Overholt turned to him. “Rick, it wasn’t a threat, just a friendly reminder that your aircraft hasn’t yet been certified flightworthy, and that a word from me will cut a lot of red tape.”
“You’d better not be yanking my chain.”
“I think that my getting you a temporary certificate for this flight is proof enough of what I can do for you.”
Butterfield’s expression remained sour, but he seemed mollified. He asked Eric, “What time do we need to do this?”
“Using tracking data from NORAD, I calculate that to make an intercept I have to be in position at exactly eight-fourteen and thirty-one-point-six seconds tomorrow morning.”
“I can’t guarantee you that kind of time accuracy. We’ll need an hour just to get to altitude, and another six minutes for the burn.”
“A minute either way shouldn’t make much of a difference,” Eric said to reassure him. “Mr. Butterfield, I want you to understand the gravity of this situation. There are literally millions of lives counting on us. I know that sounds like a line from a bad spy novel, but it is the truth. If we fail, the people of the world are going to suffer in unspeakable agony.”
He opened his laptop to show the aeronautical engineer some of the footage taken aboard the Golden Dawn. The scenes spoke for themselves, so Eric didn’t bother narrating. When it was over, he said, “Most of the people killed were the ones responsible for manufacturing the virus. The men behind this murdered their own people just to keep them silent.”
Butterfield looked up from the computer. His face was ashen under his farmer’s tan. “I’m on board, kid. One hundred percent.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“You ever taken any serious g’s, son?” Taggart asked.
“When I was in the Navy, I was launched off a carrier. That was about three, maybe three and a half.”
“You barf easy?”
“It’s why I’m here and another one of my associates isn’t. I’m a member of ACE, American Coaster Enthusiasts. I spend my vacations riding roller coasters. Haven’t been sick once.”
“Good enough for me. Rick?”
“I’m not going to have you sign a bunch of insurance waivers and all that boilerplate. I can vouch for my bird so long as you vouch for your health.”
“My company gives us physicals every six months. There’s nothing wrong with me that these eyeglasses can’t correct.”
“Okay, then. We have a lot of prep work to get done before morning.” Butterfield glanced at the big Rolex he wore on the inside of his wrist. “My team should be here in twenty minutes or so. I need to get you and your gear on a scale to calculate weights and balance, and then I think you should remain on your aircraft until the flight. Your pilots can stay at the hotel in town. I’ll have one of my guys drive them.”
“That works for me. Ah, Mr. Butterfield, I do have one request.”
“Shoot.”
“I’d like to see the plane.”
Butterfield nodded and sauntered from the office, Eric, Taggart, and Overbolt in tow. There was a handheld remote dangling from a long cord next to the shrouded plane. He hit a button, and a winch started to draw the tarp ceilingward.
Painted glossy white with little blue stars, the mother plane, called Kanga, looked unlike any other aircraft in the world. It had gull wings, like the venerable World War II Corsair, but they started high on the fuselage and angled downward, so that the airframe sat on tall landing gear. It had two jet engines above the single-seat cockpit, and twin spars under the wings that tapered back to a pair of delta-shaped tail assemblies.
But what was nestled under the larger plane was what held Stone’s attention. ’Roo was a rocket-powered glider with a single flat wing that could be hinged upward to impart drag after it had exhausted its load of fuel. Capable of speeds in excess of two thousand miles per hour, ’Roo was a suborbital-space plane, and, while it wasn’t the first privately funded craft, it already held the record for altitude, at nearly one hundred and twenty kilometers, or almost seventy-five miles, above the earth.
’Roo was carried to thirty-eight thousand feet by Kanga. The two would separate, and the rocket motor would be engaged so that ’Roo screamed toward the heavens on a ballistic parabola that would carry it some sixty miles downrange. It would then glide back to its home base for refueling.
