by AJ Tata
“They call me Boudreaux.”
“Well, Boudreaux, you’re too late and unwelcome here in my camp. Things have already happened and there is nothing we can do to stop the rest of them now.” Ballantine laughed.
“So, then, what’s—” Lightning flashed through his mind as a board caught him hard on the head from behind, dropping him into the row of Internet switching devices, unconscious.
“Maybe we should go fishing, eh?” Chasteen said.
Ballantine moved quickly toward the fallen intruder.
“Was getting a bit concerned about you, boss. Thought you might invite this chap in for tea,” Chasteen said.
“I know this voice from somewhere.” Ballantine’s voice was distant, removed.
“Right, that was my next question. So, let’s see what we’ve got here.”
Ballantine knelt down, reaching forward with one hand while Chasteen leveled his weapon at the assassin’s head. Ballantine slowly rolled the body toward him, noticing the brown hair and strong angular jaw.
Recognition of the man was probably not the most surprising event of Ballantine’s life but it was certainly the one in which he felt the most good fortune. Suddenly, everything seemed possible.
“Chasteen, I believe we have struck gold.”
“How so?” Chasteen responded, still leveling his weapon at the motionless body.
Ballantine used his hand to lightly brush along the man’s strong face, caressing it softly like he might a favored pet. His eyes never strayed from him, as if to reconfirm over and over again that this was indeed who he thought it was.
“As you know, part of our operation here is to kill Matt Garrett,” Ballantine said.
“Yes, of course. We have rehearsed that part of the plan many times.”
Ballantine turned his head slowly, staring directly into the handsome Chasteen’s narrow eyes.
“Do you remember why I want to kill Matt Garrett?”
“Yes, for revenge. His brother killed your only brother. But he was killed, and Matt Garrett was the best remaining target.”
“Well, that has changed somewhat,” Ballantine remarked, a sliver of a smile growing at the corner of his lip. He turned his head back toward the unconscious body.
Chasteen hesitated, slowly turning his gaze toward Garrett, comprehension creeping into him like an Indian stalking a deer, ever so slowly.
“This can’t be Matt Garrett. . . .”
“No. No, Chasteen, this is none other than Captain Zachary Garrett.”
Chasteen smiled in recognition of what Ballantine was saying, even if he thought the Arabic man was a bit delusional. He reached down and pulled away Garrett’s woodland camouflage-pattern shirt, snapping the ID tags from his chest.
“Winslow Boudreaux, 713-54-8245. O Positive. Catholic. Nothing here about Zachary Garrett, boss.”
Ballantine looked back at Chasteen, only inches away from him now.
“I don’t care what the fake tags say. This is the man who killed Henri.” He lifted his face upward, closing his eyes. His voice was a whisper cutting a crease into the silent mineshaft.
“I can see him now, on top of me, pistol in his hand, all in slow motion. Henri coming over the rise toward the wadi. Garrett lifting that pistol, firing it over and over into Henri’s face.”
Ballantine’s voice carried an iciness that spoke to Chasteen, telling him he should trust his boss and keep his mouth shut. Ballantine looked back at Chasteen, emerging from his trance.
“Help me cuff him and get him back to the cabin. Call Virginia and tell her she needs to come to the operations center. Let her know we’ve got casualties. We need to secure Garrett and then, once he awakens, I will interrogate him. We need to know who sent him.”
“Roger.”
They rolled Garrett onto his stomach, took a pair of plastic flexible cuffs from Garrett’s own gear, and used them to bind his wrists behind his back. Ballantine then swung the unconscious man onto his back.
“Take the Sherpa to Vermont at first light and check on the forward ground control site for the UAVs,” Ballantine told Chasteen. “I had planned on doing that, but I need to think about this new development. Swarming operations will commence soon, and I want to make sure we are set.”
“No problem.” Chasteen was an accomplished bush pilot of many years. He had flown fat-cat loggers into the deep forests to survey future cut areas. “I can be ready in an hour.”
Being careful not to step on the bodies littering the mineshaft, they walked into the morning dawn, weapons at the ready in case Garrett was working with a partner or the military had an automatic response cell. Neither appeared to be the case.
As Ballantine’s boots crunched into the morning frost, he considered his good fortune and the limitless potential for the new situation.
Yes, just as he knew the pale gray line to the east would be followed by an orange hue licking its way slowly across the terrain, bringing light and warmth, he knew that the cargo he now carried on his shoulders was none other than Captain Zachary Garrett.
Ballantine’s heart leapt, surging with love for his brother, Henri. Allah had delivered his prayer.
CHAPTER 23
Pacific Ocean, North of Kiribati Island
Admiral Chi Chen sat in his “captain’s chair,” watching the large terminal play for him the real-time full-motion video of a Predator unmanned aerial vehicle.
Chen’s assistant, Seaman Ling, rapidly moved the mouse of the computer that controlled the launch and connectivity of the Predators. The icons for five UAVs circled on another computer terminal display. Scaled numbers and target indicators showed that each aircraft was flying at 10,000 feet above sea level in roughly parallel orbits, each focused on a different island in this sparsely inhabited chain of atolls.
