It was in fact a twenty-year-old Toyota Camry that had been severely wrecked at some point in its life. Now it sat in the middle of the road on four bald tires, flames sprouting from beneath its crumpled hood.
The truck driver eased the flatbed to a stop a few yards away and searched the road for victims. A white van was pulled off the road a short distance ahead, but there were no signs of life around it or the burning car.
“We better call this in,” the driver said as his partner reached behind the seat for a fire extinguisher.
A crash jarred them out of their seats as the head of a sledgehammer burst through the passenger-side window. A gloved hand thrust through the shattered glass and dropped a smoking canister of tear gas in the cab.
In an instant, the truck’s interior was filled with an acrid white smoke that made the men gag. Their eyes burned as if hot lava had been poured under their lids, and they groped for the door handles to escape the agony.
The driver made it out first, leaping from the cab onto the roadway. A man wearing a ski mask zapped him with a stun gun, sending him to the ground, convulsing. On the other side of the truck, the codriver had managed to pull out his gun as he exited the cab. But with his eyes clenched shut from the gas, he failed to see the second assailant strike him with another stun gun.
A third man, wearing a gas mask, climbed into the cab and hurled the still-smoking canister out into an adjacent field. He slid behind the wheel and jabbed a knife into the cab’s headliner. He pulled away the fabric until spotting a wire, which he deftly sliced, disabling the roof-mounted GPS transmitter that allowed the shipping company to track the vehicle. Jamming the truck into gear, he eased it forward until its broad chrome bumper kissed the burning car. Then he floored the accelerator while nudging the steering wheel to the right. The torque-strong truck brushed the Toyota aside like an insect and flipped it into a ditch.
Straightening back onto the small road, the new driver shifted gears and lowered his side window. Within seconds, the last remnants of gas had been flushed out. Pablo pulled off the uncomfortable gas mask and tossed it on the seat beside him.
He glanced at his watch and smiled. In just two minutes he had taken one of America’s most secret technologies. He pulled out a cell phone, dialed a long string of numbers, and smiled, thinking about his payoff to come.
35
PABLO DROVE THE LONG FLATBED ANOTHER MILE before maneuvering it off the highway and onto a small dirt road. The narrow, rutted track crossed a large pasture dotted with sleepy-eyed cows. A half mile in, the road passed a large pond, then ended at an abandoned farm just beyond.
The charred remnants of the farmhouse were still visible, scorched by a fire decades earlier. Nearby, a large weathered barn leaned to one side as if the next nor’easter would send it tumbling. Pablo drove to the barn and guided the truck into an opening at one end of it.
Inside he found a high stack of freshly cut bales of hay guarded by a mini forklift. At the opposite end of the barn stood another semi-truck cab. He pulled the flatbed alongside the bales, parked the truck, and climbed out to examine the object under the tarps.
A few minutes later, the white panel van pulled in, and two large black men jumped out.
“You take care of the drivers?” Pablo asked.
The first man nodded. “Clarence cuffed them together around a big oak off the highway. Some farmer will find them in a day or two.”
“Good. Now, let’s get to work. I’m on a tight schedule.”
The two hired thugs pulled away the tarps covering the Sea Arrow’s motor. Then they donned heavy gloves and went to work on the bales of hay. Clarence started up the forklift, and using an attached device called a bale squeeze, he began hoisting blocks of multiple bales onto the flatbed. The second man stood on the bed, guiding the bales into place around the motor.
Meanwhile, Pablo unhitched the truck from the flatbed. He parked the truck off to the side and returned with the other big rig, a blue Kenworth. In ten minutes he had the new truck hitched to the trailer. He scrutinized the flatbed for a second GPS tracking device. Finding none, he swapped the rear license plate.
The other two men had nearly finished building a wall of hay around the Sea Arrow’s power plant. Pablo helped them pull a tarp across the top of the bales and tie it to the sides of the trailer, completing its disguise as a hay truck.
Clarence, the larger of the two men, pulled off his gloves and approached Pablo. “That concludes our part of the job,” he said in his raspy voice. “You have our pay?”
“Yes,” Pablo said. “And you have the plans?”
“In the back of the van. Along with an added present for you,” he said, grinning.
“Bring the documents to the truck. I’ll get your money.”
Clarence opened the back of the van and pulled out the plastic bin containing Heiland’s supercavitation plans. He followed Pablo to the Kenworth and placed it on the passenger seat. Pablo reached behind the seat and handed the hired thug a thick envelope. The big man ripped off one end, revealing several bound stacks of hundred-dollar bills.
“My, that does look pretty.” He folded the envelope closed. “Now, if you’d be kind enough to retrieve your gift, we’ll be on our way.”
Pablo gave him a puzzled look. Clarence jerked his thumb toward the van and led Pablo to the open back doors, where the other man stood, smiling.
As Pablo peered past him into the van’s interior, his eyes flared in anger. Coiled on the van’s floor was the bound-and-gagged Ann Bennett.
A look of rage seared her face until her eyes met Pablo’s, then the shock of recognition hit home. The Colombian terrorist was the last person she expected to see here. Her brazenness evaporated, and she wriggled farther into the confines of the van.
Pablo turned to Clarence. “What is she doing here?”