The Storm (24 page)

Sabah began shouting again.

“You better at least start the engine,” Joe whispered.

Kurt found the key and twisted it, the motor rumbled to life.

“Climb on,” he said.

Joe scrambled up onto the side of the forklift and held fast something like a fireman on the ladder trucks of old.

Kurt found the clutch and the gearshift. The rig had three gears: low, high and reverse. Kurt pressed the clutch down, forced the shift into low and added some gas.

Nothing happened.

“We’re not moving,” Joe whispered.

“I realize that.”

Kurt let out the clutch a little more and pressed the accelerator a little harder. The engine revved, the gears meshed and the big machine lurched forward like a driver’s ed car in the hands of a three-time dropout.

“Easy,” Joe said.

“I thought that was easy,” Kurt replied.

Sabah waved impatiently, pointing them toward the stack of yellow drums, each of which sat on its own pallet.

Kurt turned that way. Up ahead one of the other forklifts was raising a pallet that held one of the yellow drums. As it lifted the load, a second workman lashed it to the apron with a metal cable. Apparently no one wanted to spill the contents of these barrels.

The forklift reversed and headed off with the worker still hanging on to the front.

“That’s your job,” Kurt said.

“Great.”

“You’d better find us a cable.”

Joe discovered one hooked to the forklift’s roof guard. He disconnected it and hopped down to the desert floor.

As Joe edged toward the yellow drums, Kurt struggled to guide the big machine. He lined up and moved forward. He grabbed the fork control and went to lower the forks, but they moved opposite to what he remembered. The forks came up, threatening to puncture the drum.

He slammed on the brake, and the forklift stopped short.

As he lowered the fork, Kurt caught sight of Joe. His eyes were wide. Kurt couldn’t really blame him. When the forks were at the correct height and angle, Kurt inched the rig forward and picked up the pallet.

Joe stepped up and lashed the drum tight and gave Kurt the thumbs-up.

With a great degree of caution, Kurt backed up and turned. Going forward once again, he found the rig far better balanced with Joe and the yellow drum weighing down the nose.

He moved slowly toward the line of trucks, following in the tracks of the other forklift.

There were five trucks in all. They were flatbeds with treated canvas tarps stretched over the top of metal ribs. It looked like the lead truck was filled and being buttoned up. The others were still being loaded.

Sabah pointed toward the last truck in the line, and Kurt moved toward it. He lined up with the rear bumper and raised the forks. When it was even with the bed of the truck, Joe unlashed the drum and eased it forward, sliding the entire pallet onto a set of rollers on the bed of the truck.

Moving it like that, he slid it into place and lashed it down like the other barrels. With the job done, Joe climbed back onto the side of the forklift.

“You realize this could be considered aiding and abetting the enemy,” he said as Kurt turned the forklift back toward the staging area.

“We can leave this off the report,” Kurt said. “A simple omission.”

“Great idea. It could happen to anyone.”

“Exactly,” Kurt said. “When we load the final barrel, you stay in the truck bed. I’ll park this thing and join you when no one’s looking.”

It sounded like a good plan and it seemed to be working. All the way up until they were almost ready to put it into action.

As they waited to grab the last barrel, Jinn and several of his men came out of the tunnel.

Sabah held up a hand like a traffic cop, and all activity stopped as he went to talk with his master.

Kurt cut the engine, hoping to overhear.

Another group of men joined Jinn. The young woman Kurt suspected to be the real Leilani was with them.

“You’re bringing her with us?” Sabah asked.

“I am,” Jinn said. “This complex is no longer secure.”

“I’ll contact Xhou,” Sabah said. “The Chinese are treacherous, but they always prefer to save face. That is why he sent Mustafa. He will redouble his efforts and release more funds. He will not be a problem until the sting of this failure has gone away. And that will be long enough for us to gain full control.”

“I’m not worried about the Chinese,” Jinn said. “That American was right. His government will move aggressively. They no longer care about borders. We’re not safe here.”

“We shall see,” Sabah said.

