18 Wheel Avenger

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  “I understand.”

  “Hang in, Cutter.”

  When the AF special team had left, Barry turned to look at Cutter, who was certainly pleasing to the eyes. “Get changed into civilian clothes, Meri; out of those field clothes. We’re going to take a run in my rig. I want to see how you operate.”

  She operated very well, Barry thought, after deliberately putting her in a couple of tight situations—right in the middle of downtown Albuquerque. They headed south on Interstate 25, cut east on highway 60, back north on 285, and then back to the base on Interstate 40.

  He put her through the paces and she handled herself well. Rusty at first, for it had been several years since she’d sat behind the wheel of an 18-wheeler, but as the miles rolled by, her confidence returned. Barry made no effort to hide his smile as they pulled into the compound at Kirtland and Cutter deliberately backed between the rigs of Ready and Frenchy—with just about two inches to spare on either side of the mirrors.

  Meri shut the rig down and looked at Barry. “Did I pass, teacher?”

  “With flying colors, Cutter. Now the hard part begins.”

  “And that is?”

  “We start getting shot at.”

  It came as no surprise to Barry when Jackson informed them they would be confined to the base for the duration. Barry had already warned his drivers to expect that.

  And he also warned them that they had best get some rest, for he had a hunch that tomorrow they would start undergoing some hard-assed training.

  They were shown the building where they would live during their time at Kirtland; it was comfortable, with a pool table, TVs, and separate living quarters. Their meals would be brought to them.

  “I feel like I’m back in the goddamn Army!” Mustard bitched.

  “You are,” Barry told him. “In a manner of speaking. And,” he warned them, “this is going to be just as dangerous and deadly as ’Nam. So pay attention to what your instructors tell you. They’re trying not only to teach you all something about terrorists and how they act, but also to possibly save your lives. I’ll see you all in the morning.”

  He left them with that. He had subdued them considerably.

  Barry stepped outside just as dusk was gently pushing aside the day. Cutter was sitting on the steps in front of the building.

  Barry sat down beside her.

  Without looking at him, she said, “All our intelligence is showing the various terrorist groups around the world are linking up. Some more than others, of course. But it is coming together.”

  “Bottom line?”

  “America is going to get a hard jolt back into reality, very soon, we believe. If it isn’t too late for us.”

  “You believe it is?”

  “Borderlining.”

  “Well, at last something is coming along that I can sink my teeth into.”

  She met his eyes. Ten thousand questions in them. Questions he knew she would never ask.

  “We’ll be operating from both sides of the law, Barry. I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know. But I feel it’s something the other drivers should know.”

  “You know as well as I do that ninety-nine percent of this country’s truck drivers are red, white and blue Americans. Whatever it takes to combat terrorism, they’ll do, and to hell with the do-gooders who moan about the rights of criminals.”

  Her smile was hard. “Without asking any leading questions about just what exactly you do … How many truckers do you believe are aware of you?”

  “Quite a few. But I’m not discussed on the CBs.”

  She nodded her head. Barry knew there would be no more questions about his life.

  His life. His past life. Kate.

  They had not been married long. Heading back to his offices outside Washington. Barry, Kate, Dog. Traveling in Barry’s pickup with the camper top.

  They had enjoyed a late breakfast and then packed up. Kate got behind the wheel.

  Dog barked.

  “Maybe he wants to go for a walk,” Kate said, smiling at him, blue eyes shining. “You take him. I’ll warm up the truck.”

  “Come on, Dog,” Barry said. “Time for you to do your business.”

  Barry and Dog walked across the concrete to the grassy area. While Dog ran and sniffed, looking for a good spot to mark, Barry heard the pickup’s engine crack. White-hot heat struck him hard, just as a tremendous sound wave knocked him sprawling to the ground. Out of his blurring and shocked eyes, he could see Dog rolling end over end on the ground. He could hear the sounds of falling debris: chunks of metal and glass and plastic hitting the earth.

  Barry could feel a warm stickiness running down his face.

  Blood.

  He was burning; his shirt was on fire.

