“Keep those hands where I can see them, and back away from the truck real nice and slow.”
Thomas did as instructed, with the biker jamming the pistol into Thomas’s stomach while addressing the others.
“Drop those weapons, deputies, or your buddy here is gonna have a new belly button.”
The deputies appeared to be momentarily flustered by this unexpected command. They looked to each other for guidance, and when they finally lowered their weapons, Thomas exhaled a long breath of relief.
“Attaboy, Jester,” said Whitten, who reached out for one of the deputies’ pistols.
Before the redheaded giant could gain possession, the firm voice of the Sheriff broke from the right side of the farmhouse.
“Freeze!” he ordered, while chambering a fresh round into his shotgun.
All eyes went to Whitten, who took a second to consider the risks involved before slowly backing away from the deputy and meekly nodding in submission.
“You fucking pussy!” shouted Jester, who roughly pushed Thomas to the ground and went sprinting for the nearest Harley.
The chopper roared alive and peeled off down the gravel driveway, leaving a cloud of exhaust in its wake. Thomas scrambled to his feet and listened as a pair of high-powered rounds exploded from the nearby tree line. A bare second later, the motorcycle went tumbling on its side, its tires shredded by a salvo of expertly aimed bullets.
With his pride bruised more than his body. Jester was pulled out from beneath the bike and led back to the porch. The deputies quickly cuffed him, and reinitiated the frisking process.
Only after he was certain that there were no other bikers who had yet to be discovered did Thomas return to his inspection of the truck. He reexamined the powder-coated crate, and spotted the label cherry bombs stenciled in red on its side. With the edge of his pocket knife, he cautiously pried open one of the slats.
Packed in sawdust inside was a line of bright red, gum ball-sized objects with short fuses projecting from them.
“I tell ya, all we’re doin’ out here is makin’ a bunch of fuckin’ fireworks!” pleaded Conrad Whitten to the Sheriff.
“Sure, we’re also smokin’ a little skunk, but it’s only for personal consumption.
And I swear that I was gonna get that fireworks permit as soon as I could afford it.”
Thomas found it hard to hide his disappointment as he entered the farmhouse and got a good look at their operation.
“Theresa, I told ya Whitten was nothin’ but a pussy,” said Jester to the only female in their midst while she was being cuffed.
“Shut the fuck up!” countered Whitten, who now sported his own pair of shiny steel bracelets.
“We’re in enough trouble as it is, and I’m not gonna take your rap of threatening to shoot a police officer all for a mess of bootleg fireworks.”
Thomas had busted an illegal fireworks factory before, and as he stepped inside, everything he saw confirmed that this was what the bikers were doing here. A pair of long wooden tables held a variety of commercial powder presses, cardboard wrapping material, and several boxes of fuses. He also discovered three large barrels of black powder, an invoice made out to St. Alban’s Country Club for three dozen high-altitude star clusters, and an assortment of red, white, and blue airburst projectiles.
Although Thomas could take some satisfaction in knowing that a dangerous operation had been shut down, he realized they had failed to apprehend the bomb maker. He shared this disappointing information with his forward observers as they emerged from the bushes in camouflaged ghillie suits. For all effective purposes, they were back at square one, and when his cellular phone began ringing, Thomas supposed that he’d next have to pass on the frustrating news to the Special Agent in charge of the St. Louis field office.
The gravelly voice on the other end of the line was strangely familiar. Yet Thomas still found himself totally caught off guard when the caller finally identified himself.
“Thomas, you old dog. You’re harder to track down than the Secretary. It’s Ted Callahan. I realize I’m about the last person you expected to hear from today, but I was able to convince Director McShane to divulge your number. I understand from the Director that you’ve got your hands full with a major investigation, but he gave me the all-clear to ask a little favor of you.
Army CID needs your help, good buddy. And I’m willing to forget about those Orioles tickets you promised me last Labor Day and never delivered, for a couple hours of your time down here at Fort Leonard Wood. A mere hundred-mile drive down Route 66 is all it will take to square the account, my friend. So get cracking, before I’m forced to send out the MPs!”
Chapter 5
Commander Brittany Cooper had certainly drawn her fair share of unusual duty slots during her career, yet her current assignment was unique in all the military. The flying command post to which she was assigned was officially designated the E-4B and called the National Airborne Operations Center, though it was better known by its code name Nightwatch. The massive Boeing 747 was one of a fleet of four such airplanes, reserved for the National Command Authority, to provide secure command and communication in the event of war.
Though she had toured Nightwatch previously, this was her first real airborne mission, and she was spending much of her time getting better acquainted with the massive aircraft. Most of her duty so far had been confined to the main deck in Operations, and she eagerly took the opportunity to expand her knowledge of the plane by using a coffee break to explore the flight deck.
A spiral stairway led her past a serious-faced, black-beret-clad, armed security man. Halfway up these stairs, she felt the force of clear-air turbulence and had to halt in mid-step and grab onto the railing. The deck vibrated and slightly dipped, so Brittany waited for the shaking to stop completely before continuing into the upper-deck rest area. She headed forward through the flight crew’s sleeping quarters and, before entering the open flight deck, was forced to a halt by yet another pocket of rough air.
As she finally stepped into the back of the cockpit, a powdery blue sky could be seen through the wraparound windshield. First to acknowledge her presence with a smile was the engineer, who was seated to her immediate right, a complicated, instrument filled console before him.
She nodded in return, remembering him to be First Lieutenant Jake Lasky. A native of Pasadena, California, Lasky had given Brittany her initial tour of Nightwatch back at Andrews, and she enjoyed the curly-haired officer’s quick wit and the stories of his adventures on the Santa Monica bike path.
“I tell you. Coach, you’re all wrong on this one,” proclaimed the copilot, who was seated directly in front of Lasky, his eyes scanning the dozens of digital readouts set into the cockpit around him.
This officer was yet another Californian. Captain Charles “Lucky” Davis lived in Manhattan Beach. His wavy blond hair was almost touching the collar of his flight suit, and Lucky displayed a surfer’s good looks and a lean physique to match.
Seated to his left was Major William Foard, or Coach, as he was better known. Their current pilot was from Boston and a Yale graduate. Brittany had conversed with Coach only briefly, but she liked him instantly. He had a blunt, no-nonsense manner, and it was obvious that he had long ago earned his men’s respect.
Coach had one gloved hand on the plane’s yoke, and he had his attention riveted on making an adjustment to the autopilot.