by Mich Moore
on."
Kuiper regarded the major with apprehension. "Is this wise? They're videotaping us. They could also be monitoring calls."
"It's on a secure link." He waited for an electronic response. "And it's dead." He hit a button. "The Internet's down, too."
Bautista was standing close by, looking uneasy. "They're using jammers on the transponders."
Hillerman smirked. "Maybe." Hillerman had made no bones about the fact that he believed that the idea of 'Advance South intelligence' was a self-canceling phrase. "More than likely it's a problem in the system itself. It's been giving everybody grief for months."
"So where does that leave us?" Chang pulled up and asked.
"On our own." The major put a pinch of chewing tobacco in his mouth and then continued in a lowered voice. "We're about ninety kilometers out of Paducah. We need to turn our hind parts around and get back over the state line into Illinois. The US-AS can't touch us there."
Chang looked a little surprised at the boldness of the major's plan but he said, "If we leave now it's going to look suspicious."
"Agreed," Hillerman replied. "Let's wait until everyone gets comfy at the inspection stop, and then we can make our move."
Walters entered the conversation. "What about the AIs?"
"All of the buses have floor access to the luggage bays. We'll just keep them down there until we can get out. They can't be down there long, and somebody with technical expertise will have to stay with them in case they start having issues."
Kuiper volunteered. "I'll do it." He smiled. "We need more face time anyway."
"Really?" Powell said in an unhelpful, scoffing tone. "Behind enemy lines? In the butt crack of some lo-fi bus?"
Kuiper offered weak humor to lighten the mood. "It could be worse. We could be in Jersey, behind enemy lines, in the butt crack of some lo-fi bus."
Powell could not help but smile at that. "Ahh, always the jokes with these mad scientists."
"Besides," Kuiper continued. "Socialization will by necessity have to take place whenever and wherever. Not just when it's convenient."
Hillerman spat out some tobacco juice and surveyed their surroundings. There was the interstate, still backed up for quite a stretch. To the right were gentle foothills covered with black dirt and brush. To the left, the land flattened out like a lumpy pancake and stretched westward towards infinity. With the exception of a stumpy mesa perhaps four kilometers out, that horizon had no discernible features. "I used to fish near here with my dad. Largemouth bass just itching for the frying pan. Those were good times."
"Well, they're sure over now," Powell quipped.
As promised, the traffic slowly began to pick up, and the kilometers-long backup began a steady roll. Eight kilometers later, the flat no-man's land virtually exploded into a dynamic, three-dimensional business center. Dusty parking lots surrounded fast food joints along with a few high-end, mom-and-pop shops. Authentic looking general stores hawked "genuine" Navajo blankets and moccasins. All of the largest gasoline companies were represented with gleaming facilities and freshly scrubbed teenagers standing near the pumps to hand out five-dollar gas coupons to any takers. The centerpiece was a spanking new Stuckey's. Atop it and every other building hung a blue-and-white Advance South flag one meter below the Stars and Stripes. The flags hung lifeless in the hot, stagnant air.
Every ten minutes or so, several parking attendants allowed a glut of cars, mobile homes, and big rigs into an area cordoned off with yellow tape, and then set up orange cones to block further ingress. All three of the Redstone buses made it in during the second intake. They were directed to park in the Stuckey's parking lot alongside several other multi-axle vehicles. As soon as they parked, Hillerman hopped out and huddled with Chang and Brady. After a brief conference, they decided to wait half an hour before slipping off unnoticed via one of the back streets. As soon as word was spread to the other team members, everyone beat a hasty retreat to the cool airs of the nearby stores.
At the Stuckey's, the store manager himself was stationed at the front door, greeting customers with a jolly grin. "Hullo! Welcome to Kentucky's favorite roadside attraction! Come on in and grab some AC! And remember: all pecan logs are half off today!"
There were perhaps one hundred people filing in and out of the cavernous store. Bautista, Powell, and Chang picked up bottled waters and ice cream. Derek and Tara were shopping the toy aisle, no doubt hoping to find something that might interest the DATs later. Broussard found himself staring at handcrafted bows and elaborate headdresses. He had been thinking of Grace Montgomery; she might like a souvenir from their trip. He checked out some turquoise jewelry. The prices were exorbitant, so he moved on to the various dream catchers hung from the ceiling. One was very similar to the one that had hung in Doctor Navarro's office back at the Hills. Unfortunately, their prices weren't much better.
