Solar Flare, page 2
Back at his Jeep, Ulysses lifts the rear hatch, reaches in, and opens a metal box, revealing an “eyeball,” a light, spherical drone about six inches in diameter. His sensorium, the cyber control system implanted in his cranium by the good old US Army, automatically links up with the drone. At his mental command, the eyeball floats out on a whisper-silent air jet and flies down the railroad tracks.
Ulysses sees the drone’s POV in a window in the lower right quadrant of his field of view. Around the perimeter of the window, parameters are visible such as speed, altitude, and more. He sends the drone past a gap where a section of track has been blown up. Presumably, to make it harder to retrieve the boxcars and, perhaps, to give the perpetrators more time to move the cargo.
Destroying the track seems like overkill to Ulysses. Especially given how organized the unloading seems to have been.
Thirty minutes later, the drone has reached the main line and turned east, following the train’s course in reverse. Ulysses is trailing behind in his Jeep, making sure he stays within the drone’s four-klick comms range. Over the next hour, the terrain gets steadily more rugged, until the railroad tracks are snaking through a jumbled, rocky wasteland.
Ulysses is forced to stop the Jeep while the drone forges on. By now, though, he’s pretty sure he knows how an intruder got on the train. Knowing what to look for is half the battle, because he finds the evidence without too much trouble.
* * *
Ulysses is on the highway, driving back to Paloma. It’s desert as far as he can see, but he knows this all used to be fine Kansas farmland until the water dried up.
“Dmitri,” Ulysses says over a satellite phone connection. There are no operational cell towers in the desert anymore. “I got a salvage deal for you.”
“Oh? What are we talking about?”
“Steel.”
“Not war salvage, I hope,” Dmitri says with a rumbling chuckle. “I ain’t dealing with no unexploded munitions.”
“Nope. Good steel, and nobody rushing to collect it.”
“How big a job?”
“Three hundred tons.”
“Whoa,” Dmitri says. “You don’t think small, do you? I’m interested. Usual deal?”
“Yeah. So, it’s ten boxcars, sitting in the desert, about a mile from an old highway. Good hardpack dirt for that last mile, so trucks can get there fine.”
“Less it rains.”
“Yeah, right,” Ulysses says, chuckling. “Keep dreaming. I’ll send the coords.”
“Oohrah!”
* * *
Inari and Ulysses are lying in bed on their backs, side by side, breathing hard, with nothing but a thin sheet over them. They’re in Inari’s tiny RV which, despite being neatly maintained, has to be at least fifty years old.
Inari turns her head to look at him. “Why haven’t we done this before?”
“Never thought you’d be interested in a scrub like me.”
“But you never tried. I couldn’t understand…”
After a long pause, Ulysses says, “I was US Army, drafted at the beginning of the Civil War. Had a wife, two kids. They all died from one of the war plagues while I was away.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I was pretty…dead…for a long time.” Ulysses sighs. “Then, after the war…after the US broke up, it turned out I wasn’t even a citizen of the country I’d been fighting for on account of where I was born. And where I was born didn’t want me on account of me fighting for the wrong side.” One day Ulysses had been a soldier, the next he’d been a scrub, a person of no nation. An illegal alien with no rights in any of the five nations into which the former United States had split.
“Well,” Inari says, smiling, “you ain’t dead no more.”
“Guess not.”
“We need dessert,” Inari says suddenly. “I have ice cream, if you like vanilla.”
Ulysses eyes her pale white complexion, so much lighter than his own sun-burnished skin. “I like vanilla just fine.”
* * *
“You’re telling me,” Inari says, gesturing with her spoon, “that someone used a zipline to get onto the roof of the train?”
Ulysses is sitting across from her at a fold-down table sharing ice cream—two spoons, one bowl. “Yeah,” he answered. “The tracks were winding through rocky terrain, so the train was going slow. They strung a cable across this narrow canyon. Then somebody dropped onto the roof of one of the boxcars when the train went by.”
She shakes her head. “Sounds dangerous.”
