Spectre Black

by J. Carson Black

  “I can send you satellite images of the area—”

  “No problem. Our guys know how to hide in plain sight. Just make sure the signal isn’t scrambled. We can’t tap in if it is.”

  “Roger that.”

  Every day at eight a.m. on the dot, Miko Denboer drove his dark blue Jaguar XJ sedan to the entrance of the main building, handed the keys to one of the security guards, and walked inside the main building, which held his office. The main entrance was a box, mostly plate-glass on two sides with a long standup counter, a couple of desks behind that. There were also plants, a couple of western art paintings on the wall—a welcoming introduction to the maze of hallways and larger buildings beyond. The kitchen, complete with a long table, was off to the right. Denboer always went straight to the charging station to pick up one of the phones. The charging station was in a recessed alcove off the hallway, one door down from the kitchen. Denboer was careful to look at the number—the habit of a man who left nothing to chance.

  On the morning of the conflagration, Landry came in early, around a quarter to seven in the morning. Fifteen minutes ahead of the others. Denboer wouldn’t be in yet—you could set your clock by him. Landry was grateful that Denboer was a creature of habit. He sat in the kitchen area and watched as his fellow security guards deposited their phones in the charger. The sat phones were on a “trickle-charger” and took approximately three hours to achieve a full charge. The security team would let the phones charge partway before going on their first rounds around eight, then return the phones to the base for a full charge.

  Landry checked one of the phones for warmth. It was now partially charged, good enough for the first inspection of the grounds. He made his rounds and came back fifteen minutes early to return his sat phone to the base. From here on he would need to move quickly and efficiently. He had fifteen minutes before his fellow security guards trickled back in.

  Landry walked into the break room dining area again, selected a powdered donut, and sat at one of the rickety tables near the window. He looked over the local newspaper as his fellow guards stopped at the quad charger to return their phones before heading in for their morning coffee and breakfast rolls. There was a knot of guys sitting at a table some yards away from Landry. He had yet to prove himself. As it stood right now, he was the New Guy who had replaced a pal of theirs. At the moment, they largely ignored him. It would take time for them to thaw—he knew that—and as far as he was concerned it was the best possible situation. He went to one of the coffee urns, filled his coffee cup, and added cream to it. The cup was not one of the ceramic mugs sitting facedown on the table beside the urn. This was Landry’s cup, which he’d picked up at the dollar store in town—a cheap china cup sporting a gold-painted decorative ring around the rim. Landry shuffled over to the microwave and placed it inside, setting the timer for ten minutes.

  He went back to his rickety table and cleared up the mess—napkins, crumbs from the donut, paper plate—then headed for the restroom off the break room. And waited.

  Inside the microwave, the coffee cup was heating up and so was the gold ring. The coffee would evaporate and one of the resulting sparks on the ring would blow the cup apart—shards of china would go flying. Likely, this would disable the microwave. Smoke and the burning stench of fried coffee and china would ensue—

  He heard a loud whumpf as the cup exploded. The smoke billowed black. The fire alarm went off, so loud you could barely think. And then he heard the sound of the sprinkler system coming on. He heard voices, shouts, footsteps running. “Over here!” someone shouted. “Grab the fire extinguisher!” Some people running to the kitchen, some running out the door to the outside. There might even be a call to the fire department, although Landry wasn’t sure if Denboer wanted that kind of scrutiny, not for a microwave mishap. Landry headed back to the alcove where the quad charger was. The alarm was deafening. Everyone ran in one direction or the other. But nobody watched him. He was just another shocked employee distancing himself from the explosion.

  He had a guaranteed ten minutes, fifteen at the outside.

  All the sat phones were seated in their base.

  Landry knew the backs of the sat phones were held together with Torx heads. He inserted the right size Torx screwdriver blade and tightened it. He removed the six screws on the back of one of the sat phones, removed the back, and split the casing with the screwdriver. He broke one of the wires inside, snapping the casing before plugging it back into the phone. The phone would sit there, looking as it always did, and no one would be the wiser that he’d just unscrambled the frequency. He quickly moved on to the next and the next after that—thirty seconds to each phone—until all seven were done.

  In the course of that time, a few people funneled out of the break room but barely registered his presence. When he heard footsteps, he stood with one of the phones, looking confused, a man wondering what he should do in this situation. One of the guys just shook his head and kept going, his personal cell phone to his ear. He could have been calling the fire department or he could have been talking to his wife. Whatever it was, the man appeared to be completely absorbed.

  The guy with him didn’t even bother to look in Landry’s direction.

  Landry turned back and finished what he was doing. Every time he heard footsteps and voices, he put on his worried face, looking