim continued to eat while watching the men at the counter. They looked at the menus but didn't order anything to eat, only coffee. The skinny guy glanced over at Jim and Peter a couple of times. Jim finished his burger, then stood up and told Peter he would be right back. Skinny turned and watched him walk out of the restaurant, then leaned over to his partner and said something.

A couple minutes later Jim walked back in and returned to his chair at the table with Peter. He held out his hand and placed a small black box on the table. Peter looked at it and asked, “What's that?”

“If I'm not mistaken, it's a transmitter—a tracking device. And I think those two guys at the counter are following us.”

“Come on… you're kidding, right?”

Jim shook his head, his brows pinched together and his lips straight.

Peter couldn't believe what he was hearing. He leaned forward and whispered to Jim, trying not to make a scene. “Does this happen to you everywhere you go, Jim? Because I've got to say, this is the first time for me!”

He shrugged and shifted his gaze from Peter to the two guys at the counter. “Let's test my theory, shall we?”

Jim stood and walked over to the counter, stopping behind the two men. They both felt his stare, and turned around.

“Hello, gentlemen. Nice day for a drive isn't it?”

Skinny looked at Jim and then said, “Yes, I suppose it is.” His accent was familiar. Jim had grown accustomed to it in Somalia.

“Where are you boys heading?”

Skinny glared at Jim. He didn't like being questioned by this man. “We are just driving. Like you said, it's a nice day.”

The heavy guy sensed the irritation in his partner's voice and turned his body slightly so his back wasn't facing Jim. With that subtle movement Jim saw it—the black plastic grip of a pistol in a shoulder holster on his left side. With his body in its current position, turned at an angle toward Jim, he could draw his weapon quickly if required.

Jim held out his hand and showed the transmitter. Skinny looked surprised.

“Think you can find your way without this tracker?” Skinny just stared at him.

Jim pulled two twenty dollar bills from his pocket and gave them to the waitress as she walked up to fill the coffee cups on the counter. “Thank you, the food was very good. My friend and I have to be on our way—keep the change.”

Peter had been watching the exchange and had already risen from his chair, ready to leave. He and Jim walked swiftly to the truck. They climbed in and Peter drove out of the parking lot and onto the highway, leaving behind a shower of gravel and dust. Jim looked over his shoulder and saw the dark gray sedan kicking up gravel as it sped from the parking lot and turned left to follow them.

Skinny was on the phone as soon as they had left the restaurant. “They know they are being tailed. They found the tracking device.”

“You idiot! What part of your orders did you not understand?”

“It was not my fault. We stayed back as you instructed—”

“Never mind! It is too late for excuses!” There was a pause, and then the voice continued.

“They will assume we know about the professor's plans. We cannot count on surprise if the American agent is allowed to report in. Even worse, they might place the professor in protective custody, and then he will be out of our reach.” There was another pause, and Skinny dared not speak.

“Listen to me carefully, and answer honestly, or I will kill you myself. Do you understand?”

“Yes sir.”

“Did you listen to the meeting as it was recorded?”

“Yes sir.”

“Good. Now, tell me. Is the professor's field excursion still planned to proceed on schedule?”

“Yes sir.”

“You are certain… they did not agree to delay it?”

Skinny took a moment to think hard before choosing his words. He imagined a gun pressed against his head and then he answered, “No. The professor would not agree to delay the expedition.”

“Very well. I am giving you new orders. You will kill them now. They cannot be allowed to report. It may already be too late. Leave nothing to chance.”

“Yes sir.”

As if to emphasize the point, the voice added in an unmistakably malevolent tone, “And if you fail, the punishment will be most severe.”

Skinny hung up the phone and placed it back in his pocket. Without glancing at the driver, he reported the key message. “General Ramirez is not pleased. Our orders have changed.”

“I'd suggest you put some distance between us and them. The guy behind the wheel is packing iron; I suspect the skinny guy is as well.”

Peter accelerated, and so did the gray sedan. As they were going up the grade, Peter wasn't sure he could outpace his pursuers. His truck did not have an especially large engine, and the vehicle was heavy, built for off-road running. The highway was two lanes with lots of curves—not much room for another vehicle to pass. Peter figured as long as the sedan remained behind him they were okay. But why were they following him, and why did they need guns? Peter was worried—and it didn't help that Jim was constantly looking over his shoulder at the car chasing them.

He was doing about 65 miles per hour now, slowing where necessary in the curves. The sedan was following very closely, dropping back on the turns and then catching up again on the straighter sections. Peter's truck was laboring to maintain speed on the steep uphill grade. He knew they would gain almost 3,000 feet in elevation over the next eleven miles as they drove east toward Tombstone Pass. Suddenly, that name really bothered Peter.

Jim was looking out the back window almost constantly, only occasionally turning to look forward when the truck suddenly braked to negotiate a sharp curve. The mountains rose steeply to their left, and the bank fell sharply to their right. Through breaks between the trees, Jim could just glimpse a river below.

Peter was gripping the wheel so tightly that his knuckles were aching. He was completely focused on the road and nothing else, leaning forward toward the wheel. Fortunately, he had driven this highway a hundred times, and he knew every curve so well he could anticipate them. He was just coming out of a gradual left curve and he knew that just ahead there was a sharp right curve.

He kept his speed up—60 miles per hour—and the sedan pulled in close. He was almost at the right curve now. It was a progressive curve that began gradual enough but then became tight. Twice before he had misjudged this curve, both times nearly running off the road. At the last possible microsecond, he hit the brakes hard and sharply turned to the right. The truck protested the G-force and began to slide to the left. But then the vehicle's traction control worked its magic, and the truck straightened out and accelerated out of the turn only to immediately come into a sharp left.

Peter hit the brakes and again the truck groaned in protest before straightening out. He had lost a lot of speed—down to 35 miles per hour now. But the sedan had fallen way back. Unfortunately, it was still there and accelerating. Peter didn't think he could use that trick again.

Peter was accelerating as fast as the Hummer's five-cylinder engine would go. The truck was designed to pull a heavy trailer or other loads; it was geared low with good torque, so it actually accelerated well from a slow speed. But it started to bog down at higher speeds, and Peter was struggling to get the truck to accelerate above 50 miles per hour as they continued to move up the steep grade toward Tombstone Pass.

He had just come out of a gradual hairpin curve and was continuing to increase speed toward a sharp left-right S-curve followed by a sharp left hairpin-curve. He knew he would lose a lot of speed there, and with the elevation getting higher and the air thinner, his truck would not be setting any speed records coming out of those turns.

“Why didn't I buy a Porsche?” Peter mumbled. Despite the cool air, sweat was tracing wet lines down his forehead.

He entered the S curve fast—too fast—as the truck skidded to the right. Jim looked out his window and saw the bank drop off toward the river about 100 feet below. The truck kept sliding right, losing traction as the right wheels left the pavement and made contact with the gravel shoulder. But again the traction control kicked in and straightened the Hummer. Peter resumed breathing and a silent curse slipped from his lips.

The sedan was still on their tail, holding back just a bit in the turns. They came out of the S curve and started the sharp left hairpin. Peter had to give up a lot of speed, coming out of the turn at only 30 miles per hour. The sedan was right there, gaining quickly. Suddenly there was a crack and Jim instantly realized the stakes had gone up.

Another shot, and Jim urged, “We need some distance between us.”

Peter gritted his teeth, never taking his eyes off the road. “This is a truck, not a sports car. I'm doing everything I can.”