“Matt, I don’t think you should…” Tracy muttered.
“Professor, is that you?” Matt asked. A minute passed in silence. Matt was about to chalk his sighting up to a wishful imagination when the professor replied.
“Yes. It’s me.” The professor said from the vast darkness.
Matt strained to see the professor’s face, but couldn’t. Elation washed over him as he realized his friend and mentor had survived.
“Where have you been?” He asked.
The professor was pondering a response when the quiet, dark seclusion of the abandoned city was shredded by erupting gunfire. Several bullets flew through the air and landed in the concrete structure around him.
Matt pushed his body away from the small window. His legs buckled beneath him and he tumbled to the floor.
Rhinefeld threw himself flat on his stomach. He looked down the length of the overhang. Azim was up and running to the opposite end of the roof. Both of his hands flailing about as he sprinted away from the terror.
Saleem Nejem stood on the hood of one of the University Land Rovers. He kept his index finger pressed tightly against the trigger of his AK-47. The gun barked off 7.62 millimeter rounds until the magazine was empty. The terrorist pushed in a small button above the magazine well and pulled down on the empty cartridge. He carelessly dropped it on the top of the vehicle and retrieved an additional one from a load bearing vest that he was wearing. Saleem inserted the fresh magazine and pulled back on the charging handle. He jumped down off of the hood and brought the weapon back up to his line of sight.
Professor Rhinefeld had his face buried in the overhang as bullets collided with the wall above him. His back was showered with small chunks of aging concrete. The archaeologist felt the grip of the rifle that he had taken off of Azim. His fingers wrapped tightly around it. He opened his eyes after the gunfire had stopped and stared down at Azim’s weapon. He slid his finger past the trigger guard and lightly touched the tip of his finger to the trigger. He squeezed, not knowing exactly what would happen. Nothing. Looking to the side of the rifle he noticed a tiny metal handle. He pulled it back, feeling the spring tension work against his grip. It flew forward with a loud metallic crash. He stared at the trigger again, not sure if he had done anything. He placed his finger on the black crescent shape and squeezed again. The rifle came alive in his hands. Two bullets burst forth from the barrel and kicked up some of the debris that had come from the wall above him. The loud crack caused a ringing in his ears and sent a shock through his nerves.
The professor quickly sat up and placed his back against the wall. He pulled the trigger again, pointing the rifle at the dark street below.
Washington D.C.
Kenneth Paine stared at his flat computer monitor. He had his internet browser open to a Major News Network and was watching a young blonde ramble on about Imam Nazari’s internet video. A smaller, additional window off to the side of the screen gave minute by minute updates for the holdings Paine had in the New York Stock Exchange. Below that, another screen featured the balances of various off shore accounts that he held secretly. Lastly, another tiny window displayed the New York Mercantile Exchange’s current trading price for Sweet Crude. Terrorist threats against dozens of the world’s largest drilling facilities and refineries were being cited as the reason for a phenomenal spike in the price per barrel. The market had begun to react immediately. Stocks fell across the board. Even companies that weren’t effected by the price of oil had seen their stock lose whole percentage points since morning.
Paine reached over, muted the talking head from his keyboard and picked up the phone on his desk. He dialed a number by heart.
“Saxon and Corelinder, how may I help you?” Asked a young receptionist.
“I need to speak to George Corelinder.” Paine stated.
“And who may I ask is…”
“This is Kenneth Paine, I need to speak to Corelinder now.” He interrupted.
The receptionist was very familiar with Paine. In the last year she had connected her boss with him hundreds of times; he was a daily caller.
Saxon and Corelinder was a prestigious brokerage for the ultra-rich. Their own company’s investment fund had been known to rival that of Warren Buffet’s Berkshire Hathaway.
She patched him through.
“Now is not a good time Kenneth.” Corelinder said through the phone.
“I’m sure it’s not George.” Paine replied. “I’m calling because I need to make a slight change to my portfolio.”