Ulysses shrugs. “Only if you miss.”
“OK, so that makes sense, even if it is crazy. Why the X’s by each door?”
“I figure the thieves only cared about one boxcar, but they didn’t want to be obvious. So, they knocked off ten of them.”
“Like Goldilocks.”
“Come again?”
“Not too few, not too many, just right,” Inari responds. “Nobody gets too worked up over it because it’s still just a small heist.”
“I’ll buy that,” Ulysses says. “But then they got to get rid of all that cargo. So, they bring in some…scavengers…to offload the rest of the cargo and make it disappear. They put an X on the car they don’t want nobody messing with.”
“OK, but they can’t leave just one X behind when they’re done, or it’d be obvious.”
“Right.”
“You’re really good at this,” she says. “You know, figuring things out.”
“I dunno. Sometimes, I look at things, I just…see how they fit together.”
“It’s a gift.”
Ulysses chuckles. “Yeah, well, sure took me a while to figure out how to make a living at it.”
“At least you have something to depend on.” Inari rubs her forehead tiredly. “I lose this job, I’m in serious trouble.”
Ulysses frowns. “That a possibility?”
“Well, the office staff that’s left is mostly low-paid scrubs, or good-looking females, or both. And Frank’s after…look…OK, he’s a slimeball.”
Ulysses finds himself unsurprised at her characterization of Frank, since it jibes closely with his own low opinion of the executive. What does surprise him a little is the slow burn he feels knowing that Frank could mess up Inari’s life.
Maybe Inari’s right. Maybe he’s not dead the way he used to be.
Ulysses asks, “You trust me?”
“Yes.”
“I need a backdoor to the TPS network.”
Inari shoots him a look. “OK.”
DAY THREE
It’s afternoon, but it doesn’t look like it. A cold front came through overnight, bringing a Kansas dust storm with it. Ulysses is driving his Jeep slowly through the murk, high beams stabbing almost uselessly at the whirling grit. He’s thinking that GPS navigation is a wonderful thing, when a brief lull in the wind lets him see the “WELCOME TO MOQUIN” sign as he passes it.
This will be his third stop of the day. He’s hitting pawn shops and salvage places, looking for a lead on any of the scavengers who helped dispose of the cargo.
The dust has abated somewhat by the time he reaches the town center, mostly because the buildings are blocking some of the wind. He pulls into a parking space on the main thoroughfare about a block from his destination.
He calls Topaz, a hacker he’s used for about eight years. He’s never met her in person and has no idea what she looks like.
“Wait, please,” she says in her smooth voice. After a pause, she adds, “All right, security protocols are in place. How can I help you?”
“I have a backdoor to the Trans-Pacific Standard railroad network through a satellite office.”
“Oooh,” she responds. “You’ve been a very bad boy.”
Movement draws Ulysses’ eyes to his rearview mirror where he sees a pickup pulling into a space about fifty meters away, almost obscured by the dust. He can’t tell for sure, but thinks it’s the gray pickup truck again.
Still looking in the mirror, Ulysses says, “There’s a couple things I want you to look for when you do the dive. Plus, I’d like a profile on Frank Santora and Jasper Conway.”
“This is a bit larger-scale than your usual. I’m intrigued.”
After closing the deal with Topaz, Ulysses dons his goggles and hat, then grabs a mask to cover his nose and mouth. It’s all standard gear for these parts, seeing as dust storms are way more frequent than rainstorms. He gets out and walks down the cracked sidewalk. He turns a corner, then quickly darts ahead and ducks into a narrow alley.
If it really was the gray truck, he expects he’ll be followed. A moment later, a slim figure in a dark hoodie walks past. Ulysses yanks his follower into the alley.
Whoever it is screams in surprise and sprawls to the pavement.
The figure bounces up and tries to hit Ulysses with a second-rate taser.
But Ulysses is already in combat mode, his cyber enhancements kicking in so it’s like his attacker is moving in slow-motion. He knocks the taser out of his opponent’s hand, then slams the person into a wall.