“See there, Admiral,” Ling said, pointing at the screen. Chen stared at one Predator video feed of a small shack on a tiny atoll northwest of Kiribati. As far as they could tell, it was uninhabited; though, they had not done any formal assessment beyond watching the building for half an hour.
“I see. So?”
“Now, watch, Admiral. Bees swarm using pheromones to communicate. The American insect scientist has given us the ability to replicate this communication using ‘digital pheromones.’” Ling moved the cursor to a link he had created and labeled swarm. Once he clicked the swarm button, he saw four of the icons move in the direction of the master Predator that Ling had manipulated to deliver the swarming command. Unseen to Chen and Ling were millions of digital data packets emanating from the master Predator to the other drones. Soon they could see in the video feed of the master the other four drones circling beneath at 8,000 feet above sea level. They looked like broad-winged seagulls circling above baitfish in the ocean.
“Now watch, Admiral,” Ling said. He pushed a button that fired an inert hellfire missile into the shack. Instantly, the other four drones fired similar missiles. Despite the absence of munitions, the shack exploded in a granulated display of dust and wood chips after five cement-filled training rockets slammed into the target.
“Those were not real, correct?” Chen asked.
“Correct. Now watch this,” Ling said. Though it was hard to remove his eyes from the billowing smoke cloud rising from where the shack once stood, Chen watched in amazement as Ling entered commands into the computer that caused the master Predator to arc into a nosedive directly at the smoke cloud. The drones followed suit, like synchronized swimmers, all lining up at the exact same attack angles and along the exact same route.
Though Ling pulled the master drone out of its dive in time to keep it airborne and bring it back to the ship, it was clear to Chen that if he had five nuclear bombs rigged on those five Predators, they could overwhelm any air defenses that any nation might have protecting its capital.
And he had 18 of them.
Chen watched Ling perform the maneuvers with the master as the lead aircraft circled and slowed and then landed through the gap in
the Fong Hou’s bow. A chain lowered the lip of the bow and raised the empty containers on top, no more than a shell, like the maw of a hungry animal. Each drone followed the other onto the improvised runway, caught the steel cable with its improvised tail hook, and was rushed out of sight by a crew of Seaman Ling’s counterparts.
Ling looked at Chen, who was still staring at the blank screen.
“Full ahead,” Chen said. “We have some time to make up.”
CHAPTER 24
Sheldon Springs, Vermont
Matt rolled slightly and then bolted upright.
The morning sunlight was edging through the cracks in the barn’s wooden planks. He had heard a noise down below. It was a metallic screeching sound followed by some dull thuds and a voice. Talking. Someone was talking, but he could only hear one voice.
“How’s my Emily Lou this morning?” he heard a female voice say. “Is she ready to feed the family?”
Matt slowly crawled to the edge of the loft and placed a foot on the ladder, turning his back to the young lady who had placed her bucket under a cow and was now working her practiced hands across the udder. Sharp sprays of milk resonating in the bucket masked the sound of his feet lightly descending the wooden ladder from the loft. At the bottom, he moved quietly toward her.
He registered that the sound of the spraying milk had stopped a few seconds earlier as the woman spun off her stool and lifted a .22-caliber Derringer toward him.
“Stop right there!” she barked.
Matt stopped and lifted his hands into the air.
“We slept in your barn last night.” Matt took a step back, holding up his hands.
“Don’t move,” she ordered, pulling a cell phone from her coat pocket. She punched a button and got a walkie-talkie beep. “Dad, we’ve got trouble in the barn. Bring the boys and the guns.”
Matt stood still, arms raised, eyes locked onto hers. She was pretty, he thought, in a fresh, farmgirl sort of way. She had clean skin, a wide mouth, and dark hair pulled back into a ponytail. Her eyes were a deep brown that locked onto him like radar.
“I can explain. My partner and I, she’s still up there,” he said, pointing. Peyton was actually awake now, looking over the rail of the loft. The woman shifted her pistol up toward Peyton and then back over to Matt.
“While this may not be the smartest thing to say in Vermont, we’re with the government,” Matt said. “The federal government.”
“Right about that. Not too smart,” a male voice said over the woman’s shoulder. This was a big man, Matt noticed. He was a good foot taller than the woman. His daughter, Matt presumed. A barrel-chested man, the father had an untrimmed beard, wore overalls, and leveled a 12-gauge shotgun at Matt. Looked to Matt like an old Remington 870. Made sense. Good sturdy weapon and Remington had made over 5 million of them, still counting.
“We have no weapons, no wallets, no nothing,” Matt said. “All we need to do is make one phone call, and we’ll be on our way. When we get our car back, I’ll even repay you for the overnight stay.”
The father actually seemed to mull this over and then said, “Nope, sounds like bullshit. I’m calling the cops. They’ll let you make a phone call.”
Matt sensed the man was bluffing. If the farmer was going to call the cops, he would have already done so. He also knew that Vermont residents were infamous for their independent streak and their lack of confidence in government.
