“So get your gear set up,” Mike continued, taking another sip. “Chow’s in the big house, as are quarters. Quarters are okay, chow’s good; I’m a big believer in steak and lobster as motivators. And, speaking of motivators, there is good news.”
“Yes, sir?” the senior chief said, suspiciously.
“The only beer on the island is Mountain Tiger,” Mike replied, grinning. “And if you’re a very good boy, I may let you sample the pure quill.”
The Wal-Mart driver cursed under his breath when he saw the blue lights in his rearview. He’d been doing right at the speed limit so it had to be a random check.
He pulled over to the side, though, there being plenty of room on the side of the nearly deserted turnpike. On weekends and holidays the road would be packed, but on a weekday afternoon there wasn’t much traffic.
Marshes stretched in every direction in the Big Empty between the burgeoning Miami area and the even faster growing sector around Orlando and Disney World. It was real old Florida, the Florida from back in the days when “I’ve got some dry land in Florida to sell you” was a scam. A kite swirled above on the light winds, searching for its morning meal.
Officer Jose Coqui, Florida Department of Commercial Vehicle Enforcement, got out of the driver’s door, after checking to make sure it was clear, and made his way down the narrow strip between the road and the truck until he reached the driver’s door.
“Hey, officer,” the driver said. His window was already down and he had his manifest out. “I’m clean.”
“I’m sure you are,” Jose said, smiling. “Just checking.”
“I weighed after I dropped my last load,” the driver said. “It’s in the manifest. Just running up to Orlando distribution center.”
Jose looked at the documents and nodded. The driver had followed all the restrictions that the government had put on truckers to the letter, including a mandatory rest break the night before. Gone were the days of “pop me up, jack me up, flying down the highway.” Truckers were only permitted to drive a specified number of hours a day. Violate it and they were liable to lose their commercial driver’s license.
They could also lose their CDL for being overweight. The interstate highway system was primarily paid for by taxes on trucks and those taxes were based on the weight of their cargo and how far they ran between pick-up and drop-off. The weigh stations by the side of the highway, though, were being more and more replaced by a series of sensors that picked up data from the trucks about their load and destination automatically and random stops, such as this, which made sure that the truckers weren’t cheating.
Jose’s partner had already rolled the scale in front of the truck’s rear tires and now waved.
“Could you pull forward a few feet?” Jose asked.
“Certainly,” the trucker said. “But you’ll see. I’m clean.”
Wal-Mart trucks almost always were. The company was too big, and too professional, to fuck around with a few pounds of cargo here and there. As the controlling company of the truck, they’d get fined, too.
The trucker pulled forward until he was on the portable scale and stopped, looking in his rearview.
Jose walked back to the scale with the manifest and held it out.
“Twenty-two, five thirty,” Jose said. “Running light.”
“Really?” his partner said. “Try twenty-three and change.”
“You sure?” Jose asked, looking at the readout.
The scale was a solid state model that used induction as opposed to the old “pressure” models. Sometimes they were off, but not by that much.
“I think we have ourselves a winner,” his partner said, grinning. Robert O’Toole was new to the department and “keen.” He loved finding truckers that were trying to skate the rules.
“Doesn’t make sense,” Jose said, shrugging. “But I’ll go get him.”
“Is there a problem?” the trucker asked when Jose walked back to his cab. He knew the drill. They should have rolled him off the scale after the check.
“You’re overweight,” Jose said. “Mind explaining why?”
“Honest to God, Officer,” the trucker said, opening his door and climbing down. “I weighed just before my stop. I can’t be overweight.”
“Well, we got to check your cargo against the manifest,” Jose said. “Open it up.”
“God damn,” the man said. “Nothing against you but…”
“I understand,” Jose said. But he let the man go first.
The threesome, hugging the side of the truck, walked to the rear where the driver opened the doors. Sitting at the rear of the palletized cargo were two blue plastic fifty-five gallon drums.
“Mind explaining that?” O’Toole said, looking at the manifest. “Not a damned thing here about drums of liquid. Or is it liquid?”
“Calm down, Bob,” Jose said, shaking his head.
“I didn’t put those there,” the driver said, his face ashen. “Honest to God!”
“You might not have.” Jose sighed as O’Toole clambered into the truck. “It’s a new way to run drugs. You do your mandated stop, a couple of smugglers slip this into the back. You have another stop in the interim, accomplices slip it out. It’s another reason we do these stops. But, if it’s illicit substances, I’m going to have to place you under arrest until you’re cleared.”
“Oh, fuck,” the trucker moaned. “Is it going to go on my record?”
“Not if you’re cleared,” Jose said. “And you probably will be. But the whole thing’s getting impounded until it gets cleared.”
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” the trucker cursed.
O’Toole had managed to get one of the lids off and frowned down at the contents.
“It ain’t cocaine,” he said, leaning down. Then he flew back, his eyes wide and started gagging.
The officer fell to the floor of the truck, gasping and convulsing.
“JOSE!” he managed to gag. “What…”
Jose grabbed the officer and dragged him to the ground, over into the verge, then pulled his shoulder-mounted mike around.
“This is Unit 27,” he shouted. “We have a hazardous materials incident at mile marker one seventy-eight, turnpike! I need HazMat and an ambulance. Now! Officer down!”
“So they’re inside,” the President said, frowning.
“Yes, sir,” the secretary of Homeland Security confirmed. “So far, Wal-Mart is agreeing to the cover story. Hazardous materials somehow were loaded on one of their trucks. The turnpike was shut down for about two hours but it’s open again.”
“We got those, but we don’t know how many others have made it in,” the FBI director said. “Florida has reopened all their weigh stations in South Florida. The cover story is an outbreak of Mediterranean Fruit Fly. All trucks are being searched. Even moving vans are being searched.”
“But they got inside,” the President said, angrily. “What are we paying all this money for if they can just slip through?”
“We don’t know their methods, sir,” the CBP director said, nervously. “If they brought in a container, they’re apparently breaking it down somewhere in South Florida. We’ll find it.”
“And if they didn’t?” the President asked.
“That is the top theory at the moment, Mr. President,” the DNI said. “We’re relatively certain they brought in the full container. Find that and we find the mother lode.”
“I don’t care if they brought it in by balloon,” the President suddenly shouted. “FIND IT!”
“Yes, sir,” Greznya said, handing over the headpiece. “The President.”
“Hello, sir,” Mike said, looking at the document on his lap. The track had come from north of Grand Island. That meant that there should be a refuel ship up there. But, if so, it was probably sitting outside the two hundred mile “economic zone” of the U.S. Very long damned run. On the other hand, the Ronald Reagan CVBG was up in that area. They should have seen something by now.