by Dan Ames
Except for a mysterious coworker named Sandy, whose name had been whispered during the night. Not much to go on. Certainly not much to take to the cops.
Plus, Cassady was pregnant.
The more she thought about it, the more she felt Rick Simmons was the key. Cassady was just a distraction. Or maybe insurance.
Rick’s story was tied up with Rio Grande Trucking, which shared an address with two thugs in a Crown Vic.
Pauling’s thoughts returned to Sandy.
How could she find the woman if she couldn’t even find the company itself? Pauling paced and thought. She rolled her head from side to side. She wished Reacher was there to provide some physical distraction.
But he wasn’t.
Well, one option would be to call every trucking company in Albuquerque and ask for Sandy. See if anyone answered in the positive. And then what? Ask Sandy if she knew a Rick Simmons who might have mentioned her name in his sleep? Sandy would probably know that Rick was missing. Maybe Sandy was missing too. Or maybe she was involved.
It was a horrible plan, but it was all she had. So Pauling spent the next three hours calling every trucking company in the Albuquerque area.
There was no one named Sandy.
She went down to the hotel’s café and ordered a coffee. She was tempted to add a brownie out of frustration but decided against it.
Without Sandy, the only other thing that stood out to her about this case was Reacher. Why was his name used? Who wrote it on the envelope? Why was it sent to her?
What did she know about Reacher that might apply to this case?
He was former Army. An MP often placed in charge of homicide investigations. He was a tough guy who hated to see injustice done. Who tended to stand up for those who were being bullied.
Everything about Reacher screamed ex-military.
For some reason, the word ‘military’ resonated with Pauling.
She felt something akin to a vibration.
The military.
How did the military and Albuquerque interact? What would have involved Reacher out here?
Pauling’s jaw suddenly dropped open.
“Oh my God,” she said out loud. Much louder than she expected because several people in the hotel coffee shop turned to look at her.
She jumped to her feet and headed for her room, dialing Tallon on her phone.
Why hadn’t she seen it sooner?
Suddenly, she knew exactly who Sandy was.
45
“Any chance you’re going to tell us what the hell is going on?” the man with the thinning blond hair and ruddy complexion asked Agent Hess. They were in a conference room in the Albuquerque FBI office. Ostertag was at the head of the table. To his right was an older man with perfectly combed gray hair. To his left, a Hispanic man with thick black glasses.
Hess sat at the other end of the table.
“I can tell you some of what we know,” she replied. “But there’s a reason we were alerted back in DC, instead of you.”
“Yeah, that’s what I figured,” Ostertag said, his voice thick with sarcasm. “I get a call that some hotshot agent from HQ is coming out here and I have to have a team assembled. No indication what it’s about. You know, we’ve got our own stuff to deal with here. We’ve got a huge ring of meth dealers. A truck full of illegal immigrants was found yesterday. They were all dead. Nine bodies roasting in the desert like meat in an oven.”
Hess let out a slow breath.
“I appreciate your current responsibilities,” she said. “I’ve been given strict instructions to ensure the reason I’m here today receives your top priority.”
Ostertag rolled his eyes. He was an impatient man, Hess could see. “Of course it is. That’s why we’re here.”
“It starts with a man named Rick Simmons,” Hess said.
Ostertag shook his head, and looked at the other two men in the room. They gave him blank looks.
“Never heard of him,” Ostertag said.
“Well, you won’t be hearing anything,” Hess said. “Because he’s dead. Murdered in the desert yesterday.”
“Okay,” Ostertag said.
“He was a truck driver. Working for a company called Rio Grande Trucking.”
Ostertag’s irritated demeanor instantly vanished.
“Oh shit,” he said.
Hess smiled at him. “Exactly.”
46
“Sandia,” Pauling said to Tallon. “As in Sandia Nuclear Laboratories.”
“The nuke guys? What about them?” he answered.
Pauling relayed the conversation she’d had with Cassady. The one where she said Rick Simmons had been talking about ‘Sandy’ in his sleep.
“That’s it?” he asked. “You think just because he’s a truck driver and he mentioned a Sandy that he was involved with the nukes?”
“Rick Simmons wasn’t talking about a mysterious Sandy,” Pauling said. “He was talking about Sandia. His real employer.”
“Sandia uses truck drivers? I thought they built nuclear missiles. A bunch of geeky scientists and stuff.”
“They do both.”
They were sitting at a table in the coffee shop of Pauling’s hotel. Tallon was back from dropping off Cassady, without incident. He was hungry and had ordered two ham and cheese croissant sandwiches with black coffee.
“Nothing like microwaved bread,” he said as they were delivered. He had devoured both of the sandwiches in minutes, after offering Pauling one. She had declined.
Pauling thought he looked eager. Babysitting didn’t sit well with him, either apparently.
“What do you mean both? They do all the scientific stuff and they truck the shit around the country? That seems dangerous.”
“That’s why they do it themselves,” Pauling explained.
“For security reasons,” Tallon said.
“Right. They can’t subcontract trucking with something like that. Could you imagine the public outcry if they found out some joe-trucking-operation-off-the-street was hauling around nuclear material? Maybe the guy takes a break at a truck stop, gets a prostitute and dies. The hooker drives off with a load of nukes.”
