by AJ Tata
He could see she was crying, but she had followed his directions.
“I’m okay, honey. Just do as he says,” her father muttered through clenched teeth.
Matt scooped up the shotgun and peeked around the corner. He saw Peyton holding up the head of a dead man lying on the rafters of the barn.
“Any others?” Matt asked.
“Not that I can tell,” Peyton replied, looking down at him.
“Let me see that,” Matt said, pointing at a small satellite phone she had retrieved from the body.
Peyton was about to pocket the phone, but Matt took it and pressed redial.
“Check him for other stuff,” Matt directed.
“Already done. That’s it,” she said, pointing at the phone. “And this Russian pistol.”
“Is he dead?” came a voice in accented English through the satellite phone. “Vulture still has coverage with his flock, but not for long.”
Matt hung up the phone. Vulture? Have we been followed? A vulture circles looking for dead carcasses. What could it mean?
“We need to get to that airfield, quickly,” Matt said to the dairy man’s daughter.
“We’ve got an extra pickup, take that. The ambulance is on the way for Daddy,” she said. “The police will be coming, too. We’ll blame this whole thing on him,” she said, motioning toward the dead Middle Eastern-looking man. She added, “Sorry I shot you.”
“No biggie. You missed,” Matt said, then added, “Thanks for the truck.”
As they prepared to leave, the daughter tossed Matt her cell phone and handed him a box of shells, saying, “Take these and the shotgun, we’ve got another in the house.”
He checked her father one more time. He was lucid.
“Bin Laden?” the old man said.
“Worse,” Matt said.
“Protect us,” the Vermont man said, his proud voice raspy.
Matt and Peyton jumped into the 1975 Ford pickup truck and turned onto the road to the Franklin County State Airport.
Garrett was on the move. Adrenaline rushed through his veins, pushing him toward the airfield where he knew more chaos lurked.
“Wade into the middle of the chaos and sort it out,” the vice president had said.
He was back in the game.
And at the center of the storm.
CHAPTER 25
Middleburg
Meredith ran into Hellerman’s office, opening the door without knocking.
“Sir, I just spoke to Matt. He and Peyton are alive. I’ve directed a special ops team to Franklin County Airport in Vermont to pick them up.”
She could barely control her excitement. Hellerman spun in his chair and leaned back, putting his hands behind his head as if he were performing a full nelson on himself.
“Well, that’s great news, Meredith.”
“I can’t believe it, actually. He just called out of the blue. He didn’t have much time. I think they’re being chased.”
“Is Rampert involved?” Hellerman asked.
“Yes,” she muttered, still catching her breath.
“Let’s give it about thirty minutes and then check on their progress. They need to be on standby for the Boudreaux mission in case anything goes bad there. Meanwhile,” he said, stepping out from behind his desk, “I need you to look at something.”
“Sure. What?” Meredith asked.
“Well, you’re not going to like this, but I was looking at this.” Hellerman showed her the manila folder in his hand. “You remember the Philippine action?”
She turned and looked at him without speaking, as if to say, You’re kidding, right?
“Of course, you do,” he said with a smirk, realizing there might have been a brighter question to ask her. He motioned for her to sit down in a burgundy leather chair facing his desk.
“This is about the Ballantine mission. Something has me concerned about Rampert’s briefing.”
“What’s that?” Meredith asked, stepping away and truly not wanting to deal with anything but the rescue of Matt and Peyton.
He looked at Meredith and reminded her, “I think we were all over it yesterday asking about the guy’s identity. I’ve been involved in some deep black operations before, but never anything like this, where we’ve actually taken someone out of a coma and sent them on an operation.”
“So what are you thinking?” she asked.
“When Rampert was briefing the president, I just couldn’t help but think about the Special Forces operation we had going on down there while Zachary Garrett’s infantry company was fighting for their lives.”
“What’s your point?” she asked, not caring to rehash the painful turf.