“I need a new headquarters,” Jinn insisted, “one they will not suspect. And I must do more to ensure our plan goes into effect, efforts I cannot make from here.”

He pointed to the woman. “Keep her out of the way until the loading is done. Then put her in the third plane, away from the men. I don’t want them near her.”

“She should be guarded,” Sabah said.

“Her will is broken,” Jinn said. “She will soon do as I demand, but if you must have her watched, send two guards, no more. And warn them, Sabah, if they touch her, I will stake them to the ground and set them on fire.”

Sabah nodded. He picked two men and they took Leilani toward one of the waiting transports. As she was dragged away, Kurt and Joe exchanged glances.

Kurt started the engine again and turned in silence toward the last of the yellow drums. He picked it up deftly, an old hand by now. Joe secured it and came back aboard the forklift.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Joe said.

“Don’t try to talk me out of it.”

“Wouldn’t if I could,” Joe replied. “Do you want some help?”

“I’d love some,” Kurt said. “But someone’s got to figure out where these drums are going and warn whoever they’re meant for. This way, we’re not putting all our eggs in one basket.”

They’d reached the truck. Kurt grabbed the lift lever and began to raise the drum.

“As soon as you can get to civilization, contact Dirk. We have to let Paul and Gamay know they have a mole in their midst.”

Joe nodded. “Once you grab that girl, get out of the hornet’s nest. Don’t take on more than you can chew.”

The drum had reached an even level with the truck bed and the rollers. “Hornet’s nest? I thought we established that this was a lion’s den?”

“Lions don’t fly,” Joe said. “Once you’re up in the air, it’s a hornet’s nest.”

“Now you’re getting the hang of this.”

The two men stared at each other for a moment, friends who’d bailed each other out of countless scrapes. Splitting up went against every instinct in their hearts.
Fight together, survive together,
they’d often said. But in this case it would mean abandoning a young woman to a terrible fate or cutting in half their chances to alert the world and their friends of pending danger. The stakes were too high for that.

“You sure about this?” Joe asked.

“You take the low road and I’ll take the high road,” Kurt said, “and I’ll be in civilization before you.”

“Define civilization?” Joe said, unlashing the barrel and sliding it forward.

“Somewhere that no one’s trying to kill us and where you can get an ice-cold Coke if you want one. Last one to reach it buys dinner at Citronelle for the whole team.”

Joe nodded, probably thinking of the menu and the ambience of the well-regarded D.C. area restaurant. “You’re on,” he said, lashing the drum into place.

Kurt watched, feeling a mixed sense of concern and relief. The trucks were not meant for cross-country desert travel, they had to go where the roads went. And even in a country like Yemen, that would soon lead to some area of civilization. With luck, Joe would be quenching his thirst and on the phone to NUMA before dawn. Kurt knew his own prospects were less certain.

Joe grabbed a tarp that would cover the back of the truck. He glanced at Kurt. “
Vaya con Dios,
my friend.”

“You too,” Kurt said.

The tarp dropped, Joe vanished and Kurt backed the forklift away, turning toward the staging area without another glance behind him.

All he had to do now was find out which plane Leilani was on and sneak aboard without being discovered.

CHAPTER 32

JOE ZAVALA HAD HUNKERED DOWN IN THE MOST FORWARD section of the flatbed, between the yellow drums and the front wall. No one had seen him there. Beyond taking a cursory glance from the back end of the truck to count the barrels, no one had even checked. With all accounted for, the tarp had been tied down tight. The doors up front opened and then slammed shut, and the big truck had gone into gear. Soon they were rumbling across the desert.

At periodic intervals, Joe had stealthily checked the surroundings. He’d seen only darkness and sand and the other trucks in the convoy. He wondered where they were headed.

After four hours, they finally began to slow.

“I hope we’re about to hit a rest stop,” Joe muttered to himself. He snuck a peek from under the canvas but saw no sign of civilization. Eventually the truck coasted to a stop, though the engine continued to idle.

Joe wondered whether to make a break for it. He hadn’t really considered jumping from the truck while it crossed the desert because he had no idea where they were and without water he didn’t want to go back into walking mode. At least not until there was somewhere to walk to.