“Yeah, that wouldn’t be good,” Tallon said. “Hookers and nuclear warheads are a bad combination. Trust me.” He smiled at Pauling.
“How much do you know about Sandia?” she asked him.
“Just that they do the nuke stuff. Related to the Manhattan Project, right? Had a role in building the A-bomb?”
“Right, sort of,” Pauling said. She sat back in her chair and studied Tallon. “Let me give you what I know. It’s not everything, but for our purposes, it will do. Sandia National Laboratories was developed a little after Los Alamos. Los Alamos – where they built the bomb, needed a place to build non-nuclear materials that supported their efforts. It was decided to keep them separate. Thus, Sandia was born. Eventually, they became involved in nuclear operations, too, all in support of Los Alamos.”
“So you’re telling me Sandia has a fake address? And a camera? The goons are from the government?” Tallon asked. He drained the rest of his coffee, glanced at Pauling. She didn’t want anymore, anyway. She was pumped. This was progress.
Pauling shook her head. “No. Sandia is not bush-league. The gas station, the guys you dealt with, all scream locals. Someone locally planted that address. Sandia has probably never heard of Rio Grande Trucking. This whole Rick Simmons angle was probably a surprise to them, too. They’re a major military player. Which is probably how Jack Reacher is mixed up in all of this.”
“Yeah, what’s the deal with Reacher?” Tallon asked. “What’s his story, anyway? Where is he?”
“I keep wondering that, too,” Pauling said. “At least now I know why he was involved. This is exactly the kind of thing he would get mixed up in. But, for now, we’ve got to move forward assuming that Rick Simmons was driving for Sandia. And he was killed. And whoever killed him, wanted Cassady for something.”
“For what, though? That’s the big q
uestion,” Tallon said. “It’s not like Cassady Simmons is walking around with nuclear codes or something.”
“No, that isn’t the big question,” Pauling answered.
“What is?”
She sighed. “Where in the hell is Rick Simmons’ truck?”
47
“So this Rick Simmons is dead?” Ostertag asked.
“That’s correct,” Hess said. “Shot in the desert. And buried. Although they were thorough in killing him, they weren’t so fastidious in the burial process. A coyote dug him up, and then a plane spotted the body in the desert.”
“What about the truck?”
“Well, that’s where it gets interesting. How much do you know about the trucks used to deploy nuclear materials?”
Ostertag glanced around the room. No one volunteered to admit their lack of knowledge. “I know a little bit. There are a couple of factories that make the bombs, and then they have to be delivered. Usually to air force bases. I’d heard the trucks had armed guards and such. Was that not the case?”
Hess smiled at him. “Very good. However, these trucks usually have a lot more security measures than armed guards. Typically, there’s an additional armed guard in the cab with the driver, who is also armed. There’s usually a tail vehicle. If it’s a really big delivery, there might be a lead car as well. But that’s not all. The truck itself, even though it looks pretty much like your average tractor trailer, is loaded with electronic gear. Satellite-based GPS devices. Remote access driver controls.”
“Then how the hell…?” one of the agents asked.
“Additionally, there are small explosive charges placed at the wheels,” Hess said. “Should the driver determine it necessary, he can literally blow the wheels off the trailer, rendering it completely immobile.”
“What about the tracking devices then?” Ostertag said. “If it was designed to avoid all of this, we should know exactly where it is.”
“The internal security team at Sandia doesn’t know what happened, either. But they’re cooperating,” Hess said. “They called us in.”
“Local police?” an agent said.
“Cooperating as well,” Hess said. “We already knew Rick Simmons was missing, so as soon as they got the call, we intervened. No problems there. They know all about Sandia and Los Alamos. They know where their bread is buttered. No territorial pissing matches here. The only issue is a lack of evidence. No one’s got anything so far.”
“So what are we doing now?” Ostertag asked.
“We’ve got to pursue this thing 24/7. Rick Simmons had a wife, Cassady Simmons, who somehow managed to hire a private investigator before we got involved. I need someone to handle that situation,” Hess said. “Ostertag, you and your team also need to work the local angles. Everyone here knows someone involved with military industries north and west of here. It’s not so much a question of who would have taken the material. It’s more, who would have the intelligence and the capability to even deal with it. This isn’t a bunch of M-13 gangbangers we’re dealing with. There has to be at least a baseline of knowledge to understand what they’re dealing with. See what you can find out.”
“I’m still having trouble understanding how a semi-truck full of nuclear material could simply vanish,” Ostertag said.
It was the obvious question, and Hess hesitated to speculate, but providing a good answer would help the team focus.
“Most likely, there was cooperation from the team. Maybe the driver. Maybe additional folks. Essentially, carjacking a nuclear truck is impossible. It could have only been done with someone helping from the inside. The question is, why? What was their motivation to steal a truck full of nukes?” she said.
One of the more junior agents at the table cleared his throat.
“I’m sure there are other people here wondering the same thing. But I have to ask, just so I know what kind of threat we’re talking about.” He glanced down at the notepad in front of him, as if he was afraid to ask the question while making direct eye contact with Hess.