“You said you went to Zachary Garrett’s funeral, right?” Hellerman asked.
“Yes, sir, I was there. That was back when Matt and I had just started dating.” And everything seemed possible. “I thought both Matt and Zachary were dead.” Meredith’s voice diminished to a whisper.
“Yes, I know.” Hellerman leveled his eyes at Meredith’s. “Did you ever see Zachary Garrett’s body? For that matter, did anyone see the body?”
“No, there was no viewing, I think, for obvious reasons.”
Where is he going with the question about Zachary? She remembered last year having several detailed discussions with Hellerman about the Garrett family. The vice president seemed oddly intrigued by Zachary’s bravery and Matt’s courage against what seemed insurmountable odds, both in Desert Storm and in other combat actions, such as the Philippines. Questions about Zachary eventually gave way to detailed questions about Matt.
Meredith’s political instincts told her that he was simply investigating Matt’s background prior to his nomination as an adviser to the CIA director. Those suspicions had been confirmed when, a few weeks later, the announcement had come.
“You might want to take a look at this,” Hellerman said, standing. He looked out of the window at the rolling hills of his property. “I’m going for a walk around the grounds. Be back in about twenty minutes, and I’d like an update on Matt and Peyton.”
“Sure,” she said, haltingly.
Hellerman gave her the folder as he walked past, his index finger grazing her wrist. Locking eyes with her, he said, “That is absolutely great news.” He held her gaze, a tight smile creasing his face.
She dropped her eyes when she saw something slide across Hellerman’s iris, like a circling raven effortlessly guarding its lair. She used the moment to look at the file, stand, and then return to her office. Once there, she sat at her desk and tugged on the brass chain to her green lawyer’s lamp.
She carefully read the executive summary, which was nicely written yet somehow lacked authenticity. It seemed a bit too . . . what was the word? Contrived?
She turned the page to a biography on Winslow Boudreaux. He was born in 1970 in Alexandria, Louisiana, to a farmer and mill worker. Winslow was an exceptional athlete in high school who enlisted in the Army when he turned eighteen years old. After a short time in the 82nd Airborne Division, Boudreaux tried out for and was accepted into the elite commandos at Fort Bragg, North Carolina. From that point, his biography became markedly sketchy.
While Meredith understood that the files of Special Forces soldiers were necessarily pristine, she also knew that, within Special Forces, they kept detailed records on their personnel. This was the special operations file, and it was practically empty. It was almost as if Boudreaux was in the witness protection program. Everything was too neat, too tidy.
She picked up the phone and dialed.
“Louisiana information, may I help you?” an operator asked.
“Yes, I’m looking for a Kendrick and Emily Boudreaux in Alexandria, Louisiana.”
After a few seconds, the operator responded, “Here you go, hon.”
Meredith scribbled down the number, hung up, and then dialed. After the second ring, a woman’s voice said, “Hello?”
“Is this Emily Boudreaux?” Meredith asked.
/> “Yes it is. May I ask who’s speaking, please?”
Meredith listened to the decidedly southern accent, perhaps even a bit Cajun. She seemed like a gracious lady.
“Mrs. Boudreaux, my name is Sally Jones, and I am from the Department of Veterans Affairs. I am researching a case we have not yet closed on your son, Winslow.”
Meredith listened to the awkward pause on the opposite end of the phone.
“Ma’am?” Meredith asked.
“Yes, I’m here. I just don’t understand why the VA would be calling about my son. He’s dead.” Her voice was flat, a mixture between sadness and anger.
“I’m so sorry,” Meredith said.
“He was killed in the Philippines, the Army said. Wasn’t nothing to show for it, though, but some ashes.”
“I understand. I’m so sorry for your loss.” Meredith wanted to quickly steer away from the present line of discussion out of respect.
“Why were you calling, anyway?” Mrs. Boudreaux asked.
