He started his career driving for the Mexican Department of Corrections. His job was to transport convicts that went a bit crazy in the Hermosillo prisons to the insane asylum in Caborca, one hundred and eighty miles away. On one such trip, there was an unusual amount of cursing and shouting coming from the back of the truck. He stopped just south of Santa Ana to see what the rowdy behaviour was all about. It appeared that many of his cracked-up passengers desperately needed a washroom. Through the small meshed window, he told them to wait until they arrived at Caborca where they could piss to their hearts content. A mile further, things got out of hand when they started rocking the truck back and forth. It was in serious danger of tipping over onto its side. Miguel hit the brakes and parked on the side of the road. The least hopeless case assured him that all they wanted was a piss and would get straight back into the truck when done. Many heads nodded in agreement.
Reluctantly, Miguel unlocked the back. In unity, the inmates forced open the hold and Miguel was pushed out the way, landing on his back. The insane prisoners made a run for it in every direction possible and were never seen again. Miguel now had a choice to make. His duty was to deliver twelve crazies to Caborca.
And that’s exactly what he did.
In the parking lot of Central De Autobuses, Santa Ana’s main bus terminus, he offered a free ride to Caborca. He was going in that direction anyway, and seeing as his truck was empty, why not save a few deserving citizens the cost of a bus fare. He apologised that there was only room for twelve, and to ensure there was no funny business going on in the back of his truck, insisted that no women be allowed. In less than two minutes, passengers securely locked in the truck’s hold, Miguel was back on the road.
The guards at the Caborca asylum heard it every time a new truckload arrived. Crazies insisting that they were completely sane and that some mistake had obviously been made.
It had taken the prison authorities, working at their normal dawdling pace, over three months to resolve that rather unfortunate little misunderstanding.
The incident came to the attention of Angelo. If nothing else, he admired resourceful people, and after his bodyguards sought out Miguel, Angelo had a new driver on his payroll.
Miguel had an incredible sense of direction. He could cross the Mojave as often as needed, never going the same route twice, but always coming out very close to the regional roads bordering along the north of the desert. He also had a knack for avoiding authorities and his trucks always arrived with all the illegal migrants still alive. Hungry, thirsty and stinking… but alive.
On one particular delivery, Miguel heard a peculiar popping sound. He was right in the middle of the Mojave, and the last thing he needed was trouble with the truck. He killed the engine. The sound was coming from a strange light source just ahead. He went to investigate. Walking over a small knoll, he saw a battered old pickup. Approaching, he noticed what appeared to be the entrance to an abandoned mine. It was almost unnoticeable. Taking a few steps further, he descended into a shallow tunnel, stepping as quietly and carefully as possible. What he saw, was beyond his reckoning, but he assumed that it must be some sort of US government run clandestine weapons or ballistics operation.
The popping sound he heard was caused by small projectiles being fired from a pit through a cavity in the roof of a chamber into which the tunnel opened. He assumed that’s where the light he’d noticed from his truck came from. Stranger still, was an odd-looking vehicle of sorts. It had no wheels and wasn’t suspended from anything he could see, yet it seemed to float about a foot off the ground. With his back towards Miguel, a man appeared to be making some notes on a clipboard.
It was time to leave. He would describe this strange place to Angelo and see what he made of it. Back outside, Miguel made a mental note of the truck’s registration plate.
Looking down from his balcony at the paved driveway circling a picturesque marble fountain, Angelo Cevallos considered again what Miguel had told him a few weeks ago. He was convinced that it was one of the government’s secretive little locations used to develop and test bizarre technologies. But if that was the case, why didn’t they use one of their facilities at Edwards, Nellis or Groom Lake? This was something bigger, perhaps technology that one or other security agency wanted to keep to themselves. This was something Angelo sought the answer to. Something he intended to have control over, and if viable, sell to the highest foreign bidder. The only thing he had so far was the name the pickup truck was registered to◦– César Kubacki.
A week ago, Angelo had put two plans into action.
The first, which failed miserably, was to send a small band of mercenaries who had their own weapons and a helicopter. Miguel provided rough directions, not being too sure exactly where the site was located. He told them to look for an old pickup near a well concealed entrance. Their job was to capture and interrogate whoever worked there, then to bury the place until Angelo had the answers he was looking for. Problem was that they did their job too well, but in their stupidity, left no markers. Instead, they came back with some feeble excuse about their GPS not working correctly. They failed to capture anyone, and worst of all, nobody now knew the precise location of the operation either.
There was one person, however, from where Angelo could get information on what Kubacki’s clandestine operation was about. He was wrong but didn’t know then just how wide off the mark he was. He knew exactly how the NSA eavesdropped on everyone, and it was general knowledge that threat analysis on communications was contracted out to high-tech companies; the biggest player being SkyTech.
Several days ago, he put his second plan into motion, one that involved blackmail. Unless some answers were provided quickly, she would never see her twin girls again.
Angelo walked from the balcony through the great room and down the marble staircase into his study. He called for Miguel.
“I want you to go back into the Mojave and find that site,” Angelo instructed. “Take a handful of the illegals working the estate with you. If some of them get blown up by landmines, I couldn’t give a shit, but I want you back in one piece.”
“Yes, Mr. Cevallos,” Miguel replied.
Angelo walked behind his desk, swung an original Francisco Goya painting out the way and opened his wall safe.
Miguel had seen him do this many times and knew the combination. “When do you want me to leave?”
“First thing in the morning,” Angelo said, handing over a wad of bills. “Here, pay them a bit extra.”
“Yes, Mr. Cevallos.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The Controller couldn’t make sense of the last message. Dr. Lovinescu, Clark and Brown had arrived back at Groom Lake with nothing additional in their vehicle. Yet the message also suggested they were completely covered in dirt; not entirely unusual tramping around in the Mojave. But that’s not what the message implied. Dust is one thing, dirt, grime and tattered clothing another. The Controller was convinced they had been digging and found something. The question is, what?
“Well, you three certainly look a lot cleaner than when you first arrived,” Nathan said, looking across the dinner table. “What happened?”
James, ears still ringing slightly, recounted their experience.
“I was impressed at how quickly James found the source of the transmission,” Uri added. “That was great work.”
James modestly accepted the compliment.
“James also pointed out the receiving antenna on our way back,” Uri said.
“That shouldn’t have been too difficult to spot,” Nathan said. “It must be fitted to a large tower, surely.”