Day of the Delphi

by Jon Land

  “You talking about HR 4079?”

  “I ain’t much good with the technical lingo, so let me give you HR 4079 as I understand it. To begin with, it centers on penalties for drug offenders, specifically dealers. It authorizes, get this, the construction of special prisons to deal strictly with their incarceration. What you make of that?”

  “Sounds like concentration camps to me.”

  “My thoughts exactly. They’re called detention centers in the bill.”

  “That’s what they were called in Nazi Germany, too.”

  “Anyway, going by this wording I’m not even sure Congress knew what it was passing. But whoever was behind 4079 got it through. I made a call to someone at the Office of Management and Budget who owes me a favor. Sure enough, he tells me that funding was line-itemed for the construction of six of these centers under—big surprise—‘miscellaneous.’ One of them’s already been completed. In New Mexico, boss. White Sands. Guy I talked to said it’s dead-filed as Sandcastle One.”

  CHAPTER 21

  Johnny Wareagle wasn’t totally surprised that the government had been implicated in Traggeo’s early release from prison. There would always be need, demand, for the killer’s brutal skills in some circles, and Johnny had a pretty good idea which of these circles might be involved.

  Colonel Tyson Gash, Traggeo’s commander in Vietnam, had not let being drummed out of the service five years before deter him from his life’s work. The former head of Salvage Company had used the opportunity to found his own private and secret army, a survivalist group of former Rangers and Special Forces types who trained at an isolated camp in Arizona in the shadow of the New River Mountains. If anyone had a reason to spring Traggeo, it was Tyson Gash.

  Wareagle was detained at the compound’s front gate late Sunday afternoon while Gash was informed of his presence. The three guards still had their M16s aimed at him when Gash pulled up in a jeep, looking no different from the last time they had met over twenty years before, right down to the unlit cigar wedged into the side of his mouth. Colonel Tyson Gash was a rawboned man who wore his muscle lean and hard. He was tall and maybe the least bit chunkier now, sporting a bushy black mustache and the same crew cut Johnny remembered from ’Nam. A .45-caliber pistol was holstered around his waist. Although the temperature still hovered in the mid-eighties, he was outfitted in full combat dress.

  “At ease, soldiers,” Gash ordered his men.

  The three weapons were lowered simultaneously.

  Gash spoke again to his men while he looked upward to meet the gaze of the seven-foot-tall Wareagle. “You boys don’t know it, but you just received a lesson better than any I could teach ya. You had three guns aimed at a man who’s only packing a knife, and he could’ve taken you all at any time he pleased.” He eyed them sternly and the soldiers snapped to attention. He yanked the cigar from his mouth and pointed it at them as his voice picked up its cadence. “Boys, you’re in the presence of greatness. Next time you meet a man of this stature, if there is a next time, you’d better recognize him for what he is or find yourself another outfit. Now get back to work.”

  The soldiers saluted before backing off. Gash stepped up to Johnny to shake his hand.

  “Pleasure to see you, Lieutenant.”

  Wareagle swallowed Gash’s hand in his grasp. “I am not worthy of the words you spoke of me, Colonel.”

  “You mean you couldn’t have taken those three cherries with one eye closed and the other squinting?”

  “I mean they were not in the presence of greatness. Neither are you.”

  Gash nodded, still smiling. “I always knew you’d show up here someday to take me up on my offer. I figured all you needed was time.”

  They started for the jeep, Gash still looking up at Wareagle.

  “That is not what I have come about, Colonel.”

  “But you’ll take a look at the place, check it out. Maybe stay for dinner.”

  “As you wish.”

  “I wish you’d decide to join up. We need you, Lieutenant. And the time’s coming fast when this country’s gonna need us.”

  “I am looking for one of your men,” Johnny said when they reached the jeep.

  “They’re all here. No such thing as leave in my command.”

  “Not one of your current men, Colonel, one from the past.”

  “How past?”

  “Salvage Company.”