  But where was the pain?

  He tried to roll over. He could not. None of his extremities would obey commands from his brain. Red tinged with a strange darkness began enveloping him as the pain reached him.

  Dog was barking, an angry note to the sound.

  “Kate!” Barry yelled, but her name was only a whisper coming out of his mouth.

  And then Barry knew nothing as a cold hand touched him lightly with bony fingers.

  “You went away,” Cutter said.

  “I do that every now and then. But never on the job,” Barry assured her.

  “I’d like to talk more, but I’m afraid of stepping over into sensitive areas.”

  “I’ll let you know if that happens.”

  “How’d you get into the business you’re in?”

  “You just stepped over. How did you get into this business?”

  “He said, shifting smoothly.” She laughed. “ROTC in college. Before I even got through my second year, they discovered I had a flair for the clandestine. They made me an offer I couldn’t refuse, so to speak. OCS. A lot of school. Worked for a time with the AF Office of Special Investigations. That was mostly analysis of field intelligence and weaponry training. Went through some CIA training and learned to blow things up and also to think and act like terrorists. That’s very important when dealing with those kinds of nitwits. I’ve been overseas, working with foreign governments in tracking down threats to U.S. facilities and aiding in the interrogations.”

  “Your life has been interesting, to say the least.”

  “Somehow,” she said drily, “I have this feeling my life has not been nearly as interesting as yours.”

  “Don’t give up hoping.”

  “Well, the sad thing about all this terrorism business, is that while we can train personnel from CIA, DOE, ATF, State Department and the various services—and we do—we are forbidden to teach civilian police. And that’s sad. Because it’s the local cops who are going to have to bear the brunt of dealing with terrorism when it hits our shores. And it’s coming. Very soon.”

  Ready and Frenchy and Smooth and Mustard had stepped out of the building, standing behind Barry and Cutter, quietly listening.

  “You boys join us,” Barry motioned for them to gather around on the steps. “We’re going back to school.” When they had made themselves as comfortable as possible, Barry asked Cutter, “Bring us up to date, please.”

  “That would take weeks. I’ll give you a thumbnail report. Let’s start with the IRA. The Irish Republican Army. Some of them are freedom fighters, but not this bunch. They’re extremists—a splinter group known as I-7 just as bad as any terrorist group working anywhere around the globe. They torture, they rape, they maim, they kill, they destroy. They’re terrorists, any way one wants to look at it logically.

  “The Irish-Americans don’t want to be told and don’t believe it when we try to tell them that certain elements within the IRA—breakaway groups such as I-7—have direct links with the Palestinian terrorists, the E.T.A.—that’s the Basque Separatist Movement—the Bader-Meinhof gang and the Red Brigades. And that’s just naming a few.

  “It may be difficult for you men to believe, but we know that for the past two decades,
terrorist groups have been co-operating closely, even when they have no philosophical or political grounds to share. They train together. They oftentimes share the same instructors. They provide safe houses for each other. They also collaborate in the buying and the smuggling of weapons. Damn it!” She spat out the word. “When someone helps one terrorist group they’re helping them all.”

  The door had opened and closed.

  “How are they working the money end of it?” Barry asked.

  “What do you mean?” She looked up as Smooth handed her a can of beer. “Thanks.”

  He passed the beer around. Compliments of the United States Air Force.

  “More specifically, the buying of arms.”

  “Well, say a bank or an armored car is knocked over in … well, wherever … London. That money is very unlikely to be used to buy guns for the I-7 directly. For obvious reasons.”

  She waited for Barry to pick it up. He did.

  “The connection would be too easy to trace.”

  “Right. So instead, a dummy company will have been set up in, say, Italy or Greece or Switzerland and that money will be used to buy guns and bombs for the ETA. Then the Spanish Separatists may well use monies collected for the IRA in America to buy guns from Lebanon. A combined smuggling operation is then set up—part to go to the Basque, part to go to the I-7.”

  “Slick,” Mustard muttered. “These guys we’re dealing with ain’t idiots.”