The intention of Butterfield and his investors was to take adventure seekers on a suborbital flight so they could feel the freedom of weightlessness at the very edge of space. Eric Stone was about to become their first paying customer, although he wasn’t after thrills. His idea was to time the flight so that at its apogee he would be within range of the Russian weapons platform’s damaged antenna. Using the codes Juan had gotten from Kerikov, Eric would reposition the satellite so it would launch one of its projectiles at Eos Island. The kinetic energy of the eighteen-hundred-pound tungsten rod striking anywhere on the island would obliterate the ELF transmitter.
“She’s something godawful ugly, isn’t she?” Butterfield said with pride. He rubbed a loving hand along the composite fuselage.
“What’s it like flying in her?” Eric asked.
“I wouldn’t know.” Butterfield tapped his chest. “Bum ticker.”
The test pilot, Taggart, said, “Son, this thing is going to ruin you for them roller coasters you like so much ’cause this is one ride that’ll top ’em all.”
Overholt cleared his throat. “Gentlemen, it wouldn’t do for me to be here when Mr. Butterfield’s people arrive, so I will bid my farewells.” He shook hands all around, his grip firm despite his age. “Mr. Stone, please walk me back to my plane.”
“Certainly, sir.”
Eric had to stretch his stride to match the elder man’s pace.
“I would like you to convey to the Chairman, the next time you speak to him, that I had a word with our friends at the National Security Agency. They also detected the ELF transmissions, one from your Mr. Hanley, I believe, and the other one a short while earlier. The very fact that someone has gone to the expense of building such a transmitter caused a bit of a stir, as you can imagine. Coupled with what you and your crewmates have been able to discern, almost all of it unsubstantiated”—Eric opened his mouth to protest—“I know you don’t follow Justice Department rules, but there are legalities that must be followed if we’re to prosecute Severance and his group.
“I helped grease the wheels for your little adventure tomorrow, so you know I am taking this threat seriously, but if we are going to expose the Responsivist movement for the monsters they really are I need facts, not second- and thirdhand accounts. Do you understand?”
“Of course, Mr. Overholt. Just so long as you understand that without us acting the way we have, millions of people would be exposed to the virus by the time you found satisfactory evidence for said prosecution.” Eric didn’t believe he had the courage to speak so frankly to the veteran CIA agent.
Langston chuckled. “I can see why Juan hired you. Courage and brains. Tell Juan that things are in motion here that may help take down Severance once his transmitter is destroyed.” They paused at the hangar door because the wind would make it impossible to speak once they stepped outside. “I wasn’t told who thought up the crazy idea of using that Cold War relic the Russkies left littering space?”
“I did,” Eric replied. “I knew Juan would nix my first idea of talking you into getting us a nuke.”
Overholt paled at that. “Rightly so.”
“I had to come up with an alternative, and when Ivan Kerikov mentioned Stalin’s Fist and I researched it everything seemed to fit.”
“You know it was Cabrillo who sabotaged the satellite, right?”
“He mentioned it briefly.”
“Knowing him, he didn’t tell you the full story. Juan spent seven months behind the Iron Curtain, living the life of one Yuri Markov, a technician at Baikonur. The pressure to stay undercover for that long, and under the tight security the Russians maintained there at the
time, must have been pure hell.
“When he got out, it was standard practice for operatives to see an agency shrink. They met for just a short while. I saw the doctor’s notes. His summary was just one line: ‘That is the coolest customer I have ever met.’ Truer words have never been written.”
“Just curious, what happened to the real Markov? Juan didn’t have to . . .”
“Kill him? Heavens no. We got Markov out in payment for first telling us about the Orbital Ballistic Projectile project. Last I heard, he works for Boeing’s space division. But I know this: if he had been ordered to sanction Markov, Juan wouldn’t have hesitated. He has the strictest moral code of anyone I know.
“The ends justify the means, for someone like Cabrillo. I know in today’s politically correct world that outrages a lot of people, but they live in the freedom men like Juan provide. It isn’t their conscience that bears the burden. It’s Juan’s. They just get to enjoy a false sense of moral superiority without understanding the real costs.
