18 Wheel Avenger Read online

Barry spent months in a military hospital. There, the doctors reworked his face, reshaped his eyes, his nose. He spent more weeks rebuilding his hospital-atrophied muscles.

  He met with several government men, usually Jackson or Weston. He liked their plan, but he wanted to hear it from The Man himself.

  Then one day the President walked into Barry’s hospital room.

  “You’re a stubborn man, Mr. Rivera.”

  “I’m still Rivers until we can reach an agreement, Mr. President.”

  The President smiled. “The only SST rig on the road with only one driver. Dog and Dog. That’s not a very friendly dog, either. He bites.”

  “So do I.”

  “I hope so.”

  “I pick my targets.”

  “Most of the time. Agreed.”

  “Fine. Whatever I ask for, in the way of weapons or explosives—I get. Immediately.”

  “Agreed.”

  The Dog and the President talked for more than an hour, firming things up.

  The President shook Barry’s hand. “Glad to have you with us, Barry.”

  “Call me Dog.”

  “Smooth and Mustard is lookin’ for work,” Frenchy suggested. “They can drive anything with wheels on it and they’re both ’Nam vets.”

  “Fine. Get in touch with them. Right now. I prefer to go it alone, anyway.”

  “Well,” Ready said, standing up and stretching. “It’s steady work.”

  “It’s also a good way to get killed,” Barry reminded them both.

  “What’s that they say about safety in numbers?” Frenchy smiled.

  “Get some sleep,” Barry told them. “I got a hunch we’ll be pulling out early in the morning.”

  The phone woke him up at four in the morning. Jackson.

  “Don’t you ever sleep, Jackson?”

  “Your other drivers are on their way to Kirtland Air Force Base in Albuquerque. And I picked up a codriver for you. Meet you there. A Lieutenant Cutter, with the Air Force’s U.S. SOCOM.”

  “What the hell is that?”

  “Special Operations Command. They’re tough and the best in the business in dealing with terrorists. Cutter will be your codriver. Don’t argue. You need one and you know it.”

  “Fine. What’s the procedure for Frenchy and Ready to get to Kirtland?”

  “Plane. Get them out to Stapleton by eight o’clock. I know how you are about that truck of yours. Just get down there in twenty-four hours. They’ll use that time to familiarize themselves with the regular SST tractors. Orders will be forthcoming. See you.”

  The connection was broken.

  Frenchy and Barry had to get Ready drunk before he’d even discuss getting on a plane.

  “I hate planes. I don’t trust planes. I don’t like planes. And I ain’t gettin’ on no damn airplane!”

  Finally Barry put in a call to Jackson. Jackson was out, but Weston was in. Barry explained the situation.

  When Weston was through cussing, he said, “IIang on. I’ll get an Air Force plane. Get him drunk as a skunk and pour him in the plane.”

  Barry waved bye-bye and got a taxi back to his motel. He paid up, checked out, and hit the road. It was about four hundred and fifty miles to Kirtland.

  He looked over at Dog, sitting in the seat. “You ready, boy?”

  Dog growled.

  Dog and Dog hit the road.

  It wasn’t long before Barry realized he’d picked up a tail. And his followers weren’t trying to be secretive about it. They were on his donkey and wanted him to know it.

  He was running empty, and the big Kenworth could practically fly if Barry wanted to pedal the metal; but with a smile on his face, he decided to see just what his followers had in mind.

  Long before he got to Colorado Springs, Barry had picked up his pace car, and like the car following him, the car in front had three men in it.

  From the quick looks he’d gotten, none of the six looked real friendly. Barry decided he’d wait for a particularly desolate stretch of road, between Pueblo and Walsenburg, before making any moves. He wished his followers would open the dance. Then he could slap one off the road with a clear conscience.

  As it now stood, he was ten percent unsure the two cars held people who had unkind thoughts toward him. And unlike terrorists, he did not wish to be responsible for the deaths of innocents.

  Coming out of Pueblo, rolling south, Barry listened to his CB. No Bears in sight and none had been spotted on the fifty-mile stretch between Pueblo and Walsenburg.

