Ground Truth

by Rob Sangster

  “Time to make like a flying saucer,” Gano said.

  The engine of the EchoStar started. Rotors whirled slowly, then faster and faster. The craft began to get light on its skids. But it was all too slow. The pickup raced at them, bouncing crazily, but the men aboard were firing every weapon they had. The low hanging chopper couldn’t climb fast enough to get out of range.

  Instead of trying to gain altitude, Gano spun the bird around to face the pickup, just a foot off the ground, and revved the engine. In seconds, a thick cloud of sand and dust engulfed them, and Gano whipped the chopper around 180 degrees to fly in the opposite direction, still hugging the deck. Several hundred yards away, he hauled back, and the EchoStar climbed out of the dust cloud, and out of firing range of the pursuers’ pickup, now buried in the dust.

  “Well, that was almost kiss-my-ass-goodbye time,” Gano said.

  Jack looked down at his Eberline contamination counter and dosimeter. He’d heard the buzzer go mad under the blitzkrieg of electrons from the cave, so he was worried. What would Rincon say concerning the strength of the radioactive emissions? Had they absorbed enough radioactivity to start glowing?

  Chapter 43

  July 10

  4:00 p.m.

  BACK IN THE El Paso airport, Jack reflected on what he’d seen. The markings on the barrels at D-TECH, the shapes of the containers in the cave, the contamination counter—everything told him that cave was packed with nuclear waste, at least some of which was high level. That made up his mind to take drastic action. He could contact the CIA or Homeland Security, but both were flooded by reports from alarmed citizens promoting conspiracy theories. There was no time to fight his way through their bureaucratic mazes. The only move left would be the most radical thing he’d ever done. Persuade Jason Gorton, President of the United States of America, to take control. Once Gorton heard about the pending disasters in El Paso, Juarez and Copper Canyon, he could stop them.

  So how could he reach the President in an emergency? The White House switchboard wouldn’t put him through, but maybe he could reach a high-ranking staffer and persuade him or her to contact the President.

  He called the White House and asked to speak with President Gorton. As expected, the operator politely offered to take a message. When he insisted the call was important, she routed him to a secretary in the Communications Office who, even more politely, offered to take a message. Again he insisted it was urgent. This time he was transferred to Alvin Thomas, Assistant Counsel to the President.

  Thomas at least asked for his bona fides. As he recited the buzz words—Professor, Stanford Law School, Sinclair & Simms—he was very aware they were all past tense. Even though Thomas didn’t know that, he was unwilling to forward the call to President Gorton. “Send a registered letter, please” he said, and hung up with Jack in mid-protest.

  Jack called Senator Toby Baxter, reasonably confident Toby could get a call through to Gorton. But his friend, or former friend, was deer hunting in northern Wyoming, unreachable unless he called into the office which, his assistant said, he never did. Another dead end.

  That left Justin Sinclair as his only other conduit to Gorton. He would, by God, pressure Sinclair into contacting President Gorton for him.

  When he called Mrs. Pounders she gave him a verbal stiff-arm, treating him like a paperclip salesman instead of a partner—former partner—in the firm. After he stressed the urgency, she said, “He’s booked solid except for one opening. His eight a.m. appointment tomorrow just passed away. You could call Mr. Sinclair at that time.” Jack said he’d be at Sinclair & Simms in person at eight.

  MRS. POUNDERS, usually indifferent to anyone waiting to be admitted to Justin Sinclair’s inner sanctum, had delivered several frowns in Jack’s direction. She made no effort to hide her distaste for what she saw.

  He didn’t blame her. Wearing a dirty twill shirt and boots caked with mud from the mine shaft, he looked like a vagrant tossed off the train from Fresno.

  He’d left El Paso on time last night, but dense fog at SFO had diverted his flight to Reno for an overnight. By the time the morning flight reached San Francisco, it was too late to get home to Atherton to change into fresh clothes before meeting Sinclair.

  When two law clerks came by, they looked first at him and then at the two armed Shorenstein Security guards posted in the hall. Were they there because Sinclair was worried that his former partner might do something crazy? Little did he know. Jack looked at his watch. Already 8:20.

