The Nevada Job

by Vince Milam

  “I’ll hike overland and position for a clean look at their guard shack,” I said. “I’ll call when ready.”

  “Roger that,” Marcus said.

  Two hundred yards later, I slid into a steep dry wash and eased my way toward KDB’s entrance road. The gulley played out, and I kept low against rock outcrops, weaving forward, never offering my profile against the sky. The breeze was light, the day warmed, chukars clucked from nearby rimrock. I covered the final twenty yards belly-flat. At one hundred yards distance, protected with rocks and thick sagebrush, I used my riflescope and checked the guard shack. Two Spetsnaz pulled guard duty, the same as before. One sat with feet propped on another chair. The other stood and leaned against the structure, smoking. All quiet on the Western Front. Bluetooth ear mic in place, I dialed Marcus.

  “You’re good to go.”

  “Roger. Once he finished cussing at his earpiece, Catch dialed in, so we have three-way comms.”

  “Roger that,” Catch said.

  We kept our satellite phone call active for continuous communications. Ten minutes later, both guards exited the shack with binoculars and sighted toward the distance. Marcus and Catch hadn’t made the intersection yet, but their dust plume was visible long before the vehicle was. I heard Marcus’s SUV rattle as it slowed and rolled past KDB’s entrance. Both guards eyeballed his vehicle, and its occupants, without excitement. Once Marcus had passed, a guard used a handheld radio and reported the vehicle’s passing. Then they both assumed their previous positions and relaxed, bored. I belly-crawled backward until I’d gained better cover and more distance.

  “You guys don’t merit much excitement,” I said. “They checked your vehicle, reported it, and returned to boredom city.”

  “Good,” Marcus replied. “I’ll pull over a mile down the road, and Catch will deploy.”

  “You mean release the kraken,” Catch said. “I’ll sign off this call until there’s something worth reporting.”

  He’d work a half-mile into the rock outcrops and sagebrush and gullies. Then scour the surrounding turf and seek in-place snipers. If all clear, he’d position with a guard shack view and observe their reaction as I rolled past.

  I reversed my initial course and made it back to the vehicle. During brief spells when the breeze wasn’t working through the sagebrush, I could hear KDB’s heavy equipment in the distance. So far, this was a clean ops. Weird, but clean. Marcus waited at his SUV while Catch did his thing. Two battle brothers who’d hauled it here because I’d gotten my ass in a crack. All so I could access Exponent’s site, talk with their manager, check things out, and leave. And all because I wouldn’t walk away from this mess. The entire thing was freakin’ ridiculous.

  What a long, strange trip it had been. From the Chaco to Nevada. I’d facilitated a small revolt, blown up vehicles, killed men. With honest sincerity, I’d backed off the throttle for the stateside work. But my Bolivian actions followed me, made me a target. Simko played for keeps, and I sat in his crosshairs, stateside or not.

  Underlying the current ops and left unspoken were brittle feelings toward bullies and heavy-handed intimidation. Victor Simko, lead bully. A billionaire throwing his weight around left a foul taste in all our mouths. A component of his weight were the Spetsnaz operators. Foreign special ops acting with impunity on our turf. Little discussed among us, it no doubt grated on Marcus and Catch as much as it did me.

  But all that was white noise. What overrode everything was the simple fact that enemies had come after me with deadly intent. And that singular reality, more than all the rest combined, had triggered my friends to action. They had my back, as always. Neither cared about the job or Simko or anything other than I was in danger. In danger because I was bullheaded and wouldn’t walk away. I was beyond fortunate having their brotherhood.

  Forty-five minutes later, Catch rejoined the call.

  “No bogies. Maybe Case intimidated them into submission.”

  “Maybe it was my winning ways and bright smile.”

  “Maybe you two should shut up. Catch, cover the guard shack and let us know when you are in position.”

  “He hasn’t had his fiber this morning,” Catch said.

  “Either that, or it’s grumblings to cover his age-related ailments.”

  “Don’t think for one second I can’t still kick both your asses. Everyone shut up until Catch has the guard shack covered.”