  Unlit cigar back in his mouth, Gash gunned the engine without responding and threw the jeep in reverse.

  “Got a few of those with me,” Gash acknowledged as the jeep eased through the wooded outskirts of his private compound. “Who is it you want?”

  “Traggeo,” Johnny told him.

  “Hell, I thought he was dead.”

  “No. But a number of those who have crossed his path are.”

  “I haven’t been keeping tabs.”

  “He was supposed to spend five years in prison. Someone arranged his release before even the first was up. Someone official.”

  “And you thought it was me.”

  “The logic was there.”

  “You musta missed the sign outside the front gate, Lieutenant,” Gash told him. “‘No lunatics allowed.’”

  “Then both of us may well have been denied entry, Colonel.”

  Gash laughed. “Granted. But Traggeo’s a whole ’nother level. I can’t work with anyone I can’t control.”

  “You did in the hellfire.”

  Gash stopped the jeep. He yanked the cigar from his mouth and threw it to the ground. “They weren’t supposed to survive! That was the point. Hell, I called Salvage Company ‘Suicide Company’ in internal memoranda. They ended the damn war too early. If they had given me another ten thousand like Traggeo early enough, I could have won the damn thing. He may have been a crazy son-of-a-bitch, but he was as loyal a soldier as ever served under me. Never failed to perform, no matter the circumstances, and I don’t have to tell you how difficult plenty of them were.”

  Wareagle looked away so Gash wouldn’t see the scorn in his eyes.

  “This personal, Lieutenant?” Gash asked.

  “Traggeo claims to be one of my people, Colonel. The claim is a lie. He darkens his skin to pretend. He learns our tongues and our ways to fool others. But he carries none of our blood. And he must be stopped before more darkness is shed on the spirit of my people.”

  “He’s still”—Gash made a slicing motion over his head—“his victims?”

  “Worse now,” Johnny said and related what Elwin Coombs had said about Traggeo’s wearing the scalps of his victims.

  “Lord Jesus …” Gash thought for a moment. “Sounds to me like you got a bigger problem now. If it wasn’t me who sprung Traggeo, then who was it?”

  “You said others from Salvage Company were here.”

  “A couple.”

  “Recent arrivals?”

  “Within the last year.”

  “May I speak with them?”

  “They don’t talk much, Lieutenant.”

  “I don’t require long answers.”

  Seconds later the jeep reached the massive open area containing training fields, target ranges, and a fully equipped base right down to the buildings, barracks, and vehicles. It was in many respects a replica of the Delta Force training center at Fort Bragg where the colonel had finished his career in less-than-distinguished fashion.

  “This was built entirely with private donations, Lieutenant,” Gash explained. “Donations from individuals who believe as I do that someday a force will be needed to defend this country at home. We’ve gotten soft, Johnny; not you, not me, but the country as a whole. It’s all busted up and weak from the inside out, and sooner or later something’s gonna give. That’s why we’re here. When it does, we’ll be ready.”

  Gash waited for a response. When none came, he continued. “I got fifteen hundred men here with me now and I can move them anywhere in the country I want inside of six hours. Even got our own transport planes. And yo
u should see our equipment. Strictly top of the line. Desert Storm checked plenty of it out for us and it passed with flying colors.” Gash stopped again, not for a response this time. “They can call us survivalists, they can call us fascists, they can call us whatever they want. But all we are is people who love this country and can read the writing on the wall and don’t like what it says. You know what they’re calling us now?”

  Johnny did, but didn’t respond.

  “The 911 Brigade.” Gash laughed heartily. “It’s the goddamn truth, so I let the name stick. When the real emergency comes, we’ll be there, Johnny, and my guess is that’ll be sooner, not later. Stay and sign up, or you just might miss it.”

  “I prefer trying to stop it.”

  “Right,” the colonel said knowingly. “You and McCrackenballs. Been following your work. When McCracken’s ready, tell him I got a bed waiting for him, too.”

