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“Yeah,” said Saunders.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
WHAT THE FINKE THINKS
WTLK LIVE TALK RADIO
PITTSBURGH, PENNSYLVANIA
Gavin Finke’s producer and engineer were screening a huge number of calls and putting them in queue.
“Okay,” said Gavin, “we have Ron from Fayette County. Thanks for calling.”
“Hey, Gavin, big fan of the show. Been listening for years.”
“Thanks, my man. So tell me, what do you think is happening in Stebbins?”
“It’s all a big government cover-up,” said Ron. “I heard they were testing some kind of bioweapon on the people in Stebbins County and it got out of control.”
“That’s quite a claim, Ron. What makes you think that?”
“It was on the Internet.”
“And if it’s on the Net it has to be real?”
“Well … no, but I saw a video by a reporter from Stebbins. Billy Trout. You know the guy, he does that Fishing for News with Billy Trout thing. Did all those stories about Homer Gibbon all the way up to the execution and all. He’s a real reporter.”
“Not sure there are any real reporters anymore, Ron, but sure, Billy Trout’s a friend of the show. We had him on with the Yardley Yeti story.”
“I heard that show. I think that was a chupacabra and—”
“Keeping on point here. Why do you think Billy has his finger on the pulse of a government conspiracy?”
“Well, c’mon, man … why else would they have tried to kill him?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHECKPOINT #43
STEBBINS COUNTY LINE
The young sergeant stepped into the muddy road and made that air-slapping gesture that meant to slow down and stop.
Without turning to the captain, the driver said, “We good here, boss?”
“I got this,” said Imura. “Put on your poker faces and don’t say shit.”
The four members of his team—three men and a woman—said nothing, but they each removed credentials from their pockets and held them on their laps. The sergeant was a thin Latino with a precisely trimmed mustache and absolutely no air of authority. New to his stripes, thought Imura.
“Identification, please,” said the sergeant. He wore a white combat hazmat suit over which were gun and equipment belts. His protective hood was pulled off, though, and hung behind ears that stood out at right angles to his head. The sergeant looked cold, wet, far too young, and completely terrified. The rain had slowed to a steady, depressing drizzle and the two small all-weather camp lanterns set on either side of the road did little to push back the darkness. Lightning flashed behind the trees but the thunder was miles off.
Another storm was coming, though. The National Weather Service was calling for nearly five inches of rain over the next sixteen hours. The levees were going to fail, no doubt about it. And that would be proof that God or the Devil was using Stebbins as a urinal. Just like Scott thought.
The sergeant studied the ID, then handed it back and went through the process with everyone in the car. The credentials said that Sam Imura was a captain, which was true, but it identified the others as lieutenants, which they were not. All four of Imura’s group had once been sergeants of significant rank, from the former master sergeant at the wheel to the gunnery sergeant seated directly behind Imura. Sergeant was the most common rank among shooters in U.S. Special Forces. Each of them was certainly sharper, more knowledgeable, and more competent than most officers of any rank, and Sam Imura knew that was no exaggeration. But staying as an enlisted man kept them out of military politics. A nice, safe, sane place to be.
None of them, however, currently held rank in the United States military. Nor did Captain Imura. They were all officially retired, though because they were private contractors working for the government, their ranks clung to them like comfortable clothes.
The sergeant glanced at the other man working the roadblock. He was an even less authoritative slice of local white bread, stood on the far side of a sawhorse barrier that would provide no real defense against a determined intrusion. He held an M16 at port arms and tried to look like G.I. Joe because there was a Humvee filled with officers.