  Without looking at him, Mrs. Pounders said, “Mr. Sinclair called someone else in who arrived earlier. He’ll send for you presently.”

  His idle glance down the corridor took in antique Tabriz carpets resting on enough black marble to pave a cathedral. On his first visit for the Sunday morning job interview, he’d been impressed by the emblems of accomplishment in the world he knew well. They’d made him feel at ease. Today, after all he’d been through, this office had become an alien place.

  “He’ll see you now,” Mrs. Pounders intoned, just as the door to the inner office swung open. Justin Sinclair strode out, still the legal world’s facsimile of Charlton Heston—craggy features, intense blue eyes, and swept-back white hair. The instant he took in Jack’s appearance, his expression became decidedly less congenial.

  “I’ll be damned. A couple of days ago I invited you to come meet with me, and you got prickly as a hedgehog. Now here you are. Well, come in. I’ve just been talking with someone about you.”

  He followed Sinclair into his office where his eyes were immediately drawn to the east window wall and the gaunt frame of Arthur Palmer. The scowl and crossed arms said clearly that he’d heard from Montana about the attack on the plant.

  What the hell? Why had Sinclair brought Palmer in? Maybe Sinclair had anticipated that Jack would be on the warpath, so he’d set up a dogfight scenario between Jack and Palmer, leaving him untouched on the sidelines. Whatever Sinclair’s reason, Arthur’s presence would make it much harder for Jack to get what he’d come for from Sinclair. Damn him.

  “You’re one crazy son-of-a-bitch, you know that?” Palmer snarled. “You set fire to four buildings. You stabbed the plant manager. You shot Montana, tried to kill him. I’ll see that you’re in the slammer for the rest of your miserable life!” Palmer was so mad his voice cracked.

  “Here’s what really happened,” Jack said. “We started fires in metal trash bins to divert the guards. And I didn’t stab anyone. Your manager, Guzman, pulled a switchblade and attacked my friend. In self-defense, he stuck Guzman with a screwdriver. Montana was about to kill my friend, so I shot the gun out of his hand.”

  “The Juarez police are after you for trespassing, destroying property—”

  “It was an emergency. I tried to destroy the wells so Montana couldn’t use them to dump toxic waste into the local aquifer. He doesn’t give a damn that it will kill people and destroy the only water supply for Juarez and El Paso. By the way, you’ll be liable if he pulls it off.”

  “Liable, bullshit.” Palmer pointed at him with both index fingers. “You just confessed to a felony. Justin’s a witness.”

  “I had to go to the plant because you didn’t do the two things I told Justin you had to do to stop Montana.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I called Justin two days ago and told him I’d take action if you didn’t get Montana off plant grounds and dismantle those wells.”

  “You sent me an ultimatum? You’re joking.” His tone reeked with scorn, but he glanced at Sinclair with a question in his eyes. “I heard nothing from Justin until I called about the fires you set. That’s when he said you’d given him a wild story about Montana planning to poison some aquifer. He also said he’d fired you after the Hearing and ordered you to stay away from Palmer Industries—which you obviously did not do.”

  Jack
noticed Palmer’s glance at Sinclair and thought he heard a slight change in his tone. Had he caught Palmer off guard? It didn’t matter. Palmer’s default response was to lie.

  “I don’t believe you. You’re in this with Montana, and I’ll nail you for it.” He opened his wallet and withdrew the folded printout from Ed Rincon that listed the chemicals and carcinogens stored in the tanks on the ridge. “Here’s what Montana is ready to dump into the Hueco bolsón. You either ordered him to do it or looked the other way.” He tossed it on the desk. Sinclair picked it up and read it.

  “You’re full of shit,” Palmer snorted. “I told Montana to make money for Palmer Industries. That’s all.”

  “And that included bribing PROFEPA and the Hearing judge? I saw what happened at that Hearing.”

  “For God’s sake! Has Montana ever bribed somebody in Mexico? Of course, but I’ve never heard of the Waco whatever-it-is and didn’t authorize him to dump anything into it. So get off my ass.”

