Vanishing Point - Marc Cerasini [24]
"Thank you sir..."
"You know I'd take you with me today... if I could."
This time it was Lev who raised his hand. "What you're doing today is classified, sir. Part of your duty as the chairman of the Senate Special Defense Appropriations Committee. It's obviously beyond my security clearance level, and I completely understand."
Palmer offered his chief of staff a half smile. "Nicely put. Still, I could use some of your sage advice. I'm forced to make a very difficult decision today. It's a decision I'll make alone, and it's weighing heavily."
Lev nodded sympathetically. "The burden of command, David. It will only get heavier after you get to the White House."
Palmer's grin was genuine. "If I get there, you mean."
Lev shook his head. "Oh, you'll get there, Senator. You have what it takes and this country needs you."
"I appreciate your endorsement, but I'm afraid we'll have to leave it up to the voters."
Both men chuckled. Then the chief of staff rose. "You'd better get some rest, Senator. It's going to be a long day."
* * *
1:56:43 p.m. PDT
Big Dean's Truck Farm
Two miles southeast of Route 582
Outside of Henderson, Nevada
A billowing cloud of powdery dust followed the lumbering semi as it crawled up the slight incline. With each pit and bump of the rough, unpaved road, the trailer the truck hauled shuddered and boomed hollowly, rocking back and forth so violently it seemed poised to tip over at any moment. At the top of the hillock, the narrow path ended at a pair of eight-foot wooden doors adorned with curls of rusty barbed wire. Above the weathered gate the faded BIG DEAN'S sign was topped by a crudely rendered image of smiling cowboy tipping his broad brimmed hat.
The driver hardly slackened his pace as he approached the barrier. Instead, the truck's roar shook a pair of sun-browned workers in greasy overalls out of a dilapidated, sun-bleached shed. They loped to the gates, one lifting the latch, the other swinging the rickety doors open. Within a moment, the truck roared through the opening, followed by its cloud of grit and grime.
With a high-pitched squeal the semi braked, sand and gravel crunching under sixteen wheels. The vehicle ground to a halt in the middle of a dusty expanse occupied by the shack, and a battered mobile home with cracked windows resting on gray concrete bricks. The mobile home's dented sides were flecked with peeling yellow paint.
The driver popped his door just as the persistent plume of dust finally overtook his vehicle. Coughing once, the coyote hopped to the ground and disdainfully kicked the Nevada sand with a booted foot. Tall and rail thin, wearing faded jeans and a red bandana around his throat, the young man had dark hair that stuck out from under the brim of a sweat-stained cowboy hat. Brown face impassive, the human smuggler sauntered to the rear of the vehicle.
As he began to unlock the trailer's door, three Hispanic men emerged from the dilapidated mobile home on the opposite end of the enclosed lot. The trio were clad in dusty denim and heavy work boots. The two men on either end were well over six feet tall, muscular, with thick necks and shaven heads, dotted with stubble. The man in the middle was shorter than the others, and had a full head of brown, curly hair. Mirrored sunglasses covered his eyes. Each man cradled an AK-47 in the crook of his arm.
If the presence of automatic weapons troubled the coyote, he didn't show it. With an air of tedious routine, the man unlatched the steel door on the back of the trailer and swung it open. Eyes to the ground, he stepped back to allow the newcomers unobstructed access to the cargo inside.
Five men emerged from inside the cavernous trailer, blinking against the harsh desert sun. They wore worn work clothes and were armed like the others, their assault rifles slung over their shoulders, next to heavy backpacks. Joints stuff, muscles sore, the men slowly and silently climbed down from the trailer. Only one man out of the group approached the armed trio. Without preamble he hugged the man in the middle, muttering quietly