“That would be a terrible idea right now Kenneth. That is not consistent with the growth strategies we have outlined in our prospectus.” Corelinder said. He was a fish out of water and he knew it.
“Don’t play with me George. We both know I am not one of your bloated trust fund clients. This needs to happen, now.” Paine said.
“What kind of ‘change’ are we talking about?” Corelinder asked defeated.
“Liquidate it.” Paine stated plainly.
“What? I…uh…don’t think that we can make that happen.” George said.
Paine hit the speaker phone button on the keypad and placed the receiver on the hook. He reclined in his executive chair and hiked his feet up onto the edge of his desk.
“Think carefully George.” Paine said. He was being vague but the investment banker knew what he was talking about.
“Kenneth, the best I can do is to…”
“The best you’re going to do is give me my money George. All of it. Every penny. Today.” With that Kenneth pressed the end call button with his heel and sat up. He leaned over the desk to stare at the NYME ticker again. Sweet Crude had just climbed another two dollars.
Thanks to the Organization of the Petroleum Exporting Countries, the World economy would soon be poised to fall into a deep recession.
The list of secrets in Kenneth Paine’s private and professional life was long. His company, CxDefense, was listed on the New York Stock Exchange as CXD–a Defense Contractor. CXD developed and manufactured anti-personnel weapons such as rifles, hand grenades and small land mines. Where makers like Colt and Beretta saturated the market for the United States, Kenneth Paine had carved out a niche for his products with America’s less militarily developed allies. At least, that’s how he had started.
Once he had cornered the lion’s share of that market, he began to find even tighter profit margins. Soon, the lines began to blur between countries whose allegiance to the U.S. were well established and those that had been outright sanctioned by the UN and the United States Security Council. Of course, few people knew about this. He had taken great pains to erase paper trails that could lead an FBI investigative unit to CXD’s front door. He had kept close ties with the sitting President, in part, for the countless opportunities to broaden his market share but primarily to assuage any curiosities that prevailed in Congress through the administration. The most taxing thing about selling to both sides was the amount of overlapping investing that had to be done to hide a constantly increasing stream of cash flow. CXD’s net worth far exceeded the reported number of arms manufactured and sold by them to U.S. allies in the past ten years. This easily verifiable fact, would alone shut Paine down and send him to prison for the better part of a quarter century, had he not invested vast sums of the company’s holdings in everything from tech companies to commodities that he quietly controlled. Kenneth Paine was also guilty of insider trading but that had been easier to hide than the billions of dollars in windfall profits he’d gained by selling arms to America’s enemies.
Paine picked the phone back up and dialed the number to the President. He knew Vanderbilt would want some advice right about now.
22
Gaza Airstrip, Palestine
Major General Beau Kirkland stepped off of a Gulfstream IV twin engine jet and shook a hand that had been extended to him. The arrival of the aircraft was preceded by three C-5 Galaxies owned by the U.S. Air Force that were parked at the far end of the runway.
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It turned his stomach to be there but Kirkland wasn’t wearing two stars on his collar because he was accustomed to heeding to his emotions. The Mississippi native correctly assumed that this was why he had been chosen to bring the classified shipment to Gaza. ‘At least the rioting has stopped’ he thought to himself.
“General Kirkland, it is a pleasure to meet you. I trust your trip was comfortable.” The Hamas officer said after lowering an awkwardly long salute. The man wore loose fitting Olive Drab pants and matching shirt with a gold crested black beret.
There was a snide tone on the back of the commander’s tongue that was almost unperceivable.
General Kirkland ignored it and replied as if they were old friends.
“Indeed, it was.” He said, always the diplomat.
“Good.” The man replied as he returned his hand to his pocket.
The two men walked to a nearby Mercedes sedan, the General’s two personal guards close behind. They entered the car and settled into the soft leather seats.
“You will be staying at the Al Mathaf Hotel. I have secured other arrangements for the rest of your men.” The man said motioning to the general’s guards. One of the men shook his head from side to side.