  “If I hadn’t gone after him, Montana would already have opened the valves and buried your company in bankruptcy. You’d be heading for prison. You want me to get off your ass? I saved your ass. Until now.”

  Palmer turned his hawklike eyes on Sinclair. “I detest this son-of-a-bitch, but what if he’s not hallucinating? Bankruptcy? Prison? You’re supposed to be protecting us, and you’re not doing it.”

  Sinclair leaned back in his chair, unruffled. “Turning on me would be very unwise, Arthur. I’ve supported Palmer Industries when other attorneys would have backed away. And,” he smiled grimly, “just in case your hands aren’t entirely clean in this matter, you’ll continue to need my help. You wouldn’t want me on a witness stand, would you?”

  Palmer scowled, and his face reddened. “Don’t threaten me, Justin. Who the fuck do you think you are?”

  Sinclair didn’t respond, but his narrowed eyes said, You damn well better remember who I am. Aloud, he said, “Strider has upset you, Arthur, so I won’t take offense. Now, who are you better off listening to, him or me?” He turned to Jack. “Mr. Strider, you’ve overstayed your welcome.”

  “What welcome? You only agreed to see me because you wanted to know my reason for coming.”

  “I’m no longer interested.”

  “Hold on,” Palmer snapped. “I’m the one he’s threatening. Besides, he’s a felon. I’m not letting him just walk away.”

  “All right, damn it, what do you want?” Sinclair said gruffly with no pretense of civility.

  Jack met Sinclair’s glare with one of his own. “To prevent a disaster, I need to meet with President Gorton immediately. I want you to set that up.”

  “Jesus,” Palmer said. “Meet the President? That’s the last—”

  “Quiet,” Sinclair barked.

  Palmer ignored him. “I’ll go down there and kick Montana’s ass to China. I’ll make sure he won’t—”

  “What Montana won’t do,” Jack said, “is take any more orders from you. He’s cornered, so he’s thinking about how to save himself. My guess is that he’s so mad he’ll poison the aquifer on his way out of town. And that will be on your head.”

  He turned back to Sinclair. “President Gorton is the only one who can reach across the border and act fast enough.”

  That shut Palmer up. He stepped back, deferring to Sinclair. Sinclair’s expression was pensive, looking at neither of them.

  Jack knew exactly what was in Sinclair’s mind. Exposing the crisis to Gorton would put Palmer Industries squarely in the line of fire. Sinclair had a fiduciary obligation to protect this client, but that wasn’t a valid excuse for refusing to set up this meeting. He’d boxed Sinclair in by demanding something he had the ability to do and knew needed to be done. If Sinclair refused to make the call, he might have to defend his refusal in public after the disaster happened. If Gorton declined to meet with Jack, Sinclair could later say he’d tried. Jack wanted Sinclair to believe that the greater risk to him personally would be refusing to try.

  Sinclair leaned back, tucked his chin and looked at Jack over his glasses, his face a mixture of amusement and scorn. “You’re asking me to use my relationship with the President to draw him into this grudge match between you and Tom Montana. You accuse Montana of all kinds of evil intentions, but the only actual damage has been done by you. You haven’t made your case, so I’m not disposed to call the President.”

  Jack stared at the man, taken aback. Sinclair’s decision was contrary to his own best interests. Was he being illogical? Not likely. Therefore, he was bluffing. That forced Jack to choose between two last-ditch options, both bad. So far, he’d been careful to say nothing about D-TECH, the mystery trucks, or radioactivity in a Mexican cave. Those issues might persuade Sinclair of the urgency of this situation, but Jack hadn’t yet connected the dots. Sinclair would mock it as a conspiracy fantasy, cutting the legs from under the solid case he had about hazardous waste being dumped into the aquifer. He intended to tell Gorton everything he knew about D-TECH and the cave, but right now, he needed Sinclair to focus on the aquifer.

  His alternative strategy was provocative and insulting, and the consequences were unpredictable, but it was the better choice.

  “If you don’t set up a meeting with Gorton,” he said coolly, “I’ll call a press conference. You and Arthur can figure out how you’re going to answer questions from dozens of reporters.” He made his tone as matter-of-fact as Sinclair’s.

