“‘Mostly.’ What does that mean?” Ryan Senior’s voice was harder now.
“I’ve been doing a little field stuff. Not much, just getting my feet wet.”
“No way, Jack. That’s done. I’m not going to have you—”
“Not your decision.”
“The hell it isn’t. The Campus was my idea. I went to Gerry and—”
“And it’s his show, right? I’m halfway sharp, Dad. I don’t need you watching over me. We’ve done some good work there. Same kind of stuff you used to do. If it was okay for you, then why not me?”
“Because you’re my son, goddamn it.”
Here Jack offered a half-smile to his father. “Then maybe it’s in my blood.”
“Bullshit.”
“Look, I did the financial world, and it was okay, but it didn’t take me long to realize I didn’t want to do it the rest of my life. I want to do something. Make a difference, serve my country.”
“So go teach Sunday school.”
“Next thing on my list.”
Ryan Senior sighed. “You’re not a kid anymore, I guess.”
“Nope.”
“Well, it doesn’t mean I have to like it, and I probably never will, but I suppose that’s my problem. Your mom, though, that’s going to be a different story.”
“I’ll talk to her.”
“No, you won’t. I will, when the time’s right.”
“I don’t like lying to her.” Ryan Senior opened his mouth to speak, but Jack quickly added, “And I didn’t like lying to either of you. Hell, if not for John, I might not have ever told you.”
“John Clark?”
Jack nodded. “He’s sort of my de facto training officer. Him and Ding.”
“Nobody better at this stuff than those two.”
“So you’re okay with this?”
“Sorta-kinda. I’ll tell you a secret, Jack. The older you get, the less you like change. Last week, Starbucks stopped selling my favorite roast. Threw me off for days.”
Jack laughed. “I’m a Dunkin’ Donuts kind of guy.”
“That’s good, too. You’re careful, right?”
“With the coffee. Yeah—”
“Don’t be a smart-ass.”
“Yeah, I’m careful.”
“So what’s he got you working on?”
Another smile from Jack. “Sorry, Dad, your need to know expired a while ago. If you win the election, we’ll talk again.”
Ryan Senior shook his head. “Fuckin’ spooks.”
Frank Weaver had spent four years in the Army, so he was well familiar with the maddening ways in which the government often went about its business, but he’d thought he’d left that all behind when he got his honorable discharge and went to truck-driving school. He’d spent ten years doing that, doing long hauls from coast to coast, sometimes taking his wife along, but mostly eating up the miles while listening to classic rock. God love XM satellite radio, he thought, and thank God the government was going to let him keep it for this new job. He hadn’t relished the idea of working for the government again, but the pay had been too good to pass up, what with the hazardous-duty bonuses and all. They didn’t call it that, exactly, but that’s what it amounted to. He’d gone through a special training program and background checks by the FBI, but he had nothing to hide and he was a damned good driver. In truth, there was nothing extraordinary about what they had him doing—except for the cargo, that was, but he never had to touch the stuff. Just show up, let someone else load it, then get it safely to its destination and let someone else unload it. Mostly they drilled him on emergency procedures: what to do if someone tried to hijack the load; what to do if he got into an accident; what to do if a UFO came down and beamed him out of the cab . . . The Department of Energy and Nuclear Regulatory Commission trainers had “what-if” drills for everything you could think of, then a hundred more you’d never imagine. Besides, he’d never be driving the route alone. They hadn’t told him yet whether his escorts would be in marked or unmarked cars, but you could bet they’d be armed to the teeth.
There’d be no guards this time, though, which surprised Weaver a bit. Yeah, it was only a trial run and his load would be empty, but given the way the DOE played everything as if it was real, he’d expected an escort. Then again, maybe they were lying; maybe he’d have an escort he wasn’t supposed to see. Still didn’t change his job.
Weaver downshifted and braked, swinging the rig into the entrance drive of the Callaway Nuclear Power Plant. A hundred yards ahead he could see the