Authors: Boyd Morrison
She and Locke got into line in the bucket brigade and handed debris out to workers who placed them into distinct piles.
They were in a rhythm and had the truck half-unloaded, when it abruptly lurched forward. It looked like someone had popped the clutch. Then it lurched again and took off in gear. Locke, who was standing behind the trailer, watched as the people standing in the back, including Dilara, were thrown to the floor.
"What the hell!" Grant yelled. "Stop!"
Whoever was in the cab couldn't hear him, and the semi slowly gained speed, heading for the trailer of the idling truck in front of it. If it gathered enough speed, it would rip right through, destroying potential evidence.
Locke and Grant sprinted around to the driver's side of the cab. Locke jumped up on the sideboard, just before the truck was going too fast to reach it. He tried the handle, but it was locked and the window rolled up. The cab was empty.
He looked through the window and saw why the truck was moving. Something was jammed into the accelerator.
The semi was fast approaching the trailer. Locke reached into his pocket and retrieved his Leatherman. He looked away and swung the heavy steel tool at the window.
It exploded inward. Locke unlocked the door and pulled it open. He kicked the object away from the accelerator and stomped on the brake. The semi stopped just two feet short of the other truck's trailer.
Grant came to a stop next to the cab.
"What in God's name is going on? Whoever is in there is fired!"
"The cab's empty," Locke said.
He picked up the object that had been mashed against the pedal. A length of wing strut from the crashed 737.
"Someone did this on purpose," Locke said, waving the wreckage at Grant and leaping to the ground. He looked back and saw Dilara round the corner.
"You okay?" Locke yelled. Then he added, "Everyone okay?"
She nodded. "We're fine!"
Grant's voice boomed. "I want to know who did this, and I want to know right now!" The hangar became dead quiet.
His walkie-talkie interrupted the silence. "Mr. Westfield?"
Grant yanked the walkie-talkie from his belt. "What?"
"This is Deputy Williams. I know you said nothing should be removed from the hangar, but these guys from the NTSB..." The voice abruptly cut off.
"Who was that?" Locke asked.
"One of the deputies guarding the front entrance to the hangar."
They looked at each other and suddenly realized what was happening. Someone had deliberately caused a distraction so they could smuggle something out of the building.
"Come on," Locke said and ran toward the far entrance. He and Grant arrived to find both deputies lying on the ground. Locke bent down to take their pulses, but they were dead. Their necks were expertly broken. The men had been ambushed. They were also missing their automatic weapons. Locke was furious. These men were killed on his territory.
Grant was just as mad as Locke was. He got on the radio as he threw the keys to his car to Locke. "This is Grant Westfield. Put the TEC on immediate lock down. No one goes in or out. Is that understood? We have subjects on the move who are armed and dangerous. Gamma protocols are in effect." That meant if anyone tried to ram the gates, the guards were authorized to shoot first and ask questions later.
They jumped into the Jeep, and Locke shifted it into drive. Whoever had killed the deputies was speeding away in a sedan about 200 yards ahead. Two security vehicles were heading toward them, so the sedan veered off and skidded to a stop next to the Liebherr dump truck. They must have realized that getting back through Gordian's massive gates would have been futile and were making a last stand at the truck.
The Gordian workers around the truck scattered when they saw the two men jump out with the machine guns spraying bullets into the air.
The gunmen climbed the left-side stairs of the truck, and when they reached the top, they sent two Gordian workers in the cab tumbling down those same stairs. Locke suddenly understood what the intruders' plan was.
For such a huge machine, the Liebherr was surprisingly easy to drive. Anyone who could start a normal truck and get it into gear would be able to drive the Liebherr. And that's just what they did. The massive truck's two 16-cylinder diesels roared to life as the two security vehicles came to a stop in front of it and their occupants jumped out, aiming pistols from behind the open car doors.
"What are they doing?" Grant said.
"Making a mistake," Locke said.
The dump truck rolled forward, crushing the hoods of both vehicles into an origami of steel. The men beside the cars dove out of the way.