  We did. Thirty minutes later, Catch checked in.

  “I’ve got them. Two bored and idle Russkies. It’s party time, Case. Show them your ass as you pass.”

  I drove at normal speeds the half-mile, my dust plume evident.

  “Movement,” Catch said. “They both see dust and have binoculars ready.”

  Approaching the entrance intersection, I let off the speed, eased past, and stared their way.

  “Why, you are popular,” Catch said. “The two got all excited, squawked on the handheld, and are talking among themselves with some hand-waving.”

  “Case, join me, and we’ll roll on to the Canadians. Catch, stay put and monitor activities.”

  Both Catch and I returned two taps against our ear mics as affirmatives. I passed Marcus and continued on. He joined me, staying a couple hundred yards behind, and avoided my dust. When we arrived at Exponent’s site the same woman I’d met earlier, Mercy, sat under the shade tent. I stopped, Marcus pulled in behind me, and Mercy approached. Someone had beaten the living hell out of her. One black eye, split lip, and swollen jaw. She still wore a smile. Marcus and I exited our vehicles and met her.

  After introductions, I asked, “Did Deputy Willis do that?”

  “For the last time.” She slid a hammerless S&W .38 pistol from her back pocket. “I will shoot the SOB if he tries it again.”

  “I’m so sorry, Mercy. I talked with him yesterday but made sure not to mention you. I’m so, so sorry.”

  “Don’t be. It’s part of the deal in mining country. Plugging that bastard five times in the chest the next time he tries is also part of the deal. Are you here for Sam?”

  “I am.”

  “I told him you had dropped in and would come back. When I said Case, he knew the name.”

  “Yeah, well, he may have heard about some work I did at another mining site. You sure you’re okay?”

  “I’m sure. I’ll radio and let Sam know you’re coming his way.”

  Unlike KDB’s operations, Exponent sat silent. Protecting his people, Sam Everson had shut it down until they settled matters. On the way toward his office trailer, the three-way line activated. Catch, reporting in.

  “Your popularity knows no bounds, little buddy. They’ve sent two men out, both armed with scoped rifles. I’m so proud of you.”

  “I’m here to make you happy, bud.”

  “I’ll stay on their tail. Don’t you worry. I’ve got your back.”

  Oh, man. Flip the escalation switch and watch events go sideways. I had minimal personal concern. My high desert guardian would take them out if needed. Which would also sound the starter pistol for further conflict. This had gotten out of hand.

  Sam Everson met us with a wary smile. He was middle-aged, fit, and tanned.

  “There was a lot of scuttlebutt flying around headquarters regarding you,” he said. “Such as, who the heck is this guy?”

  “Simple private investigator, Sam.”

  “We understood things were less than simple on the Chaco.”

  “It looks like you’ve got similar issues here.”

  “Have a seat. Coffee?”

  He poured three cups. Sam and Marcus hit it off, both being cigar smokers. I asked if we could move it outside if they were both firing up. We did.

  “Help me understand,” Sam said as we gathered under the trailer’s overhang. “Who do you work for?”

  “I never know. It might be one of your silent partners,” I said, tossing Sam a bone. “The Brits, maybe, although they had a representative on the Chaco.”

  “You l
ive in a strange world.”

  “A damn fine assessment,” Marcus said. “One I’ve repeated often.”

  “Those silent partners,” I said. “Any idea who they are besides the British?”

  “Well, I’m like you in that regard. The answer is far above my pay grade. So, no. You guys want a tour?”

  We did. Sam drove us around the site in his vehicle. We stopped at grinding and milling and processing areas. He explained individual functions and equipment and workflows, taking clear pride in his operations. At each stop, Marcus would wander and check machinery, a tie back to his ranching occupation where tractors and dozers and hay cutters and balers were a rancher’s stock-in-trade.

  Catch called us during an early stop.

  “There was a dust trail that never made it to me. The vehicle must have turned into Simko’s place. Me and the two Russkies are a good mile away from there.”

  “Got it,” I said. “Anything new on the shooters?”

  “Nope. The three of us are hiding in wait. You want me to take them out?”