  “I will.”

  “You won’t, but thanks for humoring me. If only I could make you see that this place, what I’m trying to do here, is made for the two of you. Take a good look around you, Lieutenant. This is the Alamo. We’re surrounded on all sides by weakness and mediocrity. We’re the last stand. Anyone with a gun could take this country, and all I’m hoping is we get the call in time to stop them.”

  They were creeping along the main drag of the base to a chorus of commands calling the troops to attention as the colonel passed by. The salutes were endless. Discipline never wavered when Tyson Gash was involved.

  “Let me see what I can do,” Gash said suddenly.

  “Thank you, Colonel.”

  Gash slid the jeep to a whining halt in front of the base headquarters and stuck a fresh cigar in his mouth. “Don’t thank me for helping you meet up with a man like Traggeo, Lieutenant. I should’ve killed him myself, let him come out of the grave and suck Charlie’s blood when we were gone. He was convinced he was immortal, claimed he had the power of his ancestors in his veins.”

  “He has blood in his veins, Colonel, and when I meet up with him, it will spill.”

  The man called Badger, like Traggeo an alumnus of Salvage Company, was ushered into Gash’s office and snapped instantly to attention.

  “At ease, soldier,” said the colonel.

  Badger seemed incapable of managing anything close. His attempt at relaxing brought only a slight lowering of his shoulders. He was tall and lean, the crew cut worn into his head. His mouth twitched madly. His eyes were furtive and darting, forever in motion, as if unable to focus.

  “This is Lieutenant Wareagle, soldier,” Gash started. “You will answer any and all of his questions truthfully to the best of your ability. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir!” Badger snapped back to attention. The twitching dulled but the eyes kept darting.

  “Proceed, Lieutenant.”

  “You served with a man named Traggeo many years ago in another place. Have you heard from him any time in the past year?”

  Badger’s eyes locked finally on Wareagle. “Only once, sir. Months ago, before I came here. I don’t know, I can’t remember exactly.”

  “Whatever you do remember will be enough. Go on.”

  “A single phone call, sir, asking me if I wanted to join him.” Those eyes grew uncertain again. “I don’t know how he found me.”

  “Join him in what?”

  “He didn’t say, sir. Or if he did, I don’t remember. It was … a difficult time.”

  “I understand. Do you remember anything?”

  “Only the place he said he was calling from. I remember it because I think I’ve been there: Carrizozo.”

  “New Mexico,” Johnny returned.

  “Yes, sir. Located right before you reach White Sands.”

  CHAPTER 22

  The limousine dodged through the Washington streets, its rider impatient to be rid of them as night tightened its hold on the city.

  “Clear, sir,” the driver’s voice informed the limo’s lone passenger.

  “You know the route, then.”

  “Of course, sir,” the driver responded, just a vague outline against the blacked-out partition.

  The last twenty minutes had been spent making sure the limousine was not being tailed. The driver was a professional who had run many sophisticated surveillance operations. He knew all the tricks, and therefore how to subvert them.

  As the big car headed toward the Beltway, its lone passenger opened a leather case that had been resting between his legs. Inside was an advanced communications system the size of a small television. It took both of his hands to lift it out and place it upon the limousine’s built-in pedestal. He ran a connecting cable to a similarly built-in computer and slid it home. Then he switched the computer on and turned his attention back to the pedestal.

  The communications system resting atop it had a simple square front that looked as though it might have been part of a sophisticated telephone. There was no receiver, just the oval-shaped dot holes of a speaker. The touchtone board located beneath it had twice as many numbers as the mundane variety, along with a half-dozen additional keys marked with symbols. To the board’s left, and comprising the rest of the square front, was a series of seven electronic lines equipped with LED readouts. The man leaned slightly forward and touched a small button that activated the system.

  Instantly, four of the LED readouts began flashing, an indication that three others were on-line and ready for the meeting to start. The red letters were all capitals, detailing the respective cities now in attendance: England, France, Germany.

