by Tom Clancy
In his office, Henriksen lit up his personal computer and pulled open an encrypted file. It had telephone numbers and access codes to every computer in Horizon Corporation, plus the names of the files relating to the Project. He accessed them via modem, looked for the files that had to go, and moved them with mouse-clicks into trash cans that shredded the files completely instead of merely removing their electronic address codes. He found that he was sweating as he did so, and it took him thirty-nine minutes, but after that time was concluded, he was certain that he’d completely destroyed them all. He checked his list and his memory for the file names and conducted another global search, but no, those files were completely gone now. Good.
Okay, he asked himself, what else might they have? They might have Gearing’s Shiva-delivery canister. That would be hard to argue with, but what, really, did it mean? It would mean, if the right people looked at it, that Gearing had been carrying a potential bio-war weapon. Gearing could tell a U.S. attorney that it had come from Horizon Corporation, but no one working on that segment of the Project would ever admit to having done it, and so, no, there would be no corroborating evidence to back up the assertion.
Okay, there were by his count fifty-three Horizon and Global Security employees who knew the Project from beginning to end. Work on the “A” and “B” vaccines could be explained away as medical research. The Shiva virus and the vaccine supplies would be burned in a matter of hours, leaving no physical evidence at all.
This was enough—well, it was almost enough. They still had Gearing, and Gearing, if he talked—and he would talk, Henriksen was sure, because the Bureau had ways of choking information out of people—could make life very uncomfortable for Brightling and a lot of other people, including himself. They would probably avoid conviction, but the embarrassment of a trial—and the things that the revelations might generate, casual comments made by Project members to others, would be woven together . . . and there was Popov, who could link John Brightling and himself to terrorist acts. But they could finger Popov for murdering Foster Hunnicutt, and that would pollute whatever case he might try to make . . . the best thing would be to be beyond their reach when they tried to assemble a case. That meant Brazil, and Project Alternate in the jungles west of Manaus. They could head down there, sheltered by Brazil’s wonderfully protective extradition laws, and study the rain forest . . . yes, that made sense. Okay, he thought, he had a list of the full-Project members, those who knew everything, those who, if the FBI got them and interrogated them, could hang them all. He printed this list of the True Believers and tucked the pages in his shirt pocket. With the work done and the alternatives analyzed, Henriksen went back to Brightling’s penthouse office.
“I’ve told the flight crews to get the birds warmed up,” Brightling told him when he came in.
“Good.” Henriksen nodded. “I think Brazil looks pretty good right now. If nothing else, we can get all of our critical personnel fully briefed on how to handle this, how to act if anyone asks them some questions. We can beat this one, John, but we have to be smart about it.”
“What about the planet?” Carol Brightling asked sadly.
“Carol,” Bill replied, “you take care of your own ass first. You can’t save Nature from inside Marion Federal Penitentiary, but if we play it smart, we can deny evidence to anyone who investigates us, and without that we’re safe, guys. Now”—he pulled the list from his pocket—“these are the only people we have to protect. There’s fifty-three of them, and you have four Gulfstreams sitting out there. We can fly us all down to Project Alternate. Any disagreement on that?”
John Brightling shook his head. “No, I’m with you. Can this keep us in the clear legally?”
Henriksen nodded emphatically. “I think so. Popov will be a problem, but he’s a murderer. I’m going to report the Hunnicutt killing to the local cops before we fly off. That will compromise his value as a witness—make it look like he’s just telling a tale to save his own ass from the gallows, whatever they use to execute murderers here in Kansas. I’ll have Maclean and Killgore tape statements we can hand over to the local police. It may not be enough to convict him, but it will make him pretty uncomfortable. That’s how you do this, break up the other guy’s chain of evidence and the credibility of his witnesses. In a year, maybe eighteen months, we have our lawyers sit down and chat with the local U.S. attorney, and then we come home. Until then we camp out in Brazil, and you can run the company from there via the Internet, can’t you?”
“Well, it’s not as good as what we planned, but . . .”
“Yes,” Carol agreed. “But it beats the hell out of life in a federal prison.”
“Get everything moving, Bill,” John ordered.
“So, what do we do with this?” Clark asked, on waking up.
“Well,” Tom Sullivan answered, “first we go to the Assistant Director in Charge of the New York office, and then we talk to a United States attorney about building a criminal case.”
“I don’t think so,” Clark responded, rubbing his eyes and reaching for the coffee.
“We can’t just put the arm on them and whack ’em, you know. We’re cops. We can’t break the law,” Chatham pointed out.
“This can never see the light of day in a court. Besides, who’s to say that you’ll win the case? How hard will this be to cover up?”
“I can’t evaluate that. We have two missing girls they probably murdered—more, if our friend Popov is right—and that’s a crime, both federal and state, and, Jesus, this other conspiracy . . . that’s why we have laws, Mr. Clark.”
“Maybe so, but how fast do you see yourself driving out to this place in Kansas, whose location we don’t know yet, with warrants to arrest one of the richest men in America?”