  “Far from it. Many are highly educated. At some of the finest schools in the world. Some are just streetwise, educated by the best terrorist trainers to be found.”

  “I’m curious about something,” Barry said, after a swig of beer. “Why doesn’t the Department of Justice move in on groups like this NORAID and put them out of business?”

  “They tried. They’re still trying. Under the terms of the Foreign Agents Registration Act, NORAID has had an office in Belfast since the early 1970s. Many NORAID associates have been arrested and convicted; but still the group claims they are a charity working to provide aid for the victims of British terrorism in Northern Ireland. And of course, any thinking person knows that is nothing more than pure bullshit.”

  “How many Americans contribute to the I-7?” Frenchy asked.

  “We don’t know, although it’s believed that some Americans do make substantial contributions, and they know perfectly well their money is going to kill people. But they have been brainwashed into believing their money is going to a fine and noble cause. Fighting for freedom.”

  “Well, I’m dumb,” Smooth said, “but I ain’t that dumb!”

  “Neither are those who contribute,” Cutter replied, disgust thickening her voice. “That’s what I mean about the contributors knowing they are buying guns and bombs to kill people.”

  “I wonder how high up in our government this thing goes?” Barry asked, the question not directed at anyone in particular.

  “Meaning…?” Cutter looked at him.

  He met her gaze. “Elected, appointed, or civil service employees.”

  She shrugged. “We have reason to believe that some in our government may support I-7 but no proof that they ever directly gave aid to I-7 or any other terrorist group.”

  They sat for a time in the New Mexico night, Cutter sipping at her beer, Barry and the others silently absorbing all that she had told them.

  Ready said, “I seen a lot of old people and babies killed in ’Nam. Well, not a lot, but a hell of a lot more than I wanted to see. I don’t believe in terrorism. No matter what the cause. It’s just wrong.” He stood up and walked into the building, the other drivers following him one by one.

  Cutter stood up. “Going to be a long day tomorrow, Barry. Good night.”

  Barry sat for a time, holding his empty can. He felt the past slipping up on him, as it sometimes did when a particular mood struck him, touching him with gentle hands of remembrance.

  He had taken a leave of absence from his Maryland firm; Barry hadn’t had a vacation in years. He had tossed some gear into his pickup truck and headed south, to New Orleans, to see his father, Big Joe Rivers, who ran a large trucking company. His CB had conked out on him just outside of Biloxi, on Interstate 10, and he had pulled into a truck stop. After a sandwich, he bought a new Midland and installed it.

  “You gonna test that thing out, Citizen?” a female voice spoke from behind him.

  Barry turned, and looked into the face of an angel.

  “Uh … yeah. Just as soon as I get on the road.”

  “Which way you headin’?”

  She was perhaps five-three. Blonde. Hair the color of corn. A traffic-stopping figure. Blue eyes.

  “West. Into New Orleans.”

  “Yeah? Me, too. You watch them motherfuckin’ cops just this side of Slidell. They’ll nail your ass to the wall.”

  An angel with a garbage can for a mouth.

  Barry stared at her.

  “You ever drive a truck, boy?”

  “Long time ago. Why, does it show?”

  “Yeah. Kind of, I guess. You lookin’ for a job?”

  “Could be. Who do you drive for?”

  “Big Joe Rivers.”

  Barry had to hide his smile. He’d make a bet this little waif-looking blonde watched her gutter mouth around his dad. Big Joe could and did cuss … but not around women, and he didn’t like women using bad language.

  “Yeah? I’ve heard talk about Rivers Trucking. About them having mob troubles. Maybe I’d prefer to eat less and go on living.”

  She put both hands on shapely hips and hung a cussin’ on Barry. “Goddamnchickenshityankeebastard!”

  Barry laughed at this mighty mite. “Whoa! I didn’t say I wasn’t interested. I’m just telling you what I heard, that’s all.”

  “This dude givin’ you trouble, Kate?” a man’s voice came from behind Barry.

  Barry cut his eyes. A driver holding a wooden tire knocker stood just behind them.

