In Sheep's Clothing: An Action-Packed Political Thriller (Matthew Richter Thriller Series Book 1) (23 page)

Hughes’ face went pale.  “Is there any other possible explanation for these compounds?”

“The lab boys tell me that the odds are slim.  Based upon the ratio of PETN to RDX, the levels or amounts that we’ve found so far, where they were found, the analysis of the scorch marks on the luggage and on the aircraft skin, the isolated holes on both the starboard and port sides of the aircraft as well as the hole in the passenger cabin, all in very close proximity, it is highly probable that this plane was brought down by an improvised explosive device.”

“Could it have been a missile?” Hughes asked.

“No.”  Major Conklin answered immediately.  “We had an E-3 up.  There was no missile launch.” 

“So, we come back to Lt. McKay,” Monahan continued.  “With the traces of Semtex on his hands, understanding his role in this is crucial.”  He turned to Burton.  “We need to find the triggering device.  ASAP.”

“We’re on it,” Burton responded, the frustration evident in his voice.  “You know my team has been working around the clock.” 

“I know, Stan.  I know.  But the sooner the better.  Okay?”

Burton nodded.

“Anything else?”  The general barked.

“Yes.  We didn’t find evidence of any chemical taggants, which indicates that the Semtex was fairly old, produced before 1991.”  Monahan noticed the questioning looks.  “Due to the increased use of Semtex by terrorist organizations in the seventies and eighties, all Semtex produced after 1990 contains chemical taggants to aid in detection.  Once we suspected that this was the explosive used, it begged the question of why screening by both the Air Force and the Secret Service didn’t detect it.  This may help explain why.  Our next step is to determine exactly where this Semtex came from.  Semtex was widely sold on the black market, and numerous terrorist organizations and rogue states were suspected of acquiring varying quantities over the years.  The IRA.  Libya.  Various Islamic terrorist organizations in the Middle East.  The list goes on.  It may take us some time to trace the source.  But we will find it.  I’m confident of that.”

Jack glanced out the window. 

“Matt’s coming.”

“Good.”  Derek replied.  “Just in time for dinner.”

The door burst open and Richter hurried in, his face dark.

“We need to leave!  ASAP!”

They could hear the throaty hum of the generators from a distance and continued in the direction of the noise.  Midnight had come and gone, but the half-moon against the cloud-free night sky provided ample light.  They continued hiking and soon noticed a shimmer through the trees.  The glow intensified as they moved forward, careful to stay in the shadows.  As they got closer, they saw a large dump truck through the trees.

“That definitely wasn’t here before.”  Despite the noise, Derek spoke softly.

Jack checked the GPS.  “You’re right.  We went right past this point when we hiked in last week.”

They studied the scene for a moment before Derek nodded.  “This is a construction site.  No doubt about it.  They have portable lighting systems so they can work at night.  Those are the generators we hear.”  He pointed to the dump truck.  “And that right there looks like a yuke truck.”     

“A yuke truck?” Richter look puzzled.

“It’s a heavy-duty dump truck, made for rough terrain.  I worked for a construction firm for a while, mostly building roads.  The guys always called them yukes.  I’m not sure why, but that’s what they called them.”

Richter nodded as it dawned on him.  “They must be building a road into the crash site.”

They continued to study the scene, but despite the generators and the lights, the area appeared deserted. 

“Let’s head this way and see if we can get a better view.”   Richter led them forty yards to the right behind another large tree.  The truck was sitting on the side of a newly cut road that ran at a forty-five degree angle across the path they had been on.  It looked like a logging operation, with several large piles of log sections lining the clearing and a front-end loader parked on the other side.

“I think we might be able to steal that truck.”  Derek grinned.

Richter turned.  “You know how to drive it?”

“I’ve never driven a yuke before, but I’ve driven regular dump trucks, bulldozers, even front-end loaders.  How hard can it be?”

Jack shook his head.  “We don’t have the keys, Derek.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem.  The crews normally leave them inside.”

Richter studied Derek for a second before turning to Jack and the president.  “You two stay here.  Stay in the shadows behind the trees.  We’ll check it out.”

Richter hesitated at the steps to the cab.  Even with the sound of the generator, he could hear the chainsaws, trucks, and bulldozers close by.  Every second they spent here, in the clearing, below the work lights, was a risk.

Derek, wearing an orange safety vest and a hard hat, sat in the driver’s seat.  The president, sitting next to him, wore a heavy brown work coat and a hard hat.  Richter studied them for a moment.  Up in the cab, away from the work lights, they might not draw a second glance. 

