Strike Force Charlie (27 page)

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Authors: Mack Maloney

BOOK: Strike Force Charlie
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At that moment, the searchlight swept through their yard again. The fugitives all flinched.
“The whole world is looking for them,” Jack said to her, this as June noticed all the weapons the men were carrying.
“I don't think you've exactly captured them, dear,” she deadpanned.
“I haven't,” he replied. “Nor do I want to.”
He took a deep breath.
“I think we should help them,” he said.
June stood there for a long moment; it seemed like a part of her life was flashing before her eyes.
Then she said, “I think we should help them, too.”
 
They dug Gallant's grave in shifts.
Fox and Puglisi went out first to carve a hole at the edge of the property, next to the shed, ducking down whenever the searchlights went over. Then Ryder and Bates, Gallant's close colleagues since the beginnings of the team, carried him out and put him in the ground, covering him over and replacing the dug-up strips of grass to hide the spot. There were no prayers. No last words. The constant threat of searchlights prevented any of that.
June Rucker was a retired visiting nurse. She patched their wounds and made them all take some Tylenol. Jack Rucker made them a hot meal. Eggs, ham, and pancakes galore. They took turns using the shower and June taught them how to use her washing machine. While all this was going on, the police and National Guard continued sweeping through the neighborhood but only with their searchlights and not yet door-to-door. The team kept their eyes on the Rucker's living room TV, too, switching between CNN, Fox, and the local all-night news. It was nonstop reportage, but they wound up hearing the same headline over and over again: a terrorist attempt to shoot down a 747 had been foiled, four terrorists had been killed, and authorities were searching the local area for “others connected with the incident”
But each report left the team with more questions than answers, especially about what might be happening back in
D.C. after all this. There was no way they could call anyone back there, though. Even if they had a way to reach their East Coast colleagues, they had no idea what the security situation might be. They would have been crazy to try to make contact, even with a clean cell phone. There would be no way to know who might be listening in.
Whatever the case, the ghosts had to get out of the area, and quick. Not just to escape but to still somehow find their way to West Texas to catch the first bus in the act. They couldn't give up on that now. But how to do it? The bus thing was happening in less than 24 hours and it was more than 600 miles away. The old couple had been almost too good to them, and in return the team had told them everything, including the pending situation with the first bus. But how were they ever going to get there from here? It wasn't like they could steal a car. Or take some hostages. Or shoot their way out.
But as it turned out, June Rucker had the solution. She and her husband would hide them in their car and
drive
them out. They would help them get back into the mountains and eventually on to Texas as well.
And she wouldn't take no for an answer.
 
But why?
Why were the Ruckers being so helpful?
Psychically bruised and battered though he was, Ryder just had to know. He'd just finished his shower and climbed back into his now-bloodless combat suit when he approached Jack Rucker, sitting at his CB radio setup in the couple's basement.
Ryder excused the interruption and, first off, thanked him for everything he and his wife had done for them. The food. The bandages. Letting them put their comrade to rest, if just temporarily. And most important, for not turning them in.
The ghosts had received help throughout their crusade across America to stop the terrorists. But each time, that help, whether it be food or fuel, had been set up, in advance, by their invisible godfather, Bobby Murphy. Could Murphy's
web of friends and influence reach down so far that it would include these two typical home folk?
Ryder asked Rucker right out: “Do you know a guy named Murphy? An intelligence agent type, back in D.C.?”
He was almost surprised when Rucker shook his head no.
Ryder had only one other question to ask then. “Why?” he said. “Why are you helping us?”
Rucker hesitated a long moment, then told Ryder to wait in the basement. He disappeared upstairs for a few minutes. When he returned, June was with him; she was carrying a photograph of a Marine in dress uniform. The frame was ringed with black drapery. She held the photo as if it were the crown jewels.
It was their son. Their only child.
“He was killed, more than twenty years ago,” she said. “In Lebanon. When those heartless Muslim bastards blew up the Marine barracks in Beirut.”
She started crying; her husband comforted her. The rest of the team had gathered around the couple now. They were absolutely silent.
“The government was wrong back then,” she said softly. “Not the soldiers. And not the people supporting the soldiers. But the people in charge. The people in Washington. They had promised to look after my boy, to protect him while he was protecting someone else. But they didn't. And he died for it.”
She dabbed her eyes again.
“The problem is, nothing has changed,” she went on. “The people still support our country. They support our troops. They support the flag and what it stands for. It's those egomaniacs in Washington that are the problem—the politicians, the lobbyists, and the rest. And for years we've always asked, Why doesn't someone do something about it?”
She ran her finger along the edge of the photo's frame, then looked up at the ghosts.
“Well, maybe now, someone is,” she said.
Jack Rucker hugged his wife; she played with a tissue she'd taken from her pocket.
“
That's
why,” Jack told Ryder. “That's why we'll get you out of here safely, so you can do what you have to do.”
 