“That’s not going to happen,” The sergeant said quickly. General Kirkland eyed his man in the back seat, letting him know he needed to tread lighter. The Army Ranger nodded and turned his attention to the city as the Palestinian started the automobile and they cruised past a row of small hangars.
“Army protocol, I can’t be without these men.” The General stated. His tone was apologetic but firm. No matter how short or long his stay in Palestine turned out to be, he would not be alone for a second.
“That is no problem. We will make accommodating adjustments.”
The vehicle pulled up to a checkpoint in the middle of the road, just west of the airstrip where the business jet had set down. One of the sergeants looked ahead to the driver’s side view mirror. There were two cars trailing them, both occupied by members of the general’s staff.
The checkpoint was fairly standard. A wooden square opening was surrounded by two large mounds of sandbags. An antiquated fifty caliber machine gun housed inside of a shooter’s nest of camouflage and plywood sat just inside the structure. A group of soldiers huddled around the rear of the gun.
The Hamas commander pulled to a stop just short of the shack and stepped out of the car. One of the checkpoint guards met him halfway and stopped directly in front of the sedan. Both of the army sergeants began to scan the windows and rooftops of the buildings on either side of the street. Palestine was the sworn enemy of one of the United States most trusted allies. If they were liable to fall victim to a terrorist attack or assassination, it was more likely in Palestine than probably anywhere else in the world.
One of the sergeants contemplated the dynamics of the situation. Deep in his gut, he knew that they shouldn’t be there. The enlisted man spotted one of the sand bags on the bottom of the pile. The top of the bag had been improperly secured and a good portion of its sand had spilled out onto the asphalt street. It had rained only a few hours ago and the ground was still dark and saturated from it. The sand that had spilled out of the bag however, was bone dry. He contemplated the peculiarity. The sand should have been much darker, in fact it should have been wet. The sand bags had been placed just before their arrival, perhaps even the whole checkpoint.
General Kirkland leaned into the space between the two front seats. “So what’s the plan if these guys start…”
From a rooftop adjacent to the building next to them, a Rocket Propelled Grenade whistled through the air and penetrated the roof of the last car in the motorcade. Erupting in a bright fireball, the car flipped over onto its top, incinerating everyone inside.
The sergeant reached through the two front seats and grabbed the General but it was too late. The machine gun nest came alive with the men who had been harmlessly standing around it moments earlier. The ear piercing thunder of the gun’s large caliber rounds ripped through the hood of the car and walked up toward the windshield. The General was hit by the first two bullets that entered the cab. The sergeant, struggling to breathe from a hole in his lung, picked up his handheld radio and pressed the talk button.
“Am…bush.” He gurgled into the hand set. He dropped the radio onto the floorboard.
The car in the center of the formation was harder to get to from the machine gun’s position. The commander approached it with his own AK-47 and unloaded a magazine into both of the doors on the driver’s side of the vehicle.
Private First Class James Riley was loosening a ratchet strap used to secure a brand new Delta Humvee when he heard the explosion. Riley walked to the end of the rear ramp of the giant C-5 cargo plane and surveyed the afternoon sky. A dark cloud of smoke was rising above a charred heap a quarter mile away.
The C-5 Galaxy was a heavy lift transport plane. Designed and built in the mid 80’s, the behemoth sustained the designation of, ‘World’s Largest Airplane’, for quite some time; eventually dethroned by a Russian aircraft known as the Anatov AN-124.
There were three other Galaxy’s clustered together at the end of the short runway. They had traveled from Ramstein Air Force Base in Germany, carrying twelve up-armored Humvees, two Bradley fighting vehicles and an arsenal of squad level weapons. Additionally, a company of combat ready troops had joined General Kirkland’s operation as security for the sensitive shipment.
Riley jogged back into the aircraft and grabbed his ruck sack. He rummaged through his packing list items and found his issued binoculars. He ran back to the ramp and placed them against his eyes. He focused in on the cloud as it ascended into the gray horizon. He panned the lenses across the roofline just below the smoke. Two men stood with rifles pointing down at a pile of wreckage on the street below. He had started scanning the other rooftops when something closer caught his eye. He lowered the binoculars to the street and then to the end of the airstrip.