  Sinclair’s head went back, chin up. “A couple of days ago you threatened to blow the whistle—but didn’t. You only get one bite of that apple. Besides, no reputable reporter would walk across the street to hear what you have to say.”

  “Really? I race my boat against my friend Ronnie Patterson every week. As you know, he owns the Chronicle. When I give him this story, he’ll put it on page one.”

  Jack felt like he was inside Sinclair’s head. If Sinclair wasn’t personally involved in what Montana was planning, Jack meeting with Gorton wouldn’t hurt him. If he doubted whether Arthur Palmer could stop Montana, meaning that the aquifer might actually be poisoned, Palmer Industries and everyone else would be better off if Gorton stepped in. And a media firestorm involving a major client would certainly tarnish Sinclair & Simms. Sinclair must see all that.

  Sinclair took off his glasses, polished them, restored them to his nose and looked at Jack. “Well played, young man. My friend Jason Gorton will take my call, and you’ll have your meeting.” He stopped Arthur’s objection with a chopping motion of his hand. “Don’t say a word, Arthur. I’ll explain later.” Turning back to Jack, he said, “Now I’m going to send you away with something to think about. When you walked through my door the first time, you were in sad shape. You thought you’d hit bottom, but that was nothing. If you can’t prove every word of what you’ve just said, you’ll curse the day you met me.”

  As Jack walked down the long hall, away from Sinclair’s office, he had no doubt that Justin Sinclair would try to destroy him no matter what happened with Gorton.

  JUSTIN SINCLAIR SAT motionless, staring out the window at, but not seeing, Alcatraz, the prison-fortress in the middle of San Francisco Bay.

  He hadn’t seen this move by Strider coming, and that worried him. Years ago, he would have been ready to block it. Now he was left with damage control and damn little time to perform it.

  A diminutive celadon urn, one of a priceless pair on his desk, caught his eye. He picked it up, revolved it in his fingers, and hurled it across the room. Its thin shell evaporated on impact.

  He stilled his anger and turned the possibilities over in his mind until a strategy took shape. He poked his speakerphone button. “Mrs. Pounders, get Frank Miller on the phone, Chief of Staff, the White House.”

  Chapter 44

  July 11

  11:15 a.m.

  JACK LEFT SINCLAIR’S office,
headed south from the city on Highway 101, stopped in Atherton for a shower, shave, and clean clothes, and drove to the Stanford crew boathouse, all with his mind in neutral. The meeting with Sinclair and Palmer had been like combat, and he needed to recharge. His strategy had worked, and he’d scored a vital victory—unless Sinclair reneged on calling Gorton. But the meeting had also raised troubling questions. Had Palmer really been surprised by some of what he heard? Why hadn’t Sinclair called Palmer about Jack’s ultimatum?

  He parked and walked down the pier toward the boathouse. At the end of the pier, eight tall young men were gently lowering their shell into the water. When all were aboard with oars ready, the coxswain gave them a quick pep talk, and they pulled away to start their many practice runs. Jack remembered how exhausting those practices were. He’d participated in them many, many times.

  After they were gone, he sat on the pier where he could listen to the lapping of waves and watch cloud-shadows on the surface of the bay. Being around water always helped him think, and right now he had to reason through some complex puzzles.

  Before he could start thinking about them, the cell phone buzzed in his pocket.

  “Mr. Sinclair is coming on the line,” Mrs. Pounders announced.

  “It’s set,” Sinclair said, tone indifferent as if he were discussing a tennis date. “President Gorton will see you tomorrow at noon aboard Air Force One. He’ll be at Travis Air Force Base to present awards to a transport air group. You have a fifteen minute slot, which means you won’t get sixteen. Your security pass will be at the front gate.” He hung up.

  Jack pumped his fist in the air. By God, he’d pulled it off. Now all he had to do was argue the biggest case of his life.

  He called Debra in El Paso and asked her to handle two important tasks. One required her to make a five-minute phone call. The other was much tougher, and a lot depended on her pulling it off.