  “No, we do not,” Marcus replied. “Stand by.”

  “Who was that?” Sam asked when Catch signed off.

  “A friend,” I said.

  “What was the shooter reference?”

  “A couple of KDB’s guys who’ve been taking shots at your vehicles. Our friend is watching them.”

  Sam Everson eyeballed Marcus and me, shook his head, said nothing, and continued the tour.

  “This is clearly a rich area for rare earth materials,” I said at the next stop.

  “It’s a good one. A really good one. I have managed gold, silver, and copper mining operations. The whole rare earths thing is new for me. It is funny how tiny bits of benign-looking dirt are worth more than gold. Welcome to the computer age, I suppose.”

  We completed the tour and collected under the office trailer overhang when Catch called again.

  “There are fresh developments, hot off the press. I didn’t think this would be activity central while you two kicked the tires at a mining site. Life is good.”

  “Do you plan on informing us?” Marcus asked. “Or do we wait and play desert Jeopardy?”

  “How about Russkie snipers for four hundred?”

  “How about you hope I stop on the way back to pick your crazy ass up?”

  “Man, you’re getting grumpier every year. The two hitters jabbered on their handheld radios for a minute, then packed it up and headed back toward the camp.”

  Marcus and I exchanged uncertain looks.

  “But that’s not all,” Catch said, and went silent.

  After fifteen seconds, Marcus said, “I swear, Catch. You wear me down to a nub.”

  “The dust trail showed up again and passed below me. A tricked-out SUV with Elko County Sheriff on the door. He’s headed your way.”

  “What did he look like?” I asked.

  “A cop.”

  We exchanged a few more choice words, and Catch signed off. Sam, standing nearby, lifted one eyebrow our way.

  “You’ve got a visitor coming,” I said. “County sheriff vehicle. Odds are it’s Reggie Willis.”

  “I don’t see much point in that,” Sam said. “He’s been nothing but useless.”

  I wrapped up my interview.

  “KDB is blowing and going,” I said. “How’s their position?”

  “We haven’t assayed their site, but I imagine it’s very much like ours. Two successful and similar operations not too far apart.”

  “There’s one similarity that’s missing. They are working. You’re not.”

  He kicked at sandy dirt and frowned.

  “We have challenges. But we also have a plan.”

  “Do you mind sharing it?”

  “I wouldn’t under normal circumstances. But after what you did in Bolivia, we owe you one.”

  He went on to explain that head office had committed to a political tack. Play the game, same as Simko. Hire their own lobbyist, hand out campaign contributions, leverage any and all government relationships.

  “Your competitor owns that strategy, doesn’t he?”

  “Look, it’s a viable approach. It is the only approach, now. Unless you have a private dynamite cache.”

  He smiled. I perceived he only halfway joked. I liked this guy. Sam Everson came across as a straight shooter, and one who pressed for a more aggressive approach with the head office. I asked a few more clarifying questions regarding his workforce numbers, timelines, and product transport. It would be eight months before they were at full production… if they started operations again. A big if. I mentioned a few items that might help his efforts.

  “I talked with the county law. Sheriff Garza. He seems like a solid individual.”

  “I called him once, and he put me in touch with that deputy, Willis,” Sam said. “Like I said, useless. I don’t enjoy jumping to conclusions, but I have a feeling the deputy is on Simko’s payroll.”

  “Yeah, I’ve met with him, too. And you’re right. But Garza may shake things up in that regard. Just an FYI.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

  “There’s also a minor matter regarding site security. Your setup is pretty typical, from what I understand. Your competitor has a unique approach. They’ve hired former special ops guys from Russia. They’re called Spetsnaz. And they play for keeps. That’s more than an FYI, Sam. That’s a giant red flag snapping in the wind.”

  Chapter 31

  The county vehicle made its way toward us, parked, and Sheriff Manuel Garza stepped out. He approached, nodded my way, said, “Mr. Lee,” and asked Marcus and Sam, “Which of you two is the site manager?”

  Sam Everson introduced himself. They shook hands.