“It will take a little time,” Sullivan admitted.
“A couple of weeks at least, just to assemble the case information,” Special Agent Chatham said. “We’ll need to talk with experts, to have that chlorine jar examined by the right people—and all the while the subjects will be working to destroy every bit of physical evidence. It won’t be easy, but that’s what we do in the Bureau, y’know?”
“I suppose,” Clark said dubiously. “But there won’t be much element of surprise here. They probably know we have this Gearing guy. From that they know what he can tell us.”
“True,” Sullivan conceded.
“We might have to try something else.”
“What might that be?”
“I’m not sure,” Clark admitted.
The videotaping was done in the Project’s media center, where they’d hoped to produce nature tapes for those who survived the plague. The end of the Project as an operational entity hit its members hard. Kirk Maclean was especially downcast, but he acted his role well in explaining the morning rides that he, Serov, Hunnicutt, and Killgore had enjoyed. Then Dr. John Killgore told of how he’d found the horses, and then came Maclean’s explanation of how the body was found, and the autopsy Killgore had personally performed, which had found the .44 bullet that had ended Foster Hunnicutt’s life. With that done, the men joined the others in the lobby of the residence building, and a minibus ferried them to the waiting aircraft.
It would be a 3,500-mile flight to Manaus, they were told on boarding, about eight hours, an easy hop for the Gulfstream V. The lead aircraft was nearly empty, just the doctors Brightling, Bill Henriksen, and Steve Berg, lead scientist for the Shiva part of the Project. The aircraft lifted off at nine in the morning local time. Next stop, the Amazon Valley of central Brazil.
It turned out that the FBI did know where the Kansas site was. A car and two agents from the local resident agency drove out in time to see the jets lift off, which they duly reported to their base station, and from there to Washington. Then they just parked at the side of the road, sipped at their drinks, ate their McDonald’s burgers and watched nothing happening at all at the misplaced buildings in the middle of wheat country.
The C-17 switched crew
s at Hickam Air Force Base in Hawaii, then refueled and lifted off for Travis in northern California. Chavez and his party never even departed the aircraft, but watched the new crew arrive with box lunches and drinks, and then settled in for the next six hours of air travel. Wilson Gearing was trying to explain himself now, talking about trees and birds and fish and stuff, Ding overheard. It was not an argument calculated to persuade the father of a newborn, and the husband of a physician, but the man rambled on. Noonan listened politely and recorded this conversation, too.
The flight south was quiet on all the aircraft. Those who hadn’t heard about the developments in Sydney guessed that something was wrong, but they couldn’t communicate with the lead aircraft without going through the flight crews, and they had not been briefed in on the Project’s objectives—like so many of the employees of Horizon Corporation, they had simply been paid to do the jobs for which they were trained. They flew now on a southerly course to a destination just below the equator. It was a trip they’d made before, when Project Alternate had been built the previous year. It, too, had its own runway sufficient for the business jets, but only VFR daylight capable, since it lacked the navigation aids in Kansas. If anything went wrong, they would bingo to the Manaus city airport, ninety-eight miles to the east of their destination, which had full services, including repairs. Project Alternate had spare parts, and every aircraft had a trained mechanic aboard, but they preferred to leave major repairs to others. In an hour, they were “feet-wet” over the Gulf of Mexico, then turned east to fly through the international travel corridor over Cuba. The weather forecast was good all the way down to Venezuela, where they might have to dodge a few thunderheads, but nothing serious. The senior passengers in the lead aircraft figured that they were leaving the country about as fast as it could be done, disappearing off the face of the planet they’d hoped to save.
“What’s that?” Sullivan asked. Then he turned. “Four jets just left the Kansas location, and they headed off to the south.”
“Is there any way to track them?”
Sullivan shrugged. “The Air Force maybe.”
“How the hell do we do that?” Clark wondered aloud. Then he called Langley.
“I can try, John, but getting the Air Force hopping this quick won’t be easy.”
“Try, will you, Ed? Four Gulfstream-type business jets heading south from central Kansas, destination unknown.”
“Okay, I’ll call the NMCC.”
That was not a difficult thing for the Director of Central Intelligence to do. The senior duty officer in the National Military Command Center was an Air Force two-star recently rotated into a desk job after commanding the remaining USAF fighter force in NATO.
“So, what are we supposed to do, sir?” the general asked.
“Four Gulfstream-type business jets took off from central Kansas about half an hour ago. We want them tracked.”
“With what? All our air-defense fighters are on the Canadian border. Calling them down wouldn’t work, they’d never catch up.”
“How about an AWACS?” Foley asked.
“They belong to Air Combat Command at Langley—ours, not yours—and well, maybe one’s up for counter-drug surveillance or maybe training. I can check.”
“Do that,” Ed Foley said. “I’ll hold.”