Richter handed Derek the radio.

“The channel should be clear, but maintain radio silence unless it’s urgent.”

Derek nodded. 

Richter climbed into the bed of the truck and joined Jack below the tarp.

The yuke bounced its way across the ruts and uneven ground.  Richter swore as he banged his head again.  His watch said they had been driving only thirty minutes, but it felt like two hours.  They passed below another portable light system and, for a brief moment, he saw Jack’s face.  He was miserable too, Richter realized. 

They rode in silence for another five minutes before the radio hissed and he heard the president’s voice. 

“Okay.  We’re coming up on Main Street.  Lots of police cars and army trucks and flashing lights.”  

Shit!
  Richter reached into his pocket, resting his hand on his gun.  The truck slowed as Derek downshifted.  Richter’s radio clicked twice and he began to hear background noises.  When he heard the screech of the brakes over the radio, he turned the volume down and held it to his ear.

As Derek eased the truck forward, President Kendall saw the dozen or so cops and soldiers standing at the intersection.  Nervous, he glanced at Derek and saw the grin as the red and blue flashing lights illuminated his face.  Across the intersection, a large green canvas tent had been erected.  Numerous Humvees and military transport trucks were parked at various angles outside.  On the left, a front-end loader with forks instead of a bucket sat by stacks of steel girders, truss supports and steel panels. 

The cops and soldiers glanced their way but seemed unconcerned.  Behind them, a man wearing a hard hat and a safety vest stepped out of the tent and walked past the cops to the middle of the road.  He waved to Derek, directing them to the side of the road.  Derek braked and lowered his window.

“Good morning,” he called down.

“Good morning.”  The man pointed towards the front-end loader.  “Back it in and we’ll get you loaded.”

“We’re not here for that,” Derek said, nodding towards the steel girders.  “The boss needs a load of gravel.”

“Oh.  Okay.  Hey listen, on your way back, stop by and I’ll fix you guys up with some coffee.” 

Derek smiled.  “Thanks!” 

The man turned and walked back to the tent.  Derek put the truck in gear.  He gave the cops a nod as he maneuvered the large truck onto Main Street.

The president watched the side view mirror as the man they had spoken to emerged from the tent again.  The cops and soldiers turned.  Kendall felt a wave of relief when he saw the man hand the cops two thermoses. 

He slapped Derek on the shoulder and smiled.  “That was pretty quick thinking.”  In the dim light, he caught Derek’s smile.

The man known as Vernon Jackson flashed his identification as he drove past the road block.  A former federal officer, he had cultivated the penetrating gaze that cops around the world, especially those in positions of authority, used to get what they wanted.  With the look and a badge, he knew, he could go anywhere.  It didn’t matter that the badge was fake.

Even at this early hour, he noticed, there was a constant stream of traffic on Main Street as mostly trucks and off-road vehicles headed out to or returned from the unpaved fire roads, marked ATV trails, and Forest Service roads that snaked through the mountains.  These roads, Jackson had learned, brought them no closer than fifteen or sixteen miles to the crash site.  From there, they had to rely on snowcats and the new road segments currently being hacked out of the forest and mountains.  Over the last two days, he had seen modular bridge sections being carried in on flatbed trucks, which indicated that the Army Corps of Engineers were constructing temporary bridges over the many streams and gullies between Elk City and the crash site. 

The federal government had taken over the town of Elk City and its airport and was using every available public and private structure to support the search and recovery efforts.  Although they had a rented room in the one motel in town, Jackson had wisely realized that Elk City, the closest piece of civilization to the crash site—if it could be called that—would soon be overrun.  They had moved out just as the rescue teams began to descend on the town and were now renting a trailer in an RV park twenty miles away.  Whoever had planned to bring Air Force One down over a remote section of Idaho hadn’t foreseen that this tiny town would be crawling with hundreds of people, with more traffic in a single day than they probably saw in a year. Apparently his contact, a woman he knew only as Jane, hadn’t. 

Jane
, he thought.  She was a piece of work.  He had met her a few years after he had been fired.  Even though the charges were dropped, the Secret Service had kicked him out anyway, and he knew he would never be able to work in law enforcement again.  His former fellow officers, men and women he had worked with for years, had turned their backs on him, even though he knew for a fact that two of them had done the same thing.  It had taken a while, but he had gotten his revenge.