Meredith paused for a moment, thinking, as she thumbed through the bio sketch on Winslow Boudreaux. Her eyes stopped on the second page.
“We’ve got some belongings from a missing soldier, and I was just curious, what size was your son? Was he a tall man?”
“No, hon. He wasn’t a stick over five foot six inches.”
“Then these things we’ve got don’t belong to him. I’m so sorry about having to call you and am so grateful for the service your son provided to our country. Thank you.”
“No bother. Have a nice day.” Her voice trailed off.
Meredith hung up the phone, staring out her window. She shook off the fact that she had just caused more anxiety to a grieving mother. What she had done was necessary. She looked down at the folder.
Winslow Boudreaux/6’2”/205lbs/Brn hair/Grn eyes.
If it wasn’t Winslow Boudreaux executing the mission in Canada right now, then she had two questions. First, who was in Canada? Second, where was Winslow’s body? She felt her skin crawl as she considered the possibilities.
Hellerman’s question, that simple question, “Did you see Zachary’s body?” was fluttering in her mind, refusing to disappear. The question it begged, the much larger issue, was too big to even consider.
She stood and walked to her window, her mind somehow shifting back to thinking about Matt and all that had happened over the course of the past year. She did love Matt, dearly. But she weighed the effects of her decision to hold off on marriage against her career.
Zachary. She had never met the man but certainly felt as though she knew him after being so close to Matt. She had helped Matt deal with his brother’s death. She chased away the thought that Matt’s obsession with Zachary’s death may have contributed to her decision to hold off on marriage. Then, of course, there was the funeral. Meredith thought to herself, The funeral that had no viewing—where the body was too badly mangled to show.
Looking out the window, she could see the treetops along the ridge to the south bending in the light breeze. She thought about Matt, picturing him standing in his back yard, holding the baseball bat over his shoulder, smiling, green eyes boring into her, brown hair matted to his brow, crooked grin flashing white teeth at her.
That was Matt, all six-foot-two of him.
A cold chill shot up her spine like an electrical current.
No, it couldn’t be.
Or could it?
CHAPTER 26
Franklin County, Vermont
“Where did they attack?” Peyton demanded again. This time, though, no one was shooting at them.
Matt was negotiating a hairpin turn that led them into the valley that made Franklin County Airfield possible. Tumblers were falling into place in his mind. The terrorist pilot he killed. The cell where they were held. The chase to Sheldon Springs. This was personal as much as it was part of some grand enemy strategic plan. Ballantine wanted him, Matt Garrett, in an eye-for-an-eye exchange. Brother for brother.
“Where?” Peyton demanded again.
“Charlotte Coliseum, Mall of America, and an Amtrak train somewhere in New Jersey.”
“How is that possible?” Peyton whispered, turning her head to stare blankly out of the window.
Matt looked at Peyton and saw her determined, set jaw, eyes reflecting off the window with concern, perhaps something more.
“Probably more to come.”
Peyton continued to stare out of her window. “Last night, when we were talking, I didn’t tell you that my sister contacted me just last week,” she said. “She came down to D.C. She needed money.”
Matt let her continue, sensing there was something more.
“I told her she could stay at my place and gave her two thousand dollars. She left me a message that she was heading back to New York yesterday.”
“On Amtrak?” he asked.
“On the Metroliner.”
“Here, call her.” Matt handed Peyton the phone.
“No, I have no way to get in touch with her.”
“Call your house. Maybe she’s there.”
She turned and looked at him.
Matt pulled the truck over to the side of the road, and they sat in silence a couple of minutes. Like adrenaline masking the pain of an injury, the rapid pace of events had mitigated their ability to fully comprehend what had just transpired. Terrorists had successfully attacked the nation again. Matt knew that, most likely, thousands of people were dead, thousands more were injured and maimed, and there would be almost no family in the nation left untouched by the attacks. He suddenly felt a wave of grief sweep over him. Was his family okay, he wondered? What remained of it, anyway, with Zachary and his mother now gone.