  Barry decided to make his move.

  He swung over in the left lane and let the big Kenworth howl; the 350 NTC Cummins kicked in hard and Barry blew past the Ford car. Barry caught a quick glimpse of three startled faces.

  He also caught a glimpse of what looked to be an M-16 on the rear seat; the lone passenger in the back with a hand on the weapon.

  Barry stayed in the left lane and switched on his scanner. The red light danced left and right and back and forth before finally settling on channel 2.

  “What the hell’s he doing?” came the excited voice.

  “Don’t know. But I think he’s made us.”

  “What next?”

  “Do we take him out?” a third voice came in.

  “Yes. No more talk. Take him.”

  The red light again began its frantic racing. Barry clicked off the scanner and got ready.

  He didn’t have a long wait. He checked his mirrors. The two dark sedans were all that he could see behind him. Nothing in front of him.

  “Come on, assholes!” Barry muttered. “Let’s do it.”

  This was the very reason SSTs always carried a three-person crew. Always a codriver and a person in the sleeper. All heavily armed. And usually with a four-wheeler pacing or in the drag. Whether an SST is carrying 2 kilograms of plutonium or the business end of a Minuteman missile, the threat of sabotage or hijack is always there. With terrorism full-blown in America, the possibilities of an SST getting struck were growing daily.

  The lead sedan began closing as Barry stayed in the left lane. He could see the rear window, left side, lower. The M-16 was in plain view now.

  Now the intentions of his pursuers were known.

  Barry peeled back his lips in a snarl.

  Dog cut his eyes toward Barry and joined him in the snarling.

  “Bed, Dog!” Barry yelled over the high howling of the Cummins.

  Dog jumped from the seat to the custom bunk and lay down, out of harm’s way.

  The sedan was just about right to take out. Just a few more yards.

  Barry slowed a couple of mph and smiled as the driver in the car took the bait.

  Barry could see the grim faces of the men in the front seat of the car. The man on the passenger side was armed with what appeared to be a shotgun.

  The car in the drag had stayed back.

  As the sedan pulled even with Barry’s trailer, he swung the trailer slightly. Traveling at 70 mph, the trailer smacked the car. The driver of the car fought the wheel as his right-side tires left the interstate and hit the shoulder.

  Once more under control, but with its left side dented from the impact, the sedan made a move.

  Barry simply cut the wheel slightly and ran the car off the road. It crashed through the guardrail and went sailing off, carrying its three terrorists into a very dubious meeting with eternity.

  The second car braked to a smoking stop and pulled off onto the shoulder. Barry, with a smile on his face, kept on trucking. He patted the seat beside him and Dog was instantly there.

  “There less baby killers in the world, Dog.”

  Dog barked.

  “But their buddies will be coming after us, you can bet on that.”

  Dog snarled.

  “Yeah. That’s the way I feel about it, Dog. Let the bastards come on!”

  Security at the gate checked his ID and waved him on through, but not before the security police gave him some sidewise looks.

  Obviously they had b
een told to ask no questions.

  Barry made his way slowly towards the area he’d been pointed by security, stopped, and shut it down.

  He was walking Dog when Jackson came out of a building and walked toward him.

  “Keep that damn dog on the leash, Barry. He bites.”

  “No worse than the guy holding the other end of the leash, Jackson.”

  Jackson grimaced.

  “You have any trouble on the way down?”

  Barry smiled.

  Jackson sighed. “Just think, I gave up a nice secure, reasonably peaceful job to look after you. What happened, Barry?”

  Barry explained about the incident on the interstate.

  “You check to see if they were dead?”

  “Nope. But the car sailed about a hundred feet, then rolled end over end. If they’re not dead, they’re not going to be doing much terrorizing for a long time.”

  “I’ll check with the CHP about it. Let’s go somewhere and talk. I think, unknowingly, you’ve dropped right into the middle of one hell of a big operation. Heads up, Barry. These guys play rough.”

  “No kidding,” Barry said sarcastically.

  Barry made sure Dog had done his business and then put him back in the Kenworth, with food and fresh water. Dog promptly flopped down and went to sleep.