“Come on, look at us.” Matt motioned with his hand. By now, Peyton had climbed down the ladder and was standing next to him. “We’ve been on the run all night long, being chased by some really bad people. We found your barn, thought we might be able to get some rest and slip out without being noticed. We should have asked, but we got here about five this morning. We were wiped out. These people have stolen everything we had on us.”
“What, you two running drugs?” the farmer asked.
“No, nothing like that,” Matt said. “You can check us out. We’re good people. All we want is one phone call, and then we’ll leave. You can keep all your weapons aimed at us while I make the call and until we are off your property. I know we trespassed, and I know we endangered you by hiding here.”
“No danger as long as we’ve got these,” the farmer said, holding up his weapon. “None of these rag heads going to get us.”
Matt wasn’t sure what the farmer was referring to, but it occurred to him that something terrible had probably happened. The melodic terrorist voice from the prison cell hung in his mind. The events of the last twenty-four hours.
“One phone call. Please?” Matt asked.
The man looked at Peyton, then back at him. “You guys look pretty roughed up. Scared my girl here, though. Don’t appreciate that.”
“I apologize, deeply, sir,” Matt said.
“Stephanie, let the man use your cell phone. Toss it over to him. When we get the bill, we’ll charge him.”
“Thank you,” Matt said, catching the phone Stephanie launched at him.
Matt punched in the only number he could remember that might help. He listened as the phone rang and felt awkward as the father-daughter combo stared at him. Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he noticed some movement and then heard a squeak in the rafters. The sound was probably the boards expanding under the heat of the morning sun, Matt figured.
“Hello,” said the woman’s voice on the other end.
“Meredith, this is Matt.”
After a slight pause, she said, “You’re alive! Thank God.”
Meredith had practically shouted the words, and everyone could hear. The daughter and father looked at one another, keeping their weapons trained on Matt and Peyton.
“Listen—”
“Are the others okay? Peyton, the crew?”
“Peyton’s with me, Meredith. The others are not. Listen, I’m on someone else’s cell phone right now, and it’s not a great situation, so I need you to get us some transport back to your location as quickly as possible.”
“Okay, okay,” she said. “Where are you? Why is it not a good situation?”
“We’re in Sheldon Springs, Vermont . . .”
“I knew it. They were taking you north.”
“Right.”
“Hang on. I’m bringing up my computer. Is there someone there with you that you can ask if they know where the nearest airport or airfield is?”
Matt moved the phone away from his mouth.
“Is there an airfield near here?”
“Yea, about fifteen miles up the road to the northwest,” the father responded. “Route 7 or 89 will get you there.”
“Thanks.” Then to Meredith, “We’re twenty miles. Take us about two or three hours to walk it, probably. Less if we can get a ride.”
“I’ve got it. It’s a small airfield to the northeast of Swanton, Vermont.”
“Swanton?” He looked at the farmer.
“That’s right.” The farmer nodded.
“Go there now, and I’ll have some of your very good friends pick you up,” Meredith said.
“Thanks. I really appreciate this.”
“It just occurred to me, have you heard about the attacks?” Meredith asked.
“What attacks?”
“Matt, they’ve struck again. The Charlotte Coliseum, Mall of America, and the Amtrak from D.C. to New York were all destroyed,” Meredith said.
Matt was speechless. Peyton watched him and asked, “What?”
He looked at the farmer and his daughter, immediately understanding their reaction to his and Peyton’s unannounced presence in their barn.
“More attacks,” Matt whispered to Peyton.
“Matt, just stay safe. I thought . . . well, we all thought we’d lost you,” Meredith said.
A thought raced through his mind that Meredith had lost him several months ago when she returned the engagement ring, but the heavy reality of more terrorist attacks crushed such insignificant thoughts.
“Thanks. We’ll be safe.”
; He pressed the off button and held the cell phone out to Stephanie, who stepped forward and took it from him.
“Three terrorist attacks—”
Matt heard another noise, a footfall, in the loft and figured it was another family member.
“You got anybody else with you?” the father asked.
“No, but we were being chased,” Matt said, quickly.
“Anything to do with all this news about terrorists?” the father asked.
“Maybe. We think so,” Matt said, his mind reeling.
“What happened?” Peyton demanded.
The first bullet whipped past Matt’s ear and caught the father in the right shoulder, spinning him around, causing the shotgun to bounce on the cement floor like one of those Marine ceremony tricks. It flipped directly into Matt’s hands as he dove toward Stephanie, instinctively trying to protect her. Stephanie fired a shot at Matt, missing him with her unsteady hand.
“Damn it, I’m a good guy!” he said through clenched teeth. “Save the bullets for the bad guys.” He rolled to his left and lifted the shotgun, drew a bead on the movement in the loft and fired twice.
Peyton had run beneath the loft and was staring upward, pointing.
Matt shouted at Stephanie, “Get out of the barn and go to the house!” He fired two more shots at the loft and then swiftly dragged the father to safety. Matt flipped the man onto the ground outside of the barn, and Stephanie raced over to her father.
“Daddy!” she shouted. Then to Matt, “What have you done!”
“Here, put pressure right here,” he said, laying down the shotgun in order to hold a rag to the man’s shoulder. “He’s going to be okay. We just need to stop the bleeding.”