“Here, call her now.” He offered her the cell phone again.
He saw a coldness glaze over her. She became more distant at his second urging. He thought about how he had been acting the last several months. No one could get close to him. Like a dance, if someone had tried to step closer, he would step back, keeping the distance. He saw the same hardness in Peyton. The last twenty-four hours had been traumatic, so he let it go. Then he saw her look away and mouth a curse word, as if she were scolding herself.
“Fine,” he said, rubbing his hands on his pants. He put the truck into gear and nosed onto the country road. “Let’s talk about something else. We can regroup as we drive. We might be rushing headlong into something here. Instincts are telling me that.”
Peyton looked at him and shrugged as if to say, Okay, what?
“First, how the hell could we have missed these attacks?” Matt asked. “I mean, something that takes down the Charlotte Coliseum and the Mall of America simultaneously with an Amtrak train.”
“Maybe it’s not so unbelievable today,” Peyton said. “It is signature al Qaeda.”
“Maybe, but this seems different. I’ve fought al Qaeda, and this is more sophisticated.”
“What are you saying?” Peyton asked.
“I think there’s a level of capability and organization here that we haven’t seen before. I think this is only the beginning.”
“And the second thing?” she asked.
“Bees.”
“Like the birds and the bees?”
“Well, birds too, but mostly bees,” Matt said. The airfield was in sight, about four miles down the long valley. He picked up Stephanie’s cell phone and dialed Meredith’s number. “Meredith, I need two things. First, what is Rampert’s ETA? Second, I need you to get me information on the leading mind on nanotechnology.”
“Rampert will be there in fifteen minutes. The nanotech thing might be a bit tougher. Why do you need that?”
“Just a hunch. Just get me his name and a phone number, ASAP, please.”
“Okay, hang on. Let me do a Google search for you.”
Matt cocked his head, holding the cell phone to his ear, and listened as he heard Meredith peck away at the computer keys. “Get ready to write this down,” he said.
Peyton searched in the
truck’s dirty glove box for a pen, found one, and prepared to take a note.
However, Peyton’s eyes were fixed on the horizon. “That can’t be Rampert’s plane can it?” she asked.
Matt looked up and saw a small, white Sherpa on approach to the airfield. “That looks like the airplane Hellerman told me Ballantine flies.”
Meredith’s voice came back on the phone. “Okay, there are two names that keep popping up. One is Martin Fierman. He lives in Atlanta and teaches nanotechnology at Georgia Tech. Big physics background, and then he branched into computers and digits and so forth.” She gave him the number.
“And the next?” Matt asked.
“Well, this is different, but his name is Samuel Werthstein. He is described as a leading mind in biotech and nanotech, and has recently branched solely into nanotechnology with an emphasis on using digits to replicate insect behavior.”
“Bingo,” Matt said.
“Bingo, what?” Meredith asked.
“That’s who I’m looking for. Where is he?”
“Well, the Internet has got him listed as being an adjunct at the University of Vermont.”
“This starts making more sense by the minute,” Matt said, eyeing the Sherpa. They were less than a mile from the runway.
Meredith gave him the phone number, which Matt repeated to Peyton, who dutifully scribbled it down. “He also has an extensive background in entomology—you know, the study of insects.”
“Okay, gotta run, here, but one last question,” Matt said, negotiating the parking lot and hearing the distinct pop-pop of small arms fire. “Is there a picture of him on any of those Web sites?” Then he motioned to Peyton to reload the shotgun. She needed no instruction as she opened the box of shells and clicked them one at a time into the receiver.
“Of course, I’m looking at one right now. Looks like a typical absent-minded professor, like Albert Einstein.”
“Matt, we’re taking fire!” Peyton shouted.
He shut the cell off and stuffed it into his shirt pocket, pulling hard on the steering wheel to drive toward a small building that would provide cover.