“Toss an animal lover into a pen with a rabid raccoon and he’ll kill it. He will feel bad, even guilty, but do you think he’s going to consider his peers’ outrage that he took that life? Not for a second, because it’s kill or be killed. That is what our world is coming to, I’m afraid, only people are too horrified by that concept to accept it.”
“Unfortunately, their acceptance isn’t a factor to the forces arrayed against us,” Eric said.
Overholt held out his hand to shake again. “That’s what makes our jobs all the more difficult. I fought my war when we all knew it was black and white. Since then, someone convinced us there is gray out there. Let me tell you something, son: there isn’t any such thing as gray, no matter what you hear.” Overholt released Eric’s hand. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Stone. Good luck tomorrow, and Godspeed.”
CUTTING LIKE A KNIFE through blue silk, the Oregon raced across the Mediterranean. They avoided shipping lanes as much as possible so they could run her magnetohydrodynamic engines above the red line and not draw attention to her blazing speed. They slowed only once, when passing through the Strait of Messina, separating the tip of Italy’s boot from the island of Sicily. Fortunately, nature was in a cooperative mood. The seas were calm, and there was no trace of a breeze, as they dashed across the Ionian Sea and entered the Aegean.
Juan spent nearly every waking hour in the Op Center, wedged into his chair with a continuously recharged mug of coffee. In the top corner of the main viewing monitor, a digital clock remorselessly counted backward. In a little over eighteen hours, Eos Island would be wiped off the face of the planet.
And Max Hanley would go with it if Cabrillo didn’t think of something soon.
The ship didn’t feel right to him. Eric and Mark should be at the front consoles, navigating the ship and preparing its weapons systems for her defense. Max should be at the rear of the Op Center, hovering over the engine monitors like a mother hen. Linda should be here, too, ready to lend a hand to whatever section needed her. Eddie and Linc must have felt the same way. They rarely spent time in the Op Center, but, with so many of their friends in danger, there was no place else they would rather be.
“Nothing, Chairman,” Hali said from his station along the starboard side of the high-tech room.
This was the third straight time that Linda and Mark had missed their appointed check-in time. Hali had contacted the cruise line and been reassured that there were no communications problems with the Golden Sky. He had even phoned the ship’s communications center, pretending to be a passenger’s brother with news of a dying parent. The helpful secretary had assured him that she would get a message to cabin B123, a number he had randomly picked. The passenger never called back, but that wasn’t definitive proof of anything since he may have already lost both parents and thought it a cruel hoax. Juan had dismissed the idea of trying a few others with the same ruse, because the receptionist would have grown suspicious.
Even with the Oregon’s vast arsenal of weaponry and the best communications system afloat, there was nothing anyone could do but wait—wait until they were within range of Eos and hope that an opportunity presented itself. Max had figured out a way to elude his captors long enough to send the message, and the cagey old codger might come up with another trick or two yet. Juan had to be in position to help if he could.
Then there was the situation with Mark and Linda. Juan had no idea what events were unfolding on the Golden Sky. For all he knew, they had been identified as stowaways and were in lockdown someplace on a ship he had no doubt Severance had rigged with his virus. They still hadn’t figured out what Max had meant, that the virus did something worse than kill, but it didn’t matter. If they failed to knock out the transmitter, two of his top people were going to be among the first exposed.
Juan typed a command into his computer. On the monitor, the speeding seconds of the digital clock vanished. They had been reeling back depressingly fast, and he didn’t want to watch them anymore. The minutes display was reminder enough that time was running out.
CHAPTER 33
“THE FBI RAIDED OUR PLACE IN BEVERLY HILLS,” Thom Severance said as he burst into Lydell Cooper’s underground apartment. His voice nearly cracked with panic.
Cooper had been resting on a sofa and swung his feet to the floor. “They what?”