A massive group of Palestinians moved in a wave of bodies that spanned the width of the runway, bound for the cargo planes. Their pace was outmatched only by their zeal as they thrust their rifles into the air and shouted unintelligibly. Riley dropped the binoculars and bolted back inside the belly of the airplane.
The captain who piloted Riley’s C-5 got up from his seat and glanced out of the window of the cockpit when he heard the approaching commotion.
“Wha…?” He exclaimed as he reached for his radio handset. The other men in the control cabin sprung over to where Captain Sanders stood. The flight crew huddled around the tiny window and stared in shock. Sanders keyed the microphone and spoke franticly.
“We are under attack. Under attack.” He spat.
“Mike is that you?” Came a reply.
“Yes, this is Alpha three, we are under attack. Look outside of your cockpit. It’s a trap. Get these birds in the air. Pull chocks now” He said, fear stifling his voice box and making his speech crack high and low like a runaway rollercoaster.
Captain Sanders reached up and turned on the aircraft’s batteries and fuel pumps. Normally, an operational check of the engine fire suppression and warning system was performed–before the Auxiliary Power Unit was started but Sanders bypassed the step and pushed the button marked APU. A small jet engine located in the tail of the aircraft began to spool up. The veteran pilot didn’t wait for the starting sequence to complete or verify that the ground was clear before he pulled down the cover to a guarded switch and turned the number one engine on.
Air Force Major Jack Edgewood squinted through his window. His plane was partially facing the sun. The Major had to cup his hands around his eyes to eliminate enough of the glare to see what Captain Sanders was seeing. When the men on the ground came in to focus, he recoiled in horror. Hundreds of armed Palestinians in civilian clothes were swarming toward them. It was only a matter of when they would unleash their wrath, rather than if.
“Is our cargo unloaded?�
� He shouted at a young tech sergeant in the jump seat behind him. The enlisted man shook his head from side to side.
“No, they still have two of the…”
The cabin shuttered as flames burst through a fresh opening made by a rocket propelled grenade that failed to detonate. The cockpit quickly filled with a noxious black and white smoke as the warhead burned on the floor of the flight deck. Within seconds the flight crew was overcome by the smoldering propellant.
In Alpha three, Captain Sanders keyed his mic.
“Prepare for takeoff.” He took a deep breath and shoved the throttle controls halfway to their forward stop. The Galaxy lurched forward on its nose landing gear, spewing a barrage of twisting and grinding sounds, as it performed a wide and sloppy turn. The heavy wings groaned as the wing boxes that mounted them to the fuselage were stressed far beyond their recommended capacity. Sanders rolled the tiller in his hand and the nose wheel crawled toward the runway’s centerline.
He forced the throttles all the way against their stop once the nose wheel was straight. The flight crew kept silent as the plane accelerated down the tarmac. It only took eighty percent power to execute a safe takeoff. With the throttles set to one hundred percent, the engines whined angrily as they were pushed to their limits.
After what seemed an eternity, the C-5’s nose wheel lifted off of the concrete. The aircraft grabbed more lift and the main mount landing gear left the runway. The wheels seemed to hover for a brief second as they flew over the fearsome crowd and then soared over the buildings beyond the runway. The pilot leaned back in his chair. His shoulders relaxed and he breathed a long sigh of relief.
He was barely over the city when something collided with the starboard wing. He looked out the window and saw one of the huge General Electric TF-39 turbines spitting fire in every direction. He shut down its fuel and hoped.
A part of the engine mount beneath the pylon snapped and the engine fell forward. It ripped the fuel line and hydraulic hoses out of their harness. The captain tried to gain altitude but the flight control surfaces weren’t responding. The aircraft slowed as its angle of attack increased and its symmetry of lift became lopsided. The giant C-5 banked hard to the right, favoring its wound.
SANCTION: A Thriller Page 19