  The fourth—his—read WASHINGTON.

  Japan and Johannesburg were lagging, while the seventh, the only speaker who would remain unidentified, would come on-line only when all others indicated their readiness.

  The man in the limousine could do nothing but wait.

  Since sophisticated scramblers made voice recognition impossible, the top six LED readouts existed to indicate to all participants which representative was speaking. The seventh and lowest simply flashed when the unidentified chairman was speaking.

  Japan came on. A few seconds later JOHANNESBURG lit up red, leaving only the bottom slot unfilled. Lights bobbed forward like a bar grid across it when the chair’s voice opened the meeting.

  “Communications check,” began the voice altered into a computer-synthesized monotone that was identical to the six others. “England.”

  “Here.”

  “Germany.”

  “Present.”

  “Japan.”

  “Yes.”

  “France.”

  “Present.”

  “Johannesburg.”

  “Here.”

  “And Washington.”

  “Present,” the man in the limo’s rear responded.

  Traditionally whoever called an unscheduled meeting was mentioned last. Today was no exception.

  “Proceed, Washington,” ordered the unidentified voice.

  “Complications have arisen.”

  “Severity?” The bar grid danced in place of a name.

  “Difficult to gauge at this time.”

  “Have the Delphi been compromised, Washington?”

  “Not yet,” the man answered, emphasizing the second word of his response. “But the approved strategy I enacted to deal with McCracken has failed.”

  “You are saying that he survived his expected meeting with Cleese,” concluded England.

  “And indications are that Cleese did as well.”

  GERMANY flashed on as the next voice spoke. “Following your failure to finish McCracken with the explosive on that plane, I believe you said we had the opportunity to kill two birds with one stone. Now you tell us both have flown away.”

  “The responsibility is mine.”

  JAPAN replaced WASHINGTON. “Do we know where McCracken is?”

  “No.”

  FRANCE. “Do we have any idea where he will surface next?”

  “At this point, also no.”

  ENGLAND. “Then ho
w are we to accept any further assurances that the Delphi have not been compromised?”

  “Along with assurances that our present operation remains sterile,” Germany added.

  “Have I missed something?” Johannesburg wondered. “Are we not speaking of a single man?”

  It was the unlabeled line that replied. “Let’s not be naive. All of you have been made aware of McCracken’s proclivity for dealing with this sort of situation.”

  GERMANY. “I would have thought he might be more inclined to join us, under the circumstances.”

  “Then study his file again.”

  FRANCE. “The question of what is to be done with him remains.”

  “I am satisfied that up till now McCracken has obtained no information that could possibly make him aware of either our existence or the scope of our operation. The issue now becomes one of containment in these final days before activation. And with that in mind, Washington, I believe you should now detail the other complication that led to your calling this meeting.”

  “Miravo, has been compromised,” the man in the limo’s rear said. “And, as a direct result of the way matters were handled prior to my involvement, Senator Samantha Jordan was killed earlier today.”

  “Another failure on your part?”

  “No, England, a failure on hers. She chose to attempt to enlist a subordinate instead of following the specified course of action. We have that subordinate in custody now and must determine if there are others to whom she passed on the information she possessed.”

  “Beyond that,” the chairman stated, “I have suggested moving the last of our stockpile out of Miravo.”

  “Why not simply ship the materials ahead of schedule?” raised Japan.

  “We can do nothing of the kind until we are satisfied the senator’s subordinate did not involve anyone else in her quest. I assure you that it will not affect the timetable of the operation.”

  “It is difficult to accept such an assurance when you have yet to inform us of that timetable’s specifics.”

  “Then allow me to now,” returned the unnamed chairman. “One week from this coming Tuesday, on April 26, the President is scheduled to address a joint session of Congress on his new plan for the economy. At that time, and in full view of the entire country, he will be assassinated along with the vast bulk of those charged with governing the country.”