“So what kind of payload did Simmons have in his truck?”
Ostertag nearly winced at the directness of the question.
He looked around at his team, who were also suddenly studying the notepads in front of them.
Finally, he glanced at Hess.
She shrugged her shoulders and answered with a tone that was casually informative.
“Enough to wipe out most of California.”
48
“I knew a military guy who drove a nuke truck. He was a bad ass. Told me all about the vehicle,” Tallon said.
He and Pauling were parked a half mile from the entrance to Sandia Labs. It was the closest they could get, a mega gas station barely in sight of the entrance to the complex. They’d had to buy waters and snacks to justify staying in the parking lot. Before long, they would be noticed.
“Yep. I did some research on those suckers. It’s like Fort Knox on wheels,” Pauling said. “They look like civilian vehicles, but they’re 100% military grade. Total defensive measures, including the axles being wired with explosives to blow the wheels off so no one can drive off with it.”
“Didn’t work, apparently,” Tallon said.
“Rick Simmons wasn’t ex-military, though,” Pauling pointed out. “Or at least he told his wife he wasn’t. Maybe he was lying and he did some time in the Army. Maybe that’s how Reacher was involved,” Pauling said.
“Could be,” Tallon admitted. “How many drivers does Sandia have?”
“I don’t know,” Pauling said. “Probably not that many. But Sandia is just one operator within the whole nuclear program. There are probably a dozen fleets of trucks, driving all over the United States with nuclear material. From factories to military bases, to nuclear waste sites.”
“That’s my point then,” Tallon said. “Multiple trucking operators. Multiple sites, right? A fleet of hundreds of trucks? That means there are hundreds of drivers and assorted personnel. It’s not like Rick Simmons was the only one in charge of one of these rigs.”
“No, I’m sure you’re right. Lots of drivers. Lots of guards. Lots of support personnel. Could you imagine the risks involved?” Pauling asked. “What if one of these was driving through an ice storm and slid off the road?”
“They must have all kinds of emergency procedures in place.”
“And they’ve probably planned for a scenario where someone tries to steal a truck. It would be a terrorist’s wet dream,” she said, looking at Tallon. “Why were you estimating the number of drivers?”
“Well, in addition to the question of where his truck is, I can’t stop thinking about something else. Why Rick Simmons?”
“Nothing has jumped out at us,” Pauling said.
“Usually you find some kind of weak link,” Tallon said. “Drug addiction. Alcohol. Gambling. Prostitution. Affairs. We didn’t find out anything about the guy. Other than the fact that he’s got a pregnant wife who loves him very much.”
Pauling was about to answer when a semi-truck pulled out of the side gate of the Sandia complex.
A white pickup truck was in front of it.
A plain sedan was behind it.
“So they have their security caravan in place,” Tallon said. “I wonder if Rick Simmons had one? And if he did, how in the hell did they get the truck from him?”
“Or, how did they get him to cooperate? Give them the truck and what? Send him on his way?”
They were in Pauling’s car, but Tallon was driving and he waited until the convoy was on the road and then he put the Impala in gear and followed.
He was good at being subtle in his approach to the truck.
But apparently, not subtle enough.
Not more than two miles into the pursuit, a siren erupted behind them, and Tallon was forced to pull off the road.
A plain sedan was behind them.
A man in a suit and tie walked up to the car. Tallon watched him, making sure his hands were out in the open. He roll
ed down the window.
“FBI,” the man said and he showed Tallon his ID, which was legit.
The FBI man slid into the backseat of Pauling’s car.
“Thanks for the ID, but I know a Feebie when I see one,” Pauling said.
“Lauren Pauling,” the man said. “Good to meet you. I’m Ray Ostertag. SAC of Albuquerque. Officially asking you to stand down. We are on the case.”
“What case would that be?” Pauling asked.
“The same case you came out here for. Cassady Simmons. Her murdered husband.”
“Let’s not forget his missing truck,” Tallon chimed in.
“I’m not going to ask again,” Ostertag said. “We’ve got a lot of eyes on this thing.”
“I can imagine,” Pauling said. “It really wouldn’t hurt, though, to have some extra intelligence to keep the bosses in Washington happy. We can help you out. Free of charge.”
“No, absolutely not,” Ostertag said. “Appreciate the offer, but we’ve got this. Rick Simmons is our problem now.”
“Well, if you change your mind,” Pauling said. She had her business card in hand and offered it to Ostertag.
He ignored it, opened the back door and got out, then stuck his head back in before closing the door.
“I won’t ask again,” he said and slammed the door shut.
49
“I have an idea,” Pauling said.
“Let’s hear it.”
“The idea starts with a question.”
“Shoot.”
“If Rick Simmons had a truckload of nuclear material someone killed him for, why, after they killed Rick and apparently stole his truck, would they then go after Cassady? Didn’t they already have what they wanted?”
Tallon played along. “Maybe she knew something. She could have blown the whistle on them. Sure, they already had what they wanted, but maybe they wanted to make sure they could get away with it, too.”
“Maybe,” Pauling said.
“But you don’t think so?”