It was a tight fit for the four ghosts, arrayed as they were, in the back of Jack Rucker's 1996 Ford station wagon. Using the sanctity of their attached garage, the four were squeezed into the back bay, a blanket covering them and their weapons, with six plastic bags filled with authentic trash laid on top of the blanket. Then the Ruckers poured about a hundred refundable plastic soda bottles on top of the trash.
June climbed behind the wheel, two plates of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies in hand. Jack had with him an oxygen tank, long unused, that June had left over from her nursing job. It had a thin clear plastic breathing tube, which he put into his nose. A plastic
HANDICAPPED
DRIVER sign, again from June's visiting nurse days, was hanging from the rearview mirror brace; it completed the scene.
They left at 6:00 A.M. The quiet neighborhood was not quiet any longer. Their development was crawling with state police search teams now indeed going house-to-house, asking for permission to search. It was hard to determine what would happen if a home owner refused.
They drove slowly through the streets, passing by more state police vans, SWAT trucks and cruisers, as well as local sheriff's cars. No one paid them any undue attention. But when they turned the corner leading out of the development, they found a small traffic jam of cars and trucks waiting there. The National Guard had set up a roadblock. Soldiers in full battle gear were giving each car the once-over before allowing it to leave.
They waited for five long minutes, until they were next in line. When it was June's turn to move up, she intentionally gunned the engine, with her left foot planted firmly on the brake. Much screeching and engine smoke resulted; the six Guardsmen manning the checkpoint scattered. June finally brought the old car to a halt some ten feet beyond the stop line. Everyone within took a deep breath.
The Guardsmen recovered and approached the car cautiously. June had her window rolled down as a young corporal walked up beside her.
“You poor boys,” she said in her best grandmotherly voice. “How long have you been out here?”
“All night,” the corporal said, his men now looking in the windows at the load of trash in the back.
June passed him out a plate full of cookies.
“Take these,” she told the soldier. “And don't forget to share them. And if you're still out here at lunchtime, I'll bring you something then, too.”
The Guardsmen all broke up. “We'll be here!” one cried happily.
“Anyone bother you last night, ma'am?” the corporal asked her politely, peeking under the foil at the cookies. “I have to ask.”
At that moment, on cue, Jack Rucker began rasping.
“Just you and your damn spotlights!” he bellowed at the corporal.
The soldiers were startled and caught off-guard.
“I'm sorry, sir,” the corporal said, trying to apologize. “We're just looking for some bad guys and—”
“I don't give a damn who you're looking for!” Rucker complained again, at full volume. “What is this? Nazi Germany? Iraq? I'm handicapped and I'm a veteran … . I don't have to take this—”
“Can we go now?” June asked the corporal. “He's always cranky on trash days.”
“Sure,” the soldier replied, starting to wave her on. “And thanks for the cookies … .”
June started to pull away. But suddenly another Guardsman yelled, “Stop!” He was looking in through the passenger window.
“Wait!” this soldier yelled again. “Don't move … .”
June froze at the wheel. The soldier indicated that Jack Rucker should roll down his window. He made a big display of it, but finally the window came down.
The Guardsman reached in—and turned up the flow nozzle on the oxygen tank resting on Rucker's lap.
“My dad uses one of these things,” the soldier said, noting that the on-off dial had now turned green. “And you've got to turn it on, partner, if you want to be able to breathe.”
The Ruckers glanced at each other and shrugged.
“Can we go now?” June asked the young soldier again. A line had formed in back of them.
The corporal hit the roof of the car twice with his hand.
“You bet,” he said. “And thanks again for the sweets.”
 
They traveled about an hour down Interstate 55.
The Ruckers had switched places, and now Jack was driving. June was ensconced in the passenger seat working the car's ancient CB radio. While the ghosts were sure their pursuers were monitoring all cell-phone activity, they weren't so sure about CB radio. This was an almost forgotten form of communications these days—but truckers still used them, as did many citizens, especially the housebound, especially out west. Jack and June knew literally hundreds of citizens inhabiting this CB planet.
June must have spoken with a dozen of these people during the 60-mile drive south, this while the team members stayed hidden in the back. They couldn't hear what she was saying exactly, but the tone of the conversations was definitely all business.
They finally reached a truck stop outside the town of Black Hills, Exit 199 off the highway. It was the kind of place that had three gas pumps and a diner that could seat about a hundred. It was called Sky High Diner. Its sign was vintage 1950s.
It was not yet 7:00 A.M. The early-morning rush of truckers had come and gone. The place was empty and would be like that until noon, when it would begin to fill up again. The sky was perfectly clear and really did look high. There was nothing out here but bare mountains and flatlands and highway. It was starting to heat up, the beginning of what would be a very warm day.
Jack Rucker pulled up not to the front of the diner but around the back. Here a huge semi was parked, diesel engine popping, a small cloud of smoke rising from its stacks. June got out and had a quick conversation with the driver. She gave him some cookies, then returned to the car, opening the back of the old Ford.
“Time to move, boys,” she said. “And quick. This guy is our friend. He'll bring you to the next place you have to go.”
The team rolled out, Jack and the truck driver watching either end of the diner for interlopers. The ghosts climbed up into the back of the semi's very long trailer. It was empty except for a few wooden pallets. The team took the trash bags and empty bottles with them; the Ruckers couldn't very well go home with them. June went into the diner and bought two six-packs of Coke. She handed them up to Ryder. The driver climbed back into the cab and gunned his engine. He was anxious to go.
Ryder looked down at the two oldsters. What do you say to two strangers who just saved your tail at great risk to themselves?
“No thanks needed,” June told him. “Just a favor.”
She reached into her pocket and came out with a medal. It was a U.S. Marine service decoration; Ryder didn't have to be told who it belonged to.

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