Crossing Savage by Dave Edlund Page B

just staring ahead, occasionally looking out the side window. Although Peter only stole an occasional glimpse at Jim, his face reflected a serious concern.
    As they passed Green Reservoir Jim’s gaze seemed to linger unnaturally on the side-view mirror.
    â€œWhat’s up?” Peter said.
    â€œNothing.”
    Peter exchanged a quick glance with Jim, but before he could say anything else Jim spoke up, almost blurting his words. “I could use a bite to eat; how about you?”
    â€œYeah, I’m a bit hungry now that you mention it. There’s a restaurant just a little farther up the highway at Upper Soda. We can stop there.”
    Jim remained deep in thought, looking out the window at the rapidly passing scenery as the road climbed up the western slope of the Cascade Range. It wasn’t long before they arrived at Upper Soda and pulled off the highway, parking in front of the Mountain House restaurant. It was rather chilly at this elevation, and Jim was happy he’d chosen to wear a lightweight jacket. Peter obviously knew the temperature variations well, as he was dressed in a loose-fitting pullover over a long-sleeve T-shirt.
    The restaurant itself, clad in cedar boards with a red metal, steeply pitched roof, fit naturally in the forested surroundings. The structure was faced with a deep covered porch set two steps above the gravel parking lot. After locking the truck, the two friends walked in through the weathered wood door. It was about 1:30 in the afternoon, and there were only two other cars parked outside—probably the cook and waitress, since they saw no other customers.
    â€œTake a seat anywhere you like, honey,” invited the waitress. Jim selected a table off to the side and sat facing toward the entrance. Peter sat across from him. The menus were on the table, so each man picked one up and looked it over; the selection was rather limited, consisting of burgers, soup, chili, and a couple types of sandwiches.
    The waitress walked over with two glasses of water, napkins and silverware. Placing them on the table, she asked, “Are you ready to order, honey?”
    â€œDo you know what you want, Jim?”
    â€œSure. I’ll have a bacon cheeseburger, well done, please.”
    â€œAnything to drink with that?”
    â€œNo, water is fine. Thank you.”
    â€œAnd how about you, sugar?” she asked Peter.
    â€œI’ll have the same, well done, and lemonade. Thank you.”
    The waitress turned and walked back to the kitchen with the order. Peter decided he’d had enough talk of conspiracies and world domination, and he tried to start up a different conversation. “So you left the SEALs for military intelligence—a place called The Office? What can you tell me about your current work, at least that which is not bound by secrecy? I mean, do you gather intelligence from the field, or work from The Office analyzing information that comes in from others, or something else?”
    Jim laughed lightly. “That’s a lot of questions.”
    â€œSorry. I’m inquisitive. I guess it’s my nature. It’s just that I’ve never known anyone who worked in the intelligence community, and I’m curious what it’s like.”
    â€œWell, I do some field work—like today. But mostly I work with a dedicated team at The Office, sifting through information that comes in from a range of sources. Some is gathered by computers that constantly scan cell phone calls for key words or phrases—you know, names or combinations of words. Some of the intel comes from field operatives—people who are gathering bits and pieces of information. It’s through these human operatives that we usually learn where the bad guys are. Sometimes we look at satellite imagery, but that’s usually after we have identified a possible target of interest and we need structural information about buildings, roads, bridges, airports, and of course it