Page 67 of Clive Cussler's Quantum Tempest
“Negative! We can handle a flat tire.” The supervisor had to shout over the din of rain pummeling the Chevy’s roof. “Proceed to the final destination. We’ll be back on the road in fifteen minutes and catch up.”
“Affirmative.”
The two men in the front seat exchanged a glance. Neither wanted to get out in this storm. The supervisor turned around toward the two junior gunmen in the back seat.
“Well? What are you waiting for? Get out there and fix that tire.”
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The Chinese MSS officer in the lead SUV dropped his radio back into the tray. If his boss said to keep going, they’d keep going, but he didn’t like it. He preferred the team to stay together, but this was an unusual mission, and it was very high priority. He wasn’t going to make any decisions that could put it at risk. If something went wrong, it would be on the team leader, not him.
Just as with the vehicle in the rear, the SUV driver struggled to see through the windshield in the sheeting downpour. But maintaining speed was essential. Their orders were clear—they had to arrive at a specified time. Arrangements had been made. No alteration to the time schedule was permitted.
The incredibly bad traffic and road problems on the planned route were unanticipated. The new route provided by their excellent GPS service helped avoid those difficulties but extended their travel time beyond acceptable limits if they didn’t maintain speed.
As lead vehicle, their primary responsibility was to scout ahead ofthe container truck for poor road conditions or, worse, armed resistance, such as thieves or foreign agents, that might be foolish enough to attempt to steal the invaluable contents of the truck. Other than the circuitous rerouting over small, rural mountain roads and the poor weather, the mission was proceeding as planned.
The GPS map pointed them up the narrow mountain road, indicating a sharp hairpin turn just ahead. The nervous driver followed the little blue arrow on the screen, leaning forward and squinting through the water cascading across his windshield, careful not to slow down, as per his orders.
He could barely see the climbing road as it disappeared around the sharp bend of rock up ahead. For an instant, he thought a patch of fog had suddenly risen to hide the thin ribbon of asphalt in front of him. But the sickening feeling of free fall in his gut and the sudden lifting of his body up out of his seat and against his restraints told him the vehicle had gone airborne.
The four men screamed as the Chevy tumbled down the side of the mountain, unaware theOregon’s AI program had erased the “Road Closed” sign from their digital map.
?
Unaware of the events in front of and behind him, the container truck driver kept his foot on the gas and rumbled forward despite the slashing rain and poor visibility.
The young guard next to him sat unflinchingly in his seat, the only other passenger in the vehicle. This was his first foreign field assignment.
The driver flinched as the engine lights suddenly all winked on and the truck shuddered to a halt. “Call ahead,” the driver told the guard. “Tell them what happened. I’ll check the engine.”
The guard nodded curtly and grabbed his radio.
The driver muttered a curse under his breath as he pulled on his raincoat and jumped out of the cab into a puddle, then slammed the door shut behind him.
The rain-soaked driver unhooked the rubber latches on the fiberglass hood, lifted it up, and planted his feet on the catwalk step. Gripping the edge of the frame for balance, he leaned over to peer into the engine compartment. The massive diesel engine ticked with heat, its intricate web of belts and hoses still as the grave. He jerked and pulled at various wires and connections but couldn’t figure out what was wrong.
Something stung his face like hot grease. He lifted one filthy hand to wipe it away, but his world was shrouded in unfathomable darkness.
Utterly unconscious, he fell backward into a puddle with a muddy splash.
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Still inside the cab, the young guard riding shotgun became increasingly nervous. He attempted to radio his supervisor, but there was no response. He could hear the driver lifting the hood and feel the cab shifting under the man’s weight as he climbed up to inspect the engine compartment. But without the windshield wipers working and with the windows fogging up, he couldn’t see a thing.
The guard then changed radio channels and tried to reach the rear vehicle, but his unit only squelched and squawked, no doubt affected by the storm. He slapped it a few times, but to no avail. The other SUV wasn’t responding, either. The inexperienced guard didn’t realize the area was now blanketed with a jammer.
The sudden lurch of the cab and the heavy thudding sound of a body hitting wet ground raised an alarm in the young man.
He called out to the driver, but he could hardly hear his own voice over the roar of the rain pelting the cab’s steel roof. There were no more sounds of the driver tinkering with the engine.
Something was definitely wrong.
He pulled his pistol and pushed the passenger door open, his gun at high ready. No sooner had he opened the door than a couple of pellets struck him in the neck and face, and within seconds, he, too, lay in the middle of a muddy puddle—face down.
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The fourOregonoperatives broke out from their concealed positions and raced toward the back of the container truck.
