Stephen Hunter: Night of Thunder

“That makes good sense to me,” he said. “I can see you know your profession. May I call you now and again for some kind of update?”

“Why, sure, Mr. Swagger.”

“But I have to ask you one other thing,” he said. “I also know that in the real world, you’re dealing with a workplace. I know how workplaces are. You got a boss who wants progress. Soon enough, there’ll be other, bigger, fancier criminal situations and he’ll want his number one investigator on them. My daughter’s situation goes on the back burner. That’s not your choice, it’s not my choice, that’s just the way it is, right? Now, especially with this big race coming up, with all the parties, all the drinking, with your department most likely pitching in on the security arrangements for an event that attracts a quarter of a million people, I am not exactly confident that you’ll have enough time to devote to this. Not your fault. I ain’t criticizing you. I’m just saying, that’s what happens.”

“I won’t let that happen, Mr. Swagger. I will work this thing out for you.”

“And then there’s Sheriff-” he could tell, since she hadn’t mentioned by name the recently famous hero of the meth wars, Sheriff Reed Wells, of the helicopter-borne drug raid and the highest conviction rate in Tennessee, that she didn’t care for his high-handed, possibly self-aggrandizing way-“he wants cases that git his name in the paper. He wants the big raid, the splash. He doesn’t want slow, careful, patient development of sources.”

“You do know a thing or two about the real world, sir.”

“Just a bit. Anyhow, I may hire a private investigator or a lawyer with investigative skills, if that’s all right with you. Or I may do some poking around myself.”

“Sir, there are some fine private investigators in Knoxville and some fine ex-police attorneys who know the system. Yes, that would be your right, and I understand your concern. I would strongly recommend against any poking around on your own. It can be tough out here, and unless you’re a seasoned investigator, you can make things murkier, not clearer, and get yourself in a heap of trouble at the same time. These young men, they can be tough and merciless. I’ve seen killings, beating victims, all sorts of unpleasantness. I’d hate to find you victim of something like that, because you went to the wrong bar and asked the wrong questions.”

“Well, that’s sound advice. Okay, I’ll stay away and try not to get my old bones beaten to pulp and get you another case.”

“Then you and I are on the same page, Mr. Swagger. Now I’ve got to get back into town-”

Suddenly there was a squawk of electronic noise, harsh and indecipherable, and Detective Thelma switched a button on the microphone-receiver pinned near her collar and leaned into it.

“Ten-nine, here,” she said.

She listened to what Bob heard as a gibberish of squawks, now and then cut by a recognizable number. Then she pushed Send and said, “I roger and will proceed on my Ten-Forty.”

She looked over at him.

“Well, we have some strange boy in these parts who likes to burn trucks. Don’t know why but this is the fifth one in the past two months. I’ve got to get over there fast, Mr. Swagger, and run the crime scene investigation.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “I will be in touch.”

She smiled, jogged off to her car, hit the gumball and the siren, and fired off.

Bob went back to the hospital and sat around for a couple of hours. He met some more of Nikki’s reporter friends and picked up on how much she was loved and respected and how angry everyone was. He told them about Thelma and was gratified to learn she had a fine reputation, had been to a number of FBI schools, had a few big cases, and was something of a local character. She’d been a raving beauty once; who knew she’d turn up as a cop and become the three-time Tennessee state ladies’ USPSA champion, which, he now realized, was why she carried the fancy automatic in the speed holster. He also was invited to dinner and turned down the invites, being too tired and depressed for much more comfort. About ten he kissed his daughter’s still cheek, and headed back to her apartment. There he called Julie and reported in on his findings.

“We’ll be there tomorrow.”

“No, please. Just give it a few more days. I just don’t know. I like this detective and she wouldn’t steer me wrong but I still have a queasy feeling.”

“Is someone following you?”

“No. And if they were, I sure made it easy on them. So no, no, there’s no sign it’s some old mess of mine, I agree.”

“Then it’s clear for us to come?”

“I got one more trick to play out. Then I’ll call you.”

It was stupid, he knew. But the tracks made no sense to him. He went to his laptop, turned it on, and called up good old Google. He typed in “Aerial photography, Knoxville, Tennessee.”

If he blinked, he could have sold himself on the illusion he was back in Vietnam, at some forward operating base, where the helicopter was the only way in or out, and the helicopter the order of the day: taking men to and from battle, hauling out the wounded, laying on solid suppressive fire where needed. He was back in a war zone of engines somehow, and although the sandbags were missing, the perimeter security wasn’t, and the whole wide area was separated into bays so that each powerful machine was isolated from the others, and its crew and shop worked as one. No, not Vietnam, but big, powerful machines just the same. The noise of them was gigantic, a physical presence demanding ear protection, so powerfully did the vibrations fill the air and set everything buzzing to the rhythm of their firing. Everyone running about had something to do with engines, all smeared with grease, all filthy in that happy way of men who love what they’re doing and don’t care what it looks like.

Meanwhile, a secondary fact of life was the stench of high-test fuel, which lingered everywhere, just as palpable in its way as the grinding roar of the engines. If you wanted to continue the Vietnam game further, you could: Like the aviators of that long-ago, so-vanished time and place, the drivers were the aristocrats here. Thin young men in their specialized suits, sexy, and it seemed that everybody wanted their attention or merely to be in their presence.

Of course it wasn’t FOB Maria, north of Danang, somewhere in Indian country, RVN, circa ’65-’73. It was the pits, that is, the center of the track, at the Bristol Motor Speedway, Bristol, Tennessee, and what towered above wasn’t mountains full of Victor Charlie, but the enveloping cup of the speedway itself, a near vertical wall of seats for one hundred fifty thousand or so fans. The seats were largely empty, but a few die-hards sat and watched or took notes or worked with stop watches.

Bob was in the pit next to a vehicle that was just as purpose-built as any Huey or Cobra gunship. It was called “USMC 44,” a Dodge Charger in the new, blurry digital camouflage just like the boys wore outside Baghdad, with the globe and anchor emblazoned king-size on hood, roof, and doors. Mechanics and submechanics leaped around, each, seemingly, with a special job to do, as they struggled to bring it to some kind of mechanical perfection. They worked in puddles of oil and fuel, and tracks crisscrossed the concrete as in Vietnam, the tracks of running men, the tracks of rolling, smooth, wide tires, and a myriad of smaller-scaled tracks for various wheeled devices that serviced the big machine. The USMC 44 carried a special-built V8 Hemi engine so brawny it was bursting to get out, rode on four smooth, wide tires instantly changeable, and devoured some poison brew of chemically adjusted fuel. Like any tool, it sported no softness for comfort, but was a hard, serious bucket of bolts meant for one thing only, and that was to zoom full-bore around a mile track five hundred times, spitting clouds of exhaust. It had all the gizmos: the spoiler on the rear to keep it from going airborne, the shocks made of Kryptonite or some other wonder steel, the four-inch ground clearance, all engineered to make USMC 44 go like hell. Inside it was like a hard devotional place, also lacking any softness for comfort, with one seat bolted in, the doors bolted shut, netting everywhere.