“Define civilization?” Joe said, unlashing the barrel and sliding it forward.

“Somewhere that no one’s trying to kill us and where you can get an ice-cold Coke if you want one. Last one to reach it buys dinner at Citronelle for the whole team.”

Joe nodded, probably thinking of the menu and the ambience of the well-regarded D.C. area restaurant. “You’re on,” he said, lashing the drum into place.

Kurt watched, feeling a mixed sense of concern and relief. The trucks were not meant for cross-country desert travel, they had to go where the roads went. And even in a country like Yemen, that would soon lead to some area of civilization. With luck, Joe would be quenching his thirst and on the phone to NUMA before dawn. Kurt knew his own prospects were less certain.

Joe grabbed a tarp that would cover the back of the truck. He glanced at Kurt. “Vaya con Dios, my friend.”

“You too,” Kurt said.

The tarp dropped, Joe vanished and Kurt backed the forklift away, turning toward the staging area without another glance behind him.

All he had to do now was find out which plane Leilani was on and sneak aboard without being discovered.

CHAPTER 32

JOE ZAVALA HAD HUNKERED DOWN IN THE MOST FORWARD section of the flatbed, between the yellow drums and the front wall. No one had seen him there. Beyond taking a cursory glance from the back end of the truck to count the barrels, no one had even checked. With all accounted for, the tarp had been tied down tight. The doors up front opened and then slammed shut, and the big truck had gone into gear. Soon they were rumbling across the desert.

At periodic intervals, Joe had stealthily checked the surroundings. He’d seen only darkness and sand and the other trucks in the convoy. He wondered where they were headed.

After four hours, they finally began to slow.

“I hope we’re about to hit a rest stop,” Joe muttered to himself. He snuck a peek from under the canvas but saw no sign of civilization. Eventually the truck coasted to a stop, though the engine continued to idle.

Joe wondered whether to make a break for it. He hadn’t really considered jumping from the truck while it crossed the desert because he had no idea where they were and without water he didn’t want to go back into walking mode. At least not until there was somewhere to walk to.

He considered making a break for it now, but a second problem had compounded the first. Somehow, his truck had ended up in the front of the convoy. The other trucks sat behind him with their lights blazing away in the dark. To move now would be like going over the prison wall in broad daylight. He had to wait and hope for a better opportunity up ahead.

Shouting and orders came out of the dark. The big rig lurched as it went back into gear and began to inch forward again. It went over something that felt like a curb, and the flatbed trailer twisted and flexed as each set of wheels crossed whatever it was. The yellow drums shook from side to side. Joe put a hand out to steady the closest one.

“Take it easy on those speed bumps,” he whispered.

Then the nose of the truck angled down as if descending a ramp. The drums strained forward against their lashes, sliding his way. Joe’s sense of anxiety grew.

They leveled out after going no more than fifty feet and then continued forward on much smoother ground. Finally they stopped again. The driver and passenger climbed out, slamming their doors behind them. The lights of the second truck crept closer, penetrating the tarp as they came.

As Joe listened to the sound of the engine and the sound of the shouting voices, he detected an echo. He noticed the smooth ground beneath them after bouncing so long on the desert road and the fact that the truck’s engine had been shut off for the first time.

I’m in a warehouse.

That meant civilization: computers, phone lines and running water. Maybe even a Coke machine in a break room somewhere. A smile crept over his face.

When the lights of the next truck inched up tight and then shut off, Joe was certain of it. He only had to wait until all the trucks were parked and shut down for the night and then he could probably slip out unnoticed.

The smell of diesel fumes grew thick as the other trucks maneuvered back and forth in what must have been a fairly tight space. Finally the last engine shut off. He heard more talking.

“Come on,” he whispered, “everyone out. It’s got to be Miller time by now.”

Voices echoed through the dark for a while longer, but they were slowly growing more distant. The sound of heavy doors sliding shut rang out, and the silence that followed told Joe he was probably alone.

Choosing to be extra cautious, Joe waited in the silence. After a few minutes, he felt it was safe to move. If there were guards, they were probably posted where they could keep people from getting into the warehouse, not out.

Joe made his way past the other barrels and toward the rear of the flatbed.

Kurt really should have come with me, Joe thought. In a few minutes he’d be free of trouble and dialing up NUMA. From there a description of the Be-200s could be relayed to the military, a satellite sweep could identify the traveling planes and Special Forces could be called in. Leilani Tanner would stand a much better chance of being rescued by them than she did with just Kurt and the stolen 9mm pistol he’d taken from the guard.

But this way Joe would be responsible for saving both of them. He was glad for the chance and he looked forward to the satisfaction of having Kurt foot the bill at Citronelle and admitting that he had rescued him.

He reached the tailgate of the flatbed. He pulled the tarp up a fraction and peered out. It was pitch-black in the warehouse. All he could see was the nose of the other truck pressed right up against the rear bumper of his.

Nice parking job.

He listened again for any signs of trouble. He could hear something. It sounded like a distant rumbling. Almost like another truck beyond the walls. Or even the diesel engine of a freight train in the distance. Trains meant rails and rails led places. He found himself growing more excited by the moment.

He untied the rear flap, slid his legs over the edge and lowered himself down. As he turned sideways to fit between the two trucks, an odd sensation came over him, like dizziness or vertigo. Perhaps he’d been sitting too long. Perhaps the lack of water had begun to affect his balance.

He put a hand on the hood of the second truck, steadied himself and let go. He edged out into the space between the two rows of vehicles. The rigs were parked so tightly, they’d had to fold in their mirrors to stop them from breaking off.

With just enough room to walk between the rows, Joe headed toward the end of the rows of trucks and what he assumed was the door through which they’d come in.

The vertigo hit him again and he felt his knees almost buckle. He began to fear some of the microbots had gotten out of the barrels and into his ears. That was the problem with things too small to see: one never knew where they were.

“A Q-Tip,” he mumbled, rubbing his ear, “my kingdom for a Q-Tip.”

His balance came back and he moved another step. This time the sensation came quicker, more pronounced and smoother somehow. Joe felt it in his legs and felt it in his neck as if he was being pushed back and forth. He heard a creaking sound.

He held as still as possible. The sensation repeated itself yet again. It wasn’t his imagination. It wasn’t vertigo. It wasn’t even the bots, throwing off his balance. The feeling was real and extremely familiar.

His heart began to pump. He moved faster, slipping between the trucks, his feet sliding across the metal floor. By the time he reached the steel door at the end of the rows he could feel the floor moving beneath his feet in a slowly repeating pattern, smooth and steady, up and down.