“Just like east Afghanistan, isn’t it?” said Ba’al, looking at the fabulous panorama of ochre, brown, and green in the mountains and valleys sliding by them.
“Yes. It’s truly beautiful here,” his companion responded.
“You know,” continued Ba’al, “this system of interstate highways spreads throughout all of the USA. Pretty incredible when you think about it. Put it on cruise control and float from Seattle to Miami.”
“What’s more amazing, though, is that you can travel from one end to the other without any fear of someone trying to bomb the hell out of you, or worrying that you might drive over a landmine, or thinking that you run the chance of getting some warlord and his band of soldiers on your tail,” Izzy replied.
“So true,” said Ba’al. “So true. The only thing you have to worry about is some nutcase in Alabama, or some crystal meth addict in LA, picking up a gun. That’s nothing. And in Canada there’s even less worry. No guns up there.”
“Plus there’s a restaurant every few miles. Food is dirt cheap. Hamburgers, steaks, Mexican, Italian, Greek, Pakistani even — you name it,” added Izzy. “No fear that you’re eating horsemeat, or a dog. No gruel. No borange.”
“And look at the price of gas here,” Ba’al said. “Dirt cheap. That’s probably why the Americans are fuck sticking in Iraq, or even Afghanistan. They get Mid-East oil dirt cheap there.”
Izzy thought about that for a while. Afghanistan was a beautiful country, with many striking vistas, especially when one neared the Hindu Kush. It was not the endless desert portrayed so often on CNN. And it would always be his homeland, the place where it all started. But it was an unruly country, with many warlords along its borders, and now the American occupiers in the cities. It was a land full of violence, bombs, and guns. He didn’t want to go back there. Western civilization had opened its arms to him, and Vancouver had become home.
“These Americans, they don’t have a clue how good they have it. A highway like this will never be built in Afghanistan, and if it was, you could never drive it, other than in an armored vehicle, with armed escorts. I don’t miss that bullshit from the Frontier lands, Ba’al. I’m not even homesick anymore. This is home now.”
The newly designed and modified PWS-14 was sitting in a large, 40-foot enclosed trailer, heading northeast on the 15. Ray was driving the modern Mac tractor unit, Ted was in the passenger seat, and Javeed was in the sleeper. There was very little conversation, and even if they’d had anything to talk about, the mission didn’t exactly inspire friendly banter. The instructions from Ghullam had been very straightforward. Get the trucks and head north on the 15 until they reached their destination. Once there, they were to drop off the submersible and help with any manual labor needs, then return to the warehouse, drop off the truck, and go home. Not a big deal. No gun play. No blowing up buildings or airports. And most importantly, no mindlessly going to their own death. Just transporting a load from Point A to Point B. When that was done, he could return to his grand American lifestyle.
Sam was following him in the five-ton van. Neither of them knew what their cargo was. Massoud and Javeed presumably knew, but didn’t speak of it. For his part, Ray didn’t want to know. It was 1AM, PST, on September 2.
It was evening when Kumar arrived. Yousseff and Rika were waiting at the Long Beach hangar. Another plane — a small, older Lear — was parked outside, fueled, ready, and waiting. The Gulfstream was still dormant, waiting inside the hangar. Yousseff discussed the situation with Kumar for a moment, then turned to Rika.
“It’s time for Kumar and me to go, Rika. We’ll be back here within 12 hours. Use my suite. Stay here and make yourself comfortable,” he said.
Rika watched the two of them climb up the small ladder and into the Lear. “Goodbye, Youss,” she whispered, waving. She didn’t know the plan, didn’t even know the extent of the mission, but found herself deeply troubled. She’d spent the last two days working nonstop on the assignments he’d given her. But now she wondered; what had Yousseff become? What was he planning to do that would have him toss his entire fortune, close to $1 billion, on the table in one grand bet? Would only a few people really die? And even if there was just one death, wouldn’t that be murder? When had Yousseff changed so drastically that he would even consider doing something like this? And if he already had $1 billion, why did he need more?
Upon reaching Highway 9, and then 89, the two large trucks slowed their pace. Eventually they turned onto unpaved roads, and there the progress slowed even further, to less than 20 miles an hour. Ray and Sam drove north, as they had been instructed, following the shore of the reservoir. They proceeded some 20 miles past the campsites and RV hookups that marked the public areas of the park. The entire road was unpaved, pockmarked with potholes, and marred with ruts. It took them more than an hour to travel along this last leg of their journey.
The facility itself was very small. The building was only 3,000 square feet, steel beamed, and metal clad, with a concrete floor and an overhead gantry system. Two large Gensets in a smaller, separate building supplied the power. PWS had worked with a consortium of universities and the Federal Department of Environment to construct underwater maps of the reservoir, and had built this facility as their base during the study. At the same time, they had used it to test various aspects of their subs’ instrumentation in freshwater, and in this case murky freshwater, conditions. The contracts with the universities and government had expired years ago, but Kumar had maintained the test facility. He had personally visited the scene a few weeks earlier, just after he’d picked up Massoud and Javeed. He’d wanted to ensure that there was enough fuel for the Gensets and that everything, including the all-important central gantry crane, was in perfect operating condition. This was their meeting place, the jumping off point for the climax of Yousseff’s plans.
The day had flown by, and it had been dark for an hour by the time the trucks, and their dangerous cargo, arrived from LA. Yousseff and Kumar were already waiting for Ray and the others at the facility. They had used the small rented Lear to fly from Long Beach to Page, Arizona, since Yousseff didn’t want to arrive in his own plane. Should they be discovered or tracked, painstaking diligence would reveal only that the company leasing the plane was a numbered company out of the Caymans, which was in turn owned by a company in Nigeria. Beyond that, little else would be discernable. At the airport they’d rented a Ford crew-cab, again covering their tracks by renting it with a numbered company. It would be untraceable. Ray and Sam passed this truck on their way in, and headed toward the facility. Izzy and Ba’al were still on the road up north, but were due to arrive at any time.
Ray had some difficulty backing the tractor-trailer rig up, as the cleared space between the facility and the road was cramped and narrow. Eventually it was done, and Sam backed the smaller, five-ton van up next to it. Once the two rigs were sitting parallel to one another, the tricky unloading process began. Yousseff smiled at Kumar. They had worked together many a late evening at Karachi Drydock and Engineering, creating, dimensioning, and drafting exotic assemblies that would facilitate the transfer of product from truck to truck, truck to plane, truck to ship, ship to ship, and, in the last decade or so, from ship to submarine. This had been one of the strengths of Yousseff’s vast enterprise. All his people had the ability to reload precious merchandise under dangerous circumstances, in hostile environments, with astonishing speed and efficiency.