The two-star in blue went one better than that, calling the North American Aerospace Defense Command in Cheyenne Mountain, which had radar coverage over the entire country, and ordering them to identify the four Gs. That took less than a minute, and a computer command was sent to the Federal Aviation Administration to check the flight plans that had to be filed for international flights. NORAD also told the general that there were two E-3B AWACS aircraft aloft at the moment, one 300 miles south of New Orleans doing counter-drug operations, and the other just south of Eglin Air Force Base, conducting routine training with some fighters based there in an exercise against a Navy flight out of Pensacola Naval Air Station. With that information, he called Langley Air Force Base in the Virginia Tidewater, got Operations, and told them about the DCI’s request.
“What’s this for, sir?” the general asked Foley, once the phone lines were properly lashed up.
“I can’t tell you that, but it’s important as hell.”
The general relayed that to Langley Operations, but did not relay the snarled response back to CIA. This one had to be kicked to the four-star who ran Air Combat Command, who, conveniently, was in his office rather than the F-16 that came with the job. The four-star grunted approval, figuring CIA wouldn’t ask without good reason.
“You can have it if you need it. How far will it be going?”
“I don’t know. How far can one of those Gulfstream jets go?”
“Hell, sir, the new one, the G-V, can fly all the way to friggin’ Japan. I may have to set up some tanker support.”
“Okay, please do what you have to do. Who do I call to keep track of the shadowing operation?”
“NORAD.” He gave the DCI the number to call.
“Okay, thank you, General. The Agency owes you one.”
“I will remember that, Director Foley,” the USAF major general promised.
“We’re in luck,” Clark heard. “The Air Force is chopping an AWACS to us. We can follow them all the way to where they’re going,” Ed Foley said, exaggerating somewhat, since he didn’t understand the AWACS would have to refuel on the way.
The aircraft in question, a ten-year-old E-3B Sentry, got the word fifteen minutes later. The pilot relayed the information to the senior control officer aboard, a major, who in turn called NORAD for further information and got it ten minutes after the leading G departed U.S. airspace. The steer from Cheyenne Mountain made the tracking exercise about as difficult as the drive to the local 7-Eleven. A tanker would meet them over the Caribbean, after lifting off from Panama, and what had been an interesting air-defense exercise reverted to total boredom. The E-3B Sentry, based on the venerable Boeing 707- 320B, flew at the identical speed as the business jets made in Savannah, and kept station from fifty miles behind. Only the aerial tanking would interfere with matters, and that not very much. The radar aircraft’s call-sign was Eagle Two-Niner, and it had satellite radio capability to relay everything, including its radar picture, to NORAD in Colorado. Most of Eagle Two-Niner’s crewmen rested in their comfortable seats, many of them dozing off while three controllers worked the four Gulfstreams they were supposed to track. It was soon evident that they were heading somewhere pretty straight, five minutes or about forty-one miles apart, attempting no deception at all, not even wavetop flying. But that, they knew, would only abuse the airframes and use up gas unnecessarily. It didn’t matter to the surveillance aircraft, which could spot a trash bag floating in the water—something they regularly did in counter-drug operations, since that was one of the methods used by smugglers to transfer their cocaine—or even enforce the speed limit on interstate highways, since anything going faster than eighty miles per hour was automatically tracked by the radar-computer system, until the operator told the computer to ignore it. But now all they had to look at were commercial airliners going and coming in routine daily traffic, plus the four Gulfstreams, who were traveling so normal, straight, and dumb that, as one controller observed, even a Marine could have taken them out without much in the way of guidance.
By this time, Clark was on a shuttle flight to Reagan National Airport across the river from Washington. It landed on time, and Clark was met by a CIA employee whose “company” car was parked outside for the twenty-minute ride to Langley and the seventh floor of the Old Headquarters Building. Dmitriy Popov had never expected to be inside this particular edifice, even wearing a VISITOR—ESCORT REQUIRED badge. John handled the introductions.
“Welcome,” Foley said in his best Russian. “I imagine you’ve never been here before.”
“As you have never been to Number 2 Dzerzhinsky Square.”
“Ah, but I have,” Clark responded. “Right into Sergey Niko
lay’ch’s office, in fact.”
“Amazing,” Popov responded, sitting down as guided.
“Okay, Ed, where the hell are they now?”
“Over northern Venezuela, heading south, probably for central Brazil. The FAA tells us that they filed a flight plan—it’s required by law—for Manaus. Rubber-tree country, I think. A couple of rivers come together there.”
“They told me that there is a facility there, like the one in Kansas, but smaller,” Popov informed his hosts.
“Task a satellite to it?” Clark asked the DCI.
“Once we know where it is, sure. The AWACS lost a little ground when it refueled, but it’s only a hundred fifty miles back now, and that’s not a problem. They say the four business jets are just flying normally, cruising right along.”
“Once we know where they’re going . . . then what?”
“Not sure,” Foley admitted. “I haven’t thought it through that far.”
“There might not be a good criminal case on this one, Ed.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah,” Clark confirmed with a nod. “If they’re smart, and we have to assume they are, they can destroy all the physical evidence of the crime pretty easily. That leaves witnesses, but who, you suppose, is aboard those four Gs heading into Brazil?”