A festive display of postcards caught his eye, and he selected four of them.
Broussard stepped forward without paying much attention to where he was going and bumped into a rather beefy fellow carrying a large pecan log in his shopping basket. Broussard recognized him right away. It was the unhappy trucker that he had met at the outside cafe in Chicago. He was still wearing the John Deere cap, only it looked cleaner now. He reintroduced himself. The man had a fuzzy recollection of their Chicago encounter but proved friendly enough. His name was Ron Daley, and he was driving a heavy load south. The big man placed an energy drink and a pack of cigarettes next to the log. "Hard to believe that Kentucky's thrown in with these kooks." He spoke loudly enough for anyone within four meters to hear him.
Broussard did not respond directly to the trucker's statement. "You know smoking causes cancer?"
Daley's jaws tightened. "Buddy, that's the least of my worries." They both fell into a long line to the checkout counter. The trucker lowered his voice. "This little detour is the last thing I need. It's gonna kill my payday."
"Where you headed?"
"Dallas. And my cargo's not going to make it if I get hung up here and down the line." They inched up. He stuck his face in close and whispered, "I'm thinking 'bout turning it around and cutting through Missouri and Arkansas. Which would be a good thing, 'cause I hear they aren't weighing any commercial trucks going through."
"Aren't they already AS states?"
"Yeah, but the Teamsters have a treaty with most of these counties. The road gangs might be a problem, though."
Broussard nodded. "Might be a good time to be in a gang of your own."
"That's what I was thinking."
They finally reached the counter. Broussard paid for the postcards and then headed outside again. He walked out into the parking lot a ways and watched several state troopers begin to divert some of the multi-ton vehicles to an empty lot across the street. He observed for a minute or so and then turned back to find the others. For some reason, Daley was trailing him. They exchanged a few more pleasantries, and then the engineer quickly shook the other man off. He made a hard right turn back toward Stuckey's veranda. There he found Roger and Herschel standing in the shade enjoying Slurpees. The two men were busy trading complaints about the Kentucky state police. Broussard was about to inform them of what he had just seen across the street when Bautista came huffing over. "They've got dogs."
"Where?" Roger asked.
Bautista pointed to a police cruiser parked five vehicles down from where they stood. There were two professional-grade Dobermans staring through the backseat window; police badges hung from the thick chains around their necks.
"Narcs." Roger exclaimed. "We should have thought of that three kilometers back. Shoot!" He chewed on his lower lip.
Bautista stroked his moustache. "The last thing we need is a DAT busting out and doing a ninja assassin number."
Hillerman emerged from the store, and they filled him in on the situation.
He dismissed their concerns. "The DATs can't see through the baggage area unless they're actively scanning. And they aren't."
"I checked. I saw the dogs when we pulled in."
Broussard moved closer and whispered into Hillerman's ear. "We've got another problem."
Hillerman clearly looked like he did not want to hear about it, but Broussard pressed on. "They're using their scales. Look." He pointed across the street to the auxiliary lot, which was quickly filling up with trucks, recreational vehicles, and commercial buses. "With our extra armor, they'll be figuring out that we weigh more than we should."
The major's face was a mask of discontent. Brady and Chang joined them. Each of them held cold drinks. "If they've got scales, then they've got x-rays," Hillerman deduced further. "They won't be able to get a picture of our insides. Either way, they'll be suspicious." He spat tobacco cud out onto the ground. "We've got to get back to Illinois—now."
"How?" Chang asked. "We're practically surrounded." And he was right. Every parking lot, every storefront, every path of egress, was filled to near capacity with state troopers, detoured travelers and locals.
Hillerman nodded towards a partially paved service road that ran behind the Stuckey's and several concurrent gas stations and casinos, back up the way that they had come from. "We'll have to create a diversion. And then somehow cut a path out to that back street."
Bautista expressed his skepticism. "That would have to be one big-ass diversion."
"Don't worry. We'll