usual and customary chain of command. Thought for sure you guys would be heading up any response. I can’t fucking believe you’re not at high-level alert.’
Bravo Tom said, ‘Sorry, pal, we’re not And if we were, I’d know about it.’
‘Shit,’ Monty said.
Bravo Tom said, ‘Looks like somebody in your group has some explaining to do.’
Monty nodded, saw that his plate of ribs was coming over, carried by a male airman wearing BDUs. ‘You better fucking believe it,’ he said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Vladimir Zhukov sat next to the Arab boy as he drove the tractor-trailer truck through the confusing maze of roadways and parking areas of the Port of Vancouver. There were three terminal areas that handled container cargo — Deltaport, Centerm and their destination, Vanterm — and Vladimir was pleased enough to let Imad do the driving and dealing. The place was filled with parking areas, service stations, railway yards, and long lines of belching tractor-trailer trucks, coming out with their containers firmly fastened at the rear.
Imad was singing some high-pitched tune that grated on Vladimir’s ears, but he let the boy go on. Even though Imad probably weighed no more than sixty or seventy kilograms and looked like such a child behind the wheel of the Freightliner he handled the massive truck with ease. Between them was a metal clipboard with a sheaf of papers and documents, and Vladimir smiled at the memory of crossing the US Customs station not more than an hour ago. The Americans didn’t care who was leaving their benighted nation, and Canada was only too eager to allow tradesmen and businessmen and truckers through. Their papers had gotten a perfunctory glance and then they’d been on their way, passing from US Route 5 to Canadian Route 99. Imad commented immediately on the rougher roadway.
Vladimir said, ‘The joy of a socialist economy. They would rather spend money on making immigrants feel good than on good roadways.’
Imad grunted. ‘This is one hell of a bad road.’
‘So it is. I will tell you a story. After the end of the Great Patriotic War, the—’
‘The what?’
Vladimir folded his arms. ‘What others call the Second World War. We call it the Great Patriotic War. As you call the Six Days’ War between Israel and the Arabs the Great Betrayal. At the end of the Second World War, Canada had the third-largest navy in the world, after the United States and Great Britain. They were a world power, and they pissed it away, like a drunk peasant getting a fortune and spending it on vodka. Now they have an Air Force that relies on American castoffs, a Navy that depends on leased ships, and an Army that cannot even fill a football stadium. Pathetic.’
Imad had laughed. ‘Like a nuclear-armed empire that sees half its land given away, its mighty submarine force rusting at the dockside, and an Army that is still getting its ass kicked in Chechnya.’
Vladimir felt his fists clench. ‘We’ve lost our way. We will be back.’
Imad laughed again. ‘Surely you will, Russki. You keep on believing that.’
Now they were in the middle of the Vanterm container terminal, having followed a map provided by a security guard. Imad had opened the window and the smell was of diesel fuel and chemicals and salt air and exhaust. Imad sang another little ditty as he drove, irritating Vladimir with its stupidity, but the Russian let the boy do his job. Other vehicles traveled on the access roads as well, mostly tractor-trailer trucks like themselves, hauling away containers that just a number of hours ago had been transiting the Pacific Ocean. He found that the palms of his hands were moist. He wiped his hands on his pant legs. Everything would be fine.
They came to another gate. Imad passed the paperwork over, chatted to the terminal worker. The man was Chinese. Lots of workers here were Chinese, and Vladimir hated the sight. The damn Chinese were pressing against his homeland, buying up land and mineral rights and pulp mills in the eastern part of his Russia, and the damn people were here as well, taking over the western part of Canada. Were the Canadians so blind that they fretted and complained about the behemoth to their south — who usually ignored them, except when it came to UN votes — and overlooked the true behemoth to the west, who was going to overtake their pretty little country by buying and breeding, two things at which the Chinese excelled?
The truck barked into motion again. As they went down a narrow roadway, flanked on each side by overhead cranes, more containers that marked the oceanwide business here — P&O, Freightline, Haatz-Merlin and Stagway — Vladimir said, ‘Are we there yet? Are we?’
‘Just another minute,’ Imad said. ‘Aaahh…here we go.’
There. Vladimir could feel his pulse racing at the sight of the bright yellow Comex container and trailer, sitting by itself off to the left. Imad honked the air horn in celebration as he slowed down and passed the trailer. Working the gears and looking in the side view mirrors, he backed up the tractor-trailer and Vladimir winced at the sudden jolt as the truck seemed to hit something.
‘Damn fool, what did you do?’
Imad’s head was turned but his voice was sharp enough. ‘I am young but I’m no fool, you pampered doctor. Haven’t you ever ridden in a truck before? We’ve just hooked up the trailer. Nothing unusual. Damn fool yourself.’
Imad opened the driver’s door, leapt out. Vladimir followed him and dropped down to the cracked pavement, enjoying stretching his legs. He looked around at the mess of containers and cranes. He felt a flash of anger that such a place existed here, in a joke of a country. Canada! Something like this should be in Vladivostok, an ocean away, feeding his home country, helping it to grow strong again. Not in this Western fairyland of a place… He walked to the rear, saw Imad at work, connecting cables and hoses from the Freightliner to the trailer.
‘How much longer?’
‘Just a few more minutes, that’s all. What’s the rush?’ Vladimir rubbed his cold hands, looked to the south and the horizon and the haze that marked the homeland of his enemy.
‘You’re right, no rush,’ he said. ‘I’ve waited decades. I can wait just a bit longer.’
Imad laughed. ‘We’ve waited more than five centuries. We too can wait a bit longer.’
In Memphis, Alexander Bocks spent just a few seconds looking over at his three visitors, gauging their reaction to the news he had just given them. The doctor looked like he was relieved, as though something bad he had signed up for was not now going to happen. The detective just looked uncomfortable, like he knew he didn’t belong here but should be back home in Manhattan, investigating an assault at a bodega or something. And the CIA woman… when he had told her that AirBox was going to be grounded in less than two hours, something more than disbelief or anger had flashed across that pretty face. It had been as if something she had cherished and hoped for had been snatched away at the very last moment.
Adrianna Scott said, ‘Less than ninety minutes? Are… are you sure?’
‘Sure I’m sure,’ Bocks shot back. ‘What the hell kind of question is that?’
Yep, the CIA woman was rattled. He wondered how in hell she had gotten to the position she was in. She seemed to pull herself together and said, ‘Yes, you’re right. Of course. The question I should have asked is, why? Why are your mechanics going on strike?’
Bocks managed a small smile. ‘Over teeth.’
‘Teeth?’ the detective asked. ‘What’s the matter, they don’t like their dental plan?’
The general turned to look at Doyle. ‘Sure they do. That’s the problem. They love their dental plan, but they don’t want to pay more than their fair share. In order to be more competitive, we’ve got to cut costs even more. Neither side is going to budge, so by the time you nice folks get back to your hotel rooms the strike will be on.’
‘But don’t you have contingency plans?’
Plans, Bocks thought, sure, plans thought up by my slug CFO. Aloud he said, ‘Sure we do. We have mechanics lined up. Scabs, the poor bastards. But the FAA isn’t going to allow us to shut out our old mechanics and bring in a new crew without certifications and training being checked. So we’ll be down. A week, maybe two. Maybe even three.’
‘Over teeth,’ the CIA woman said, a tinge of wonder in her voice.