  “Goddamn coward is all!” She spat the words.

  “Maybe he’s just got good sense,” another voice was added.

  Kate whirled around. “What the hell do you mean, Cotton-mouth?”

  “I heard it all. Just gettin’ out of my bunk. This guy didn’t do nothin’ to deserve that cussin’ you hung on him. You can’t blame a man for wantin’ to stay alive.”

  “Why don’t you take that boot you’re holdin’ and stuff it in your mouth?” Kate yelled at him. “And stay the hell out of my business.”

  “Whoa!” Barry said, holding up a hand. Cottonmouth was hopping around, trying unsuccessfully to tug on his boot. “This thing is getting out of hand.”

  “Well, you just apologize to Kate and we’ll forget it,” the East Texas Motor Freight man said.

  Barry looked at him. “Apologize? For what?”

  “ ’Cause I said so, buddy,”

  Barry’s Cajun temper was rapidly coming to the boiling point. “Partner,” he said to the ETMF driver, “you better get off my back before I kick your butt so hard you’re gonna feel like you been ridin’ that camel all day instead of your rig.” He pointed to the logo painted on the trailer of the ETMF man.

  “He probably feels that way now,” a third man spoke. “I drove something that raggedly-assed lookin’, I’d be ashamed to call myself a trucker.”

  Truck drivers insult each other on the average of about ten thousand times a day—per state. The ETMF man just grinned. But his grin was not directed toward Barry.

  “You gonna apologize, boy?”

  “Hell, no!” Barry told him.

  “Then I think I’ll just whip your ass.”

  “With or without your club, hotshot?”

  The tire knocker was tossed to the man who’d insulted him. “Hold that. And don’t steal it, you hound-dog-lookin’ thing.”

  “Hell, who’d want it!”

  The driver grinned at Barry and swung. But Barry had anticipated the punch and sidestepped it. The ETMF man slipped on a grease spot and fell down.


  “Them are brand-new jeans!” he bitched.

  “Damn, boy!” Kate yelled. “Defendin’ me is one thing, but you gotta stand up to do it!”

  “Give me time, Kate!”

  “I ought to kick your face in,” Barry told the man. “But I feel sorry for you. If I was taking this fight seriously, you’d be dead by now.”

  “I think I’d pay heed to his words,” Cottonmouth suggested. He finally had managed to get his boot on.

  “Stay out of this, you damn hog-hauler!” The ETMF man got to his feet and assumed the classic boxer’s stance, shuffling toward Barry.

  Barry kicked him on the kneecap and clubbed him on the neck with a balled fist as the driver went down.

  “Driver,” Barry told him, “I don’t want to hurt you. Let’s just call this off before you make me mad.”

  A crowd had gathered and several drivers stepped in and pulled the ETMF man to his feet. His eyes looked glazed.

  “That’s it,” a driver said. “It’s over. You gonna get hurt bad if you keep this up.”

  “Suits the hell outta me,” the ETMF man agreed.

  “Put some ice on that knee,” Barry told him. “Keep it from stiffening up.”

  “You a wahoo, boy,” Cottonmouth said, stepping forward and extending his hand. Barry shook it. “What’s your handle?”

  “Dog,” Barry told him.

  “You two gonna kiss each other?” Kate asked, disgust in her voice.

  Barry looked at her. “Miss, has anybody ever told you that you’re a little troublemaker?”

  “Has anybody ever told you to go get fucked!” she hollered at him, then whirled around and marched toward the truck stop restaurant.

  “Kate!” Cottonmouth yelled, stopping her. “Tell Big Joe I’ll be in soon as I drop this load off in Beaumont. That is, if he still wants to hire me.”

  “He does. And bring hotshot there with you. That is, if he’s got the balls to drive for a real outfit.”

  Barry smiled at her. “You’d be surprised what I can drive, Spitfire.”

  “You probably couldn’t drive a vacuum cleaner around a livin’ room!” She marched off into the truck stop.

  “Kate Sherman,” Cottonmouth said. “She’s really something, ain’t she?”