His attacker falls hard, the hood comes down, and Ulysses realizes he’s been followed by a girl. Maybe eighteen or nineteen years old, long black hair pulled back in a ponytail. Even with her goggles, he can see that somebody’s given her a black eye as a memento.
Ulysses asks, “Who the hell are you?”
She pulls herself into a sitting position and looks up at him. “Winona Sky,” she says in a thick southern accent, “but everybody just calls me Sky.”
“You always follow people around?”
“You took my job,” she says defiantly.
“Frank hired you to waste time and fail. Congrats, you succeeded.”
“I didn’t fail.” She glares at him. “He pulled me off after three days.”
“If you’re so good,” Ulysses says, “tell me something I don’t know about the case.”
“They were after the zirconium. The rest was just a cover.”
“You know? Or you think?”
She shrugs. “It’s my theory.”
“Mine, too.”
Sky stands up, brushes some grit off her jeans. “Some of the stuff that was left behind, it wasn’t on the manifest.”
“Interesting,” Ulysses says. “Not relevant to this case, but it might be related to something else I’m workin’.”
“Honestly, I didn’t see how it fit in either,” Sky admitted. “All right. You’re trying all the places that might carry stolen stuff. Bernie’s is a dry gulch…he don’t know nothin’.”
“Really?”
“Saber’s Supply Company, that’s who you want.”
“That who gave you the shiner?”
“Yeah,” she says. “Big guy with tattoos all over his neck.”
“All right. If that pans out, I’ll drop a century on you and let you claim some street cred for the case.” She nods in response. “Now, do I got to threaten you to make you stop following me?”
“No,” she says sullenly.
“Taser’s a piece of shit,” Ulysses says. “You should stop by Krash & Burn, get yourself some war surplus. Tell Thrasher that Ulysses Perez sent you.”
* * *
Saber Supply Company occupies the shell of an abandoned big-box department store. Inside, Ulysses discovers a dizzyingly eclectic array of new and used goods: appliances, tools, toys, crafts, weaponry, and much more. It takes him all of two minutes to find stolen items from the train heist for sale.
Interestingly, security is deliberately obvious. Guards are posted at the exit, checking packages as customers leave, and cameras are mounted everywhere, presumably to discourage shoplifters.
Ulysses finds this ironic and wonders how much of the merchandise has questionable origins.
At the back of the store, Ulysses spots a stairway that leads to some offices, with windows that look out over the store’s aisles. He climbs the steps and walks into a rather spartan waiting room. A perky, well-dressed woman sits behind a reception desk that looks like salvage from a defunct law firm.
Approaching the desk, Ulysses says, “I’d like to talk to Mr. Saber.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” the receptionist says, “but he’s busy right now.”
“That’s too bad,” Ulysses responds. “See, you have an awful lot of stuff on sale that was stolen from a Trans-Pacific Standard train. So, he can talk to me…now…or TPS Security can swat him like a fly.”
The receptionist suddenly looks flustered. “I’ll…I’ll…go tell him.”
* * *
The receptionist ushers Ulysses into her employer’s office. Joshua Saber is sitting behind a wooden desk, an older man who’s mostly bald except for a narrow fringe of gray hair. Two other men are standing on either side of the desk waiting for him. They’re both big and bulky, though the one on his left has some sort of spiky pattern tattooed around his neck.
Ulysses dismisses them as typical thugs. His US Army threat recognition module helpfully highlights the guns both of them are carrying in shoulder holsters underneath their suit jackets and notes a very low likelihood that either of them has combat mods.
Both guards come forward as Ulysses enters. The one with the tattoos, who Ulysses privately designates as Thug One, quickly and efficiently frisks him as the receptionist exits.
“He’s clean.”
Saber says, “I’m surprised you don’t carry a gun.”
Ulysses shrugs. “I don’t need a gun.” He gestures with his thumb toward Thug One. “He’s got a gun.”
He punches Thug One in the throat, then plucks the man’s gun from his holster as he’s falling. Thug Two has barely had time to start reacting when Ulysses pivots and slams an elbow into his head.