  Barry walked across the compound to the concrete block building where Jackson had told him he’d be waiting… with some people he wanted Barry to meet.

  One person in particular caught and held Barry’s attention. A dark-eyed, dark-haired, tanned, and extremely fit appearing lady. Barry could tell that when she stood up, she was going to very nearly be able to flat-footed look him in the eyes. Barry was five-ten; he guessed the lady to be close to five-nine. She was magnificent-looking, her eyes shining with that glow of a person in the best of physical condition.

  Jackson said, “Barry, these people are part of an Air Force special team. They’ve been bounced around so much over the past few years, they’re probably beginning to feel like homeless children. Right now, they come under the Air Force’s SOCOM. They’re the best in the business when dealing with terrorism.”

  Captain Barnett. Lieutenant Jamison. Sergeant Halleck. Sergeant Gale. And Lieutenant Cutter—the fine-looking woman.

  It dawned on Barry: Lieutenant Cutter!

  He turned to Jackson. “Are you telling me that she… ?” He pointed to the woman.

  “That is correct, Barry.” Jackson’s reply was smooth. “Her father owned a very successful trucking firm in the midwest. She grew up behind the wheel of a truck. She’ll be your codriver. Barry Rivera, meet Meri Cutter.”

  The woman stood up. Great God! Barry thought, eyeballing her from her bloused jump boots to the top of her short dark hair. What a woman.

  He nodded at her.

  She nodded at him, her eyes cool as she appraised him.

  “You like dogs, Cutter?”

  “I love dogs. Why?”

  “Because I travel with one. A Husky.”

  “What’s his name? Assuming it is a he.”

  “It’s a he. Dog.”

  She allowed herself a small smile. “And I believe from what Jackson has told us—which isn’t much—that you are codenamed Dog.”

  “That is correct.”

  “Quite a combination. Dog and Dog.”

  Captain Barnett stood up and shook hands with Barry. “Jackson has told us very little about you, Barry. And none of us will push for further information concerning your present operation or how you came to be. But since this operation was put together very quickly, we haven’t had time to read your dossier….”

  “He doesn’t have one,” Jackson said quickly.

  The personnel of the SOCOM shifted uncomfortably and cut their eyes to Jackson. “What do you mean, sir?” Sergeant Gale asked.

  “Just what I said, Sergeant. Suffice it to say that Barry was a captain of a special forces A-team. He helped set up and train that, ah, group of people that presidents are hesitant to use against terrorists because of several weak-kneed members of Congress.”

  The AF team smiled at that.

  Jackson continued, “Barry is highly trained and very competent. But he prefers to work alone.”

  “Doing what?” Barnett asked.

  “And for whom?” Cutter added.

  Jackson’s eyes were bleak. “You do not have a need to know.”

  “Going to be an interesting operation,” Lieutenant Jamison muttered.

  “More so than you might think.” Jackson looked at him. “The Dog has carte blanche in his dealings.”

  The AF team became immediately much more interested and much more attentive.

  “Are you saying that we can use whatever tactics we deem suitable or advisable in dealing with these terrorists?” Barnett asked.

  “That is correct. The Dog operates under his own rules. He is answerable to only one person.”

  None of the AF team asked who that one person was. That was none of their business and all knew Jackson wouldn’t tell them anyway.

  Cutter’s eyes remained fixed on Barry. About forty, she guessed. Hard-looking. Just a touch of gray at the temples. Deep blue eyes. Almost black. Rugged-looking. Handsome, but not in that sissy pretty-boy way that Meri abhorred.

  She wondered who that one person was that Barry answered to.

  But she was too well-trained to consider asking.

  “Let’s get down to it,” Jackson said, putting an end to Meri’s appraisal of Barry. For the moment.

  After a hard hour of questions and answers and trying to fit together the pieces of the puzzle, the team was not much closer to getting an accurate assessment of just who they were up against.

  Jackson called for a break.

  “Come on,” Barry said to Cutter. “You’d better meet Dog and get yourself acquainted with my rig.”