He considered making a break for it now, but a second problem had compounded the first. Somehow, his truck had ended up in the front of the convoy. The other trucks sat behind him with their lights blazing away in the dark. To move now would be like going over the prison wall in broad daylight. He had to wait and hope for a better opportunity up ahead.

Shouting and orders came out of the dark. The big rig lurched as it went back into gear and began to inch forward again. It went over something that felt like a curb, and the flatbed trailer twisted and flexed as each set of wheels crossed whatever it was. The yellow drums shook from side to side. Joe put a hand out to steady the closest one.

“Take it easy on those speed bumps,” he whispered.

Then the nose of the truck angled down as if descending a ramp. The drums strained forward against their lashes, sliding his way. Joe’s sense of anxiety grew.

They leveled out after going no more than fifty feet and then continued forward on much smoother ground. Finally they stopped again. The driver and passenger climbed out, slamming their doors behind them. The lights of the second truck crept closer, penetrating the tarp as they came.

As Joe listened to the sound of the engine and the sound of the shouting voices, he detected an echo. He noticed the smooth ground beneath them after bouncing so long on the desert road and the fact that the truck’s engine had been shut off for the first time.

I’m in a warehouse.

That meant civilization: computers, phone lines and running water. Maybe even a Coke machine in a break room somewhere. A smile crept over his face.

When the lights of the next truck inched up tight and then shut off, Joe was certain of it. He only had to wait until all the trucks were parked and shut down for the night and then he could probably slip out unnoticed.

The smell of diesel fumes grew thick as the other trucks maneuvered back and forth in what must have been a fairly tight space. Finally the last engine shut off. He heard more talking.

“Come on,” he whispered, “everyone out. It’s got to be Miller time by now.”

Voices echoed through the dark for a while longer, but they were slowly growing more distant. The sound of heavy doors sliding shut rang out, and the silence that followed told Joe he was probably alone.

Choosing to be extra cautious, Joe waited in the silence. After a few minutes, he felt it was safe to move. If there were guards, they were probably posted where they could keep people from getting into the warehouse, not out.

Joe made his way past the other barrels and toward the rear of the flatbed.

Kurt really should have come with me, Joe thought. In a few minutes he’d be free of trouble and dialing up NUMA. From there a description of the Be-200s could be relayed to the military, a satellite sweep could identify the traveling planes and Special Forces could be called in. Leilani Tanner would stand a much better chance of being rescued by them than she did with just Kurt and the stolen 9mm pistol he’d taken from the guard.

But this way Joe would be responsible for saving both of them. He was glad for the chance and he looked forward to the satisfaction of having Kurt foot the bill at Citronelle and admitting that he had rescued him.

He reached the tailgate of the flatbed. He pulled the tarp up a fraction and peered out. It was pitch-black in the warehouse. All he could see was the nose of the other truck pressed right up against the rear bumper of his.

Nice parking job.

He listened again for any signs of trouble. He could hear something. It sounded like a distant rumbling. Almost like another truck beyond the walls. Or even the diesel engine of a freight train in the distance. Trains meant rails and rails led places. He found himself growing more excited by the moment.

He untied the rear flap, slid his legs over the edge and lowered himself down. As he turned sideways to fit between the two trucks, an odd sensation came over him, like dizziness or vertigo. Perhaps he’d been sitting too long. Perhaps the lack of water had begun to affect his balance.

He put a hand on the hood of the second truck, steadied himself and let go. He edged out into the space between the two rows of vehicles. The rigs were parked so tightly, they’d had to fold in their mirrors to stop them from breaking off.

With just enough room to walk between the rows, Joe headed toward the end of the rows of trucks and what he assumed was the door through which they’d come in.

The vertigo hit him again and he felt his knees almost buckle. He began to fear some of the microbots had gotten out of the barrels and into his ears. That was the problem with things too small to see: one never knew where they were.

“A Q-Tip,” he mumbled, rubbing his ear, “my kingdom for a Q-Tip.”