“The FBI raided my house, our headquarters. It happened just a few minutes ago. My secretary managed to call me on my satellite phone. The have a search-and-seizure warrant for all our financial records, as well as membership lists. They also have a warrant to arrest me and Susan on suspicion of tax fraud. Thank God, Susan is with her sister at our cabin in Big Bear, but it’s only a matter of time before they find her. What are we going to do? They’re on to us, Lydell. They know everything.”
“Calm down! They don’t know anything. The FBI is using their Gestapo tactics to intimidate us. If they knew about our plan, they would have arrested everyone in California and coordinated with Turkish authorities to raid this facility.”
“But it’s coming apart. I can feel it.” Severance sat heavily on a chair and buried his face in his hands.
“Get ahold of yourself. This isn’t a big deal.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” Severance spat like a petulant child. “You’re not the one under arrest. You get to hide in the shadows while I take the fall.”
“Damnit, Thom. Listen to me. The FBI has no idea what we are trying to accomplish. They might have an inkling that we are plotting something, but they don’t know what. This is a—what’s that expression?—a fishing expedition. They issued a generic warrant to see our records in hopes of finding something incriminating. We both know there isn’t.
“We’ve made sure from the very first that our records are clean. The Responsivist organization is a nonprofit, so we don’t pay taxes, but we have filed our financials with the IRS like clockwork. Unless you and Susan have done something stupid, like not pay your income tax on the salary you’re paid, they have nothing. You’ve paid your taxes, right?”
“Of course we have.”
“Then stop worrying. There shouldn’t be anything at the house that could possibly lead them here. They might discover that we had an operation in the Philippines, but we can say it was a family-planning clinic that didn’t attract any visitors so we closed it down. The Philippines is predominantly Catholic, so that wouldn’t be out of the ordinary.”
“But the timing of the raid, so close to when we release the virus?”
“Coincidence.”
“I thought you didn’t believe in them.”
“I don’t, but, in this case, I am certain of it. The FBI simply doesn’t know anything, Thom. Trust me.” When Severance’s grimace didn’t soften, Cooper went on. “Listen. Here’s what we are going to do. You are going to issue a press release demanding these scurrilous charges be dropped immediately and calling the FBI’s actions a violation of your personal and civil rights. This is pure harassment, and
you are already preparing to file a civil suit against the Justice Department. You know the kind of thing I’m talking about. The helicopter we’ve been ferrying in personnel on is still here on the island. I will go to Izmir, where the jet is waiting. Tell Susan that she should get out of California. I will meet her and her sister in Phoenix and bring them back. We hadn’t planned on moving into the bunker until shortly before the virus manifests itself, but coming a few months early is no great hardship. Afterward, I guarantee that a bogus charge against you will be extremely low on the federal government’s priority list.”
“What about sending the broadcast?”
“It is an honor I leave up to you.” Cooper crossed the room so he could lay a gnarled hand on Severance’s shoulder. “It’s going to be all right, Thom. Your man Kovac will eliminate whoever killed Zach Raymond on the Golden Sky, and, in a few short hours, all of our teams will be in position with the virus ready for dispersal. We’re here. It’s our moment. Don’t let something like this ludicrous raid upset you, okay? And, listen, even if they seize the house and everything in it, our movement will have already achieved its greatest success. They can’t take that away from us, and they certainly can’t stop us.”
Severance looked up at his father-in-law. It was disconcerting at times to look at his middle-aged face and know he was in his eighties. Lydell had been more than an in-law. He had been a mentor, and the driving force for all Thom’s success. Cooper had walked away at the pinnacle of his career so he could protect what he’d created from the outside, tossing away his very identity in order to bring them to this point.
He had never doubted Cooper before, and, while errant thoughts niggled at the back of his mind, he would trust their relationship more than his gut. He stood, gently placing his hand over Cooper’s arthritis-ravaged, gloved claw.
“I’m sorry. I was putting my petty fears above our goals. What does it matter if I am arrested? The virus will be released and will spread all over the globe. The scourge of overpopulation will end, and, as you’ve said before, humanity will enter a new Golden Age.”
Plague Ship Page 39