  “Have you met the other guys?” Barry asked, as they walked across the compound to his truck.

  Meri allowed herself a smile. “Yes. Like most drivers they’re all full of crap, but they’ll stand, I believe. We’ve run a good check on them, considering the minimal amount of time we had to do it in, and they all checked out clean. They all have good service records.”

  “I’m ashamed to say that I don’t even know if any of them are married.”

  “All of them are married. Are you?”

  “Not anymore.”

  “Divorced?”

  “Once. My second wife was killed.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “So am I.”

  She dropped the subject.

  Meri met Dog and the two of them hit it off from the outset. She sat down behind the wheel of Barry’s custom Kenworth and smiled.

  “I feel like I’m back home,” she said.

  A Kenworth conventional with a lot of modification and custom work. Smoked windows. The best sound system available. Twin airhorns and twin spots, remote controlled. A built-in bank of radios, CB and police band, whose crystals could be easily changed. Steer Safe stabilizers. Quartz halogen driving lights. The front of the tractor was beefed up with heavy steel mesh, protecting lights and grill in case Barry was forced to ram. Which he had done several times. Airglide 100 suspension. All glass was bulletproof. The cab had reinforced armor plate all around, insulated and fireproof. If they were ever ambushed, a button could be pushed that would lock the axles so that only a cutting torch could free them, unless the driver reset the button.

  Alcoa aluminum ten-hole Budd wheels. Fuller Roadranger thirteen-speed transmission. The differentials were 3.73 Rock-wells SQHP. Fontaine fifth wheel. Michelin steelbelt tires, 1100×24.5 tubeless. Air dryer for air brake. Jake brake. The sleeper was full customized. Walk-in. Electrowarmth mattress with mirrors and twelve-volt TV.

  “What are we going to be hauling, if anything?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. But I would imagine, since none of the others in your team drive eighteen-wheelers, they’ll be pacing us in four-wheelers. Tha
t’s just a guess.”

  “I doubt it. They’ll be out in the field, more than likely. Working on information we feed them. And that’s just a guess.”

  Barry nodded. Something about this woman caught and held his attention. He did not think there was much, if any, sexual harassment within her team. Meri looked like she could handle any situation that might confront her. Her hands were carefully kept feminine-looking, but the calluses on the inside of her palms were real. Barry suspected she was an expert in several forms of martial arts.

  “This is a unique operation you have going, Barry. Dealing out justice from the cab of an eighteen-wheeler. If that’s what you do,” she quickly added.

  “Yeah.” He smiled at her. “It’s sort of like an elephant trying to tiptoe through a china shop.”

  3

  Ready and Frenchy introduced Barry to Smooth and Mustard.

  “I like mustard greens,” the man said with a grin.

  “I ain’t tellin’ nobody how my handle got hung on me,” Smooth announced. “Ain’t done it before, don’t intend to start now.”

  All the drivers in Barry’s new team—with the exception of Cutter—were about forty, give or take a year or two, with many, many years of experience behind the wheel of an eighteen-wheeler. Their dossiers that the AF team had complied on them showed no drug use. They all enjoyed their beer, but not on the job. They all had wives, kids, mortgages, hopes, dreams.

  Good, solid, steady men. Blue jeans and cowboy boots and country music.

  “Let’s get you checked out with weapons,” Cutter said.

  “Yes, ma’am!” Mustard said.

  It didn’t take long for all of them to bring back to the fore their expertise with the M-16. The newer model, which when set on auto, fired in short bursts. They were checked out with pistols: the Beretta 9mm. The men were all adequate-to-good pistol shots. They were given sawed-off pump shotguns. 12 gauge. Loaded with double-ought buckshot.

  The remainder of the AF special operations team appeared at the range, all of them dressed in civilian clothing.

  “We’re heading up to Colorado,” Barnett told Cutter and Barry. “To the scene of your, ah, accident, Barry. You and your people will be here for a couple more days, and then orders will be cut and you’ll pick up a shipment of weapons. It’s going to be a deliberate long run for you. All the way across country. You and your people will be the bait.”