Locke pulled even with the 200-ton behemoth, trying to find a way on board, when he heard the clatter of an AR-15. Bullets tore into the hood, and steam and oil spurted up, coating the windshield. The engine sounded like it was grinding itself to pieces.
Locke pounded his fist on the dashboard and pulled to a stop. The Jeep was destroyed. No way could they follow in it. He watched the gigantic truck as it rolled toward the hurricane security fence, which it would rip through like a damp Kleenex.
Locke threw open the door and got out. They needed a vehicle, but the nearest ones were back at the hangar more than a quarter mile away. By the time they ran back there to get another car, the truck would be long gone.
Grant, who was on the other side of the punctured hood, pointed at something past Locke's head. "Tyler, behind you."
Locke whirled to see the wide-eyed stares of five people who had been testing the Tesla sports car. Next to them was a trailer, but he didn't see their service vehicle. He recognized one of the men, who stood there slack-jawed.
"Del, where's your Jeep?" Locke said.
"Fred used it to go get us some lunch," Del said.
Then Locke's eyes settled on the Tesla.
"Del, Grant and I are going to borrow your car."
"You drive," Locke said to Grant. "Let's toss the targa."
The Tesla had a removable targa roof, and Locke knew the only way to catch the men in the Liebherr was to get aboard it too, which would be easier if he didn't have to climb through the Tesla's window. He flipped a couple of latches, and Grant did the same. Then they picked up the roof section and pitched it backwards where it clattered to the ground.
Grant squeezed himself into the driver's seat and punched the accelerator even before Locke had his door closed. Except for the squealing of tires and high-pitched whine of the electric motors, the car was eerily silent, which made the roar of the lumbering dump truck even louder.
Locke hated to see the truck damaging his beloved TEC. The Liebherr plowed its way across the dirt obstacle course, mowing down everything in its path. Even concrete and steel was no match for the huge truck. Once it got out of the TEC, no one would be safe, and there would be virtually no way to stop it.
Locke remembered a few years back in San Diego when a psychotic had stolen a tank from a National Guard armory. Although the tank's gun was disabled, the impregnable vehicle rampaged through city streets at a stately 20 miles per hour, dozens of police cars following. There was nothing anyone could do. It destroyed homes, cars, RVs, telephone poles. The police had been reduced to watching the destruction, hoping the tank would run out of gas. The only reason the rampage stopped was because the driver stranded the tank on a concrete median. It was only then that police could assault the tank and kill the driver.
This was worse. That tank was a slow, Vietnam-era M60. Maybe 50 tons. The Liebherr 282 B weighed four times that, was 25 feet tall, and could reach a top speed of 40 mph. Nothing short of a precision-guided bomb would be able to stop it.
This escape couldn't be the hijackers' original plan. It was too noisy and dangerous. They wanted something from the Hayden wreckage, but for some reason they weren't able to sneak it through the TEC front gate. The intruders had seen the Liebherr, and going through the gate would be unnecessary if they could steal the dump truck.
Whatever the hijackers had was worth an awful risk to obtain. That meant Locke needed to get it back.
The local police would already be on their way to track the truck by helicopter. There was no possibility the truck would be able to slip away. But Locke thought the hijackers would know that and have some kind of escape plan. In the meantime, there was a 200-ton truck under Gordian's responsibility that was about to blast through suburban Phoenix.
Because the Tesla was a low-slung sports car, it wasn't able to take the direct path that the Liebherr had taken. It made up for the difference with speed and handling. Grant steered it onto the smoother parts of the dirt course, careful to avoid the rubble the truck was creating.
Up ahead, the Liebherr had reach the oval track and ran across it. It bounced up a twenty-foot-high berm--built so that curious photographers couldn't spy on track testing--and then dropped over the other side. The truck was so tall that he could still see part of it above the top of the berm. Then it reached the outer fence. Thirty yards of hardened steel mesh were torn apart and flew up and over the truck.
They had at best two minutes before the truck reached a populated area. They couldn't follow over the berm, so Grant sped through the tunnel.
Locke got on the walkie-talkie.
"Open the gate immediately! Grant Westfield and I are in the red car. Do not shoot! Acknowledge!"