He casually ejects the clip, clears the gun, breaks it down into its components, and drops them on the floor.
Thug Two is on the floor, still dazed but starting to move a little. Ulysses takes his gun and breaks it down, too.
“I don’t care about you,” Ulysses says, giving Saber a level look.. “I don’t care about the stolen stuff from the train. Insurance has already paid off on all that so Trans-Pacific Standard isn’t out anything. I want whoever planned this, and I already know it isn’t you. Give me what I want, we’re done.
“Otherwise, I tell TPS you’re screwing with them and, well, Bad Things Happen.”
As if in counterpart to what Ulysses is saying, both thugs are on the floor groaning.
“You’re very persuasive,” Saber says.
“I do my best.”
“The guy called himself Mr. Purple. He said he knew someone who was boosting the tail of a train and they were inviting some folks to help take the cargo away. So, there was a bunch of us.”
“I don’t want them, either.”
“The planners, they had a biker gang as security, to make sure no scuffles broke out. We all had the manifest up front, so most of the cargo was already divvied up by the time we started unloading.”
“But one of the boxcars was reserved?”
“Yeah,” Saber says, “the second from the end. Some kind of metal, but nothing that looked all that valuable."
The second car from the end was the one with the zirconium. So, the whole heist is about a boxcar full of metal ingots. Not a surprise, but it’s nice to have it confirmed.
“Mr. Purple meet you here?”
“Yeah,” Saber replies. “The first time, anyway.”
“I want the video.”
* * *
Ulysses is driving down Route 44, through desolation that used to be prime farmland.
“The package I sent you has all the details about Santora and Conway,” Topaz says. “I was able to confirm what you suspected.”
“Excellent! I love it when things start coming together.”
“I’ll let you know when I manage to ID the guy on the video. If I can, I’ll put a trace on him.”
DAY FOUR
Ulysses is eating breakfast with Inari at the fold-out table in her RV when Inari’s ancient, pre-war cellphone buzzes.
She answers, listens for a moment, then holds the phone out to Ulysses. “It’s for you,” she says.
He takes the phone from her. “Yeah?”
“It’s about time you got back in the game,” Topaz says. “I was getting tired of you moping around all the time.”
“Thanks, I think,” Ulysses says, smiling, knowing Topaz is just showing off.
“You trust her?”
“Yes,” he says, putting the call on speaker.
“Your guy’s name is Matthew Rucker. He’s an environmental engineer. Looks like his PhD got interrupted by the war.”
“OK,” Ulysses says. “That’s…different.”
“He lives in or around South Riding, up in the foothills. Leastwise, he’s in that area buying stuff at stores at least every week. I just sent you a list of places where he’s made purchases.”
Inari says, “Looks like somebody’s going to South Riding.”
* * *
Ulysses watches from his Jeep as Matthew Rucker, a fit-looking man in a black t-shirt with dark hair and a trim beard, pushes a cart out of South Riding’s only market. In an odd form of double vision, he’s also watching a drone view of his quarry from three hundred meters in the sky. As Rucker drives away in a beat-up Land Rover, he sends the eyeball after Rucker’s vehicle, then follows at a distance.
Rucker travels about an hour into the foothills on winding roads. Eventually, the drone view shows his quarry pulling off onto a dirt road heading north. About two kilometers down the road, Rucker parks in front of a small complex of buildings. Some of them look like dormitory-style residences, others look like work buildings. Ulysses is surprised by the number of live trees around.
The complex definitely has some sort of water supply.
Ulysses turns onto the same dirt road, goes about half-way up it, then drives off-road and hides his Jeep in a deep hollow. Getting out, he sets off hiking so he can swing around and approach the complex from a different direction. Maybe it’s his military background, but he’s never been a fan of frontal assaults.
While he’s walking through the rough terrain, he directs the drone in a wide circle so he can keep an eye on the complex and his backtrail. On its first orbit, the drone shows him an odd white cone to the west of the little community. Conveniently, it’s approximately where he’s heading anyway.