  “Mr. Everson, from now on you deal with me. Deputy Willis has decided to explore other career options. Are we clear on that?”

  Translation: Garza had fired Deputy Willis. Sam smiled and nodded agreement.

  “Can we talk in private?” Garza asked.

  They stepped into the office trailer. Marcus and I waited. The Zippo clacked, a cigar fired.

  “This may work out better than we could have dreamed,” Marcus said.

  “Looks that way.”

  We both enjoyed the tour and chatted about the mining operations.

  “Most of the kit here is Canadian manufacture. There’s also some British equipment,” Marcus said.

  “Doesn’t surprise me.”

  “What may surprise you is a decent amount is Israeli manufactured. I’ve never run into their equipment before. Pumps, electric motors, hydraulic rams. It’s impressive stuff.”

  “I’d be less surprised than you’d think.”

  The breeze picked up, the sun high in the sky. An acrid sagebrush tang carried with the wind, and cumulus clouds drifted overhead. Several stark mountains poked skyward ten and twenty miles distant. Not mountain ranges as much as jagged inhospitable islands surrounded with rugged, rocky terrain. I could see how this big-sky country could get into a person’s blood.

  Garza and Sam exited the trailer.

  “You follow me, Mr. Everson. We’ll get there a little early, which is the way I prefer it. I’ll buy you a soda pop.”

  “I’d like these two guys with me.”

  Garza stopped, turned, eyeballed us, and asked Sam, “Why?”

  “I guess because Antonov will have his entourage at the meeting. I’d like mine. You fellows don’t mind, do you?”

  “What the hell are you two talking about?” Marcus asked.

  “Sheriff Garza has put together a Montello meeting so we can straighten all this out,” Sam said.

  “That’s not quite right, Mr. Everson. I’ve put together a meeting to read the riot act for all parties concerned.”

  “We’ll be your entourage,” I said.

  “We will?” Marcus asked with all the enthusiasm of a man with a pending root canal appointment.

  “No worries, Sam,” I said. “We’ll follow you and the sheriff.” />
  As Marcus and I walked toward our vehicles, he said, “I swear, son. Leave it to you to fail to notice the large flashing exit sign. Entourage?”

  “Don’t you want to meet these SOBs?”

  “No.”

  “I do. They tried putting me in a hospital and tried whacking me and set up an ambush this morning so they could finish the job. So yeah, I want to eyeball these asshats.”

  Four vehicles rolled south, Garza in the lead. The wind now blew hard enough west-to-east so our convoy wasn’t eating each other’s dust trails. Marcus activated the party line, called Catch, and informed him there’d be a pickup in twenty or thirty minutes. A mile from KDB’s entrance road, I spotted the bear sprawled across a large boulder beside the road. He was butt naked, on his back, catching rays. The sheriff slowed, rolled past him, and stopped. I hit the brakes and leapt out to mitigate a Garza/Catch interaction. Marcus didn’t deign to leave his vehicle, still pissed over the entourage thing. Finding Catch naked on a boulder was business as usual for him.

  As I approached, Garza asked, “Sir, are you alright?”

  “Oh, man,” Catch said, eyes closed, face skyward. “A full-body sun bath. Maximum exposure, baby.”

  “C’mon, Catch. We’ve got to roll into Montello. Big meeting on the books.”

  “With who?”

  “Spetsnaz.”

  “Cool!”

  He rolled off the boulder and began dressing.

  “Another member of the entourage?” Garza asked me.

  “I suppose you could say that.”

  “I suppose I will say that. Sir, while you’re covering your magnificence with clothing, do you mind telling me where you are from?”

  “Portland. We don’t get these desert days there.”

  “I guess you don’t. And your other friend, Mr. Lee? Where might he live?”

  “Fishtail.”

  “Fishtail. Is that a census-designated place in the contiguous United States?”

  “It is. Montana.”

  “Montana. Right. And you live on a boat. Somewhere along the East Coast. Why, it all makes perfect sense.”

  “I admit it sounds a tad peculiar when you say it.”

  “Imagine that. And now, the entourage has assembled in my county. I couldn’t be more pleased. Are there any more?”