He had met Jane when he began doing freelance jobs for a private security firm.  Jane, it seemed, handled some of the unadvertised services the firm offered—services that no one would admit to.  And so he had taken on the odd job like breaking into the office of a tech startup to steal the prototype for a new cell phone they were working on, or planting a bag of cocaine in the hand luggage of New York’s First Lady.  That had been fun to watch when she was detained by airport police.  And then came the more unsavory jobs: breaking the leg of a ballet dancer, making a particular cop disappear, and, later, silencing the witnesses to a rape.  It was the type of work that someone with a moral compass like his didn’t lose too much sleep over. And each time, Jane had paid him well.

Jane was tough, he had to admit and, in a way, he respected her.  But at the end of the day, he had no loyalty, not to her certainly.  His only loyalty was to himself.  He had learned long ago that the people he thought had his back didn’t.   

As he drove past the airport road, he glanced out his window at the noise and watched the helicopter lift off, hover momentarily, then turn and fly east.  He craned his neck, watching through the windshield as it passed almost directly over his car.  Several seconds later, it was swallowed by the darkness.  He glanced back at the road and slowed as a dump truck pulled in front of him.  Crews were working around the clock, both at the airport and at the edge of town, where the forest roads disappeared into the woods.  The glow from the large portable lighting systems stretched for more than a mile into the forest before fading into the darkness.  The air was filled with the constant hum of generators, trucks and equipment, but now, after several days, he was able to tune it out. 

Maybe something had gone wrong, he thought.  Jane had only shared certain details with him, but he was able to piece together the bigger plan.  And, through Jane, he had been kept current on the search and recovery efforts.  So far, there had been no sign of the man they were supposed to meet.  Maybe the plane had crashed far closer to Elk City than planned?  With Elk City overrun by police and rescue teams, their contact may have been forced to hide, waiting for a safe time to make his way to one of the pre-established rendezvous points.  They had checked each site daily, at the prescribed time, but so far, there hadn’t been any signs of him. 
Oh well
, Jackson sighed.  Their role wasn’t to plan but to clean up, so to speak, and they had recently learned that their job had gotten easier.  Two days ago, Jane had told them, nature had taken care of one of the men they were supposed to meet.  He suspected that either nature or the plane crash had taken care of the other, but Jane insisted that he keep checking until there was definitive proof that their contact wasn’t walking out of the mountains alive.  As she had stressed repeatedly, they could not afford any loose ends.

So far, their cover story seemed to be working, and they were able to lose themselves in the chaos that had descended on Elk City.  But even with their federal IDs and even with the look, it was only a matter of time before someone started asking questions. 

Jackson watched the large yellow, six-wheeled dump truck drive up Main Street.  What a clusterfuck this was turning out to be.  It was almost 4:00 a.m. and he had one more hour on watch before Malouf relieved him.  Then he would make the drive back to their trailer for a few hours of sleep.

Derek grinned as he turned onto the side road three miles out of town. 

“Where are we going?” the president asked.

“I have an idea,” Derek responded.  He shifted back up to high gear.  “We can’t drive around in this thing forever.  It’s too slow and we stand out.  We need to find a car, and I know where we can get one.”

The president smiled.  The kid was quick on his feet.  Several minutes earlier, they had passed through a second roadblock at the edge of town and Derek nodded and waved as he drove through. 
Act like we belong
, he had said.  No one had challenged them.

Ten minutes later, they pulled into a junk yard.  Next door was a used auto lot with a dozen cars, all buried in snow.  Derek drove the truck around the side of the yard, along a chain link fence with green slats, many broken with age.  The truck bounced along the ground until they came to the end of the fence.  Derek turned right and drove the yuke thirty to forty yards along the back of the fence before he stopped. 

He keyed his radio.  “You guys can come out now.”

By the time they climbed down from the cab and walked to the back of the truck, Richter and Jack were climbing out.

Richter turned in a full circle.  “Where are we?”

“At a junk yard, six or seven miles from Elk City.  We need to find a car.”

Richter walked over to the fence and peered between the gaps, seeing nothing but mounds of snow.

“The last time we were here,” Derek continued, “Jack’s car broke down and we needed to buy an alternator.  We didn’t have a lot of money, so the mechanic in town sent us here.  I bargained with the owner and he let me rummage around in the junkyard until I found the right one.  It only cost us ten bucks.”  He pointed behind them.  “He has a small cabin about a half a mile that way, back in the woods.  The guy’s drunk most of the time.  I don’t think he’ll notice anything’s missing for a day or two.”