"Who is this?" came the response.
"This is Tyler Locke! Repeat, do not shoot at the red car! That's an order!"
"Yes, sir!"
The Tesla shot out of the tunnel, and the gate was ahead, still sliding open. Grant didn't let up on the accelerator. Locke grimaced as they whizzed through the gate, missing it by inches.
Grant wrenched the wheel around and aimed for the bright yellow dump truck, which was now a half mile ahead. There was no chance they would lose it. It was like watching a McDonald's restaurant suddenly take off and barrel down the road.
The Tesla quickly reached 100 mph. Within 30 seconds, they caught up with the Liebherr. Looming ahead was the first sign of civilization, a warehouse district outside of Deer Valley. The truck showed no signs of slowing down.
Police cars were now following, their sirens blaring, and the few cars in front of them scattered at the sight of the approaching behemoth. Locke used his cell phone to tell the police to stay back. He didn't want any more crushed cars, and there was nothing the police could do. Armed with pistols and shotguns, they couldn't damage the truck in any significant way. It would take a bazooka to make a dent in the truck's 12-foot-diameter tires. And the engine itself weighed 20,000 pounds. Bullets would just bounce off. It would take a miracle to hit anything vital.
Grant pulled up behind the truck.
"We need to stop it," Locke said.
"You do realize that it outweighs us by about 398,000 pounds," Grant said. "I can't exactly run it off the road."
"That's why I need to get on it."
Locke would rather just hold back and follow safely behind, but the thought of innocent bystanders getting killed by a truck that was in Gordian's hands made him sick. If it crashed through a mall, the casualties would be horrendous.
He wouldn't have to take out the driver. The Liebherr's engine bay was exposed on both sides for ease of maintenance. Halfway up the right-side stairway, he could access the engine and shut the truck down. Then when it came to a halt, he'd let the police take over.
The driver's accomplice was the biggest problem. Locke would have to disable the gunman so that he wouldn't be shot while tinkering with the engine.
Locke told Grant his plan.
"You are nuts," Grant said.
"Can't argue with that," Locke said.
"But that's what I like about you. No fear."
Locke glanced at Grant and gave him a wry grin. "None whatsoever. Now let's do this before I come to my senses."
Grant accelerated until he was next to the rear wheels. There was little chance that the Liebherr would be able to swing over and crush the nimble Tesla, especially with Grant driving, but Locke braced himself for that possibility anyway.
Instead, the second gunman leaned over the platform that surrounded the cab and looked out over both sides of the truck. He aimed the AR-15 and let loose a volley. Bullets pinged off the ground around the Tesla, and Grant fell back behind the truck out of the gunman's sight.
"Now what?" Grant said. "With those huge rear-view mirrors, they can see which side we're coming up on."
"Then let's take care of those mirrors."
On each side of the Liebherr, there was a mirror the size of an end table. It allowed the driver, who sat in the cab in the middle of the truck, to back up to the massive loaders that fill the bed with ore. With one man driving, the other hijacker would have to cover both sides with the AR-15. The driver must be directing him as to which side the Tesla was approaching.
Locke took the Glock out of its holster, glad that he'd brought it with him on this trip. When he nodded, Grant gunned the engine and pulled around to the left side. The gunman was out of sight, and before he could move to their side, Locke popped up and squeezed off six rounds at the mirror. Two bullets hit, disintegrating it.
The gunman appeared and trained his weapon on them, but Grant was already pulling around the back of the truck to the right side. Locke put another six shots into the right mirror.
"Nice shootin', Tex," Grant said.
The driver was now blind to what was behind him. They'd have a 50/50 shot at getting to the stairways at the front of the truck without being seen. At least it was better than no chance at all.
Grant whipped the Tesla around the left side and raced to the front of the truck, which crushed the rear ends of two cars crossing through an intersection as if the vehicles were made of balsa. Locke instinctively ducked under the debris flying over his head, and Grant barely missed colliding with one of the destroyed vehicles.
Locke loaded his only reserve magazine and replaced the pistol on his hip, readying himself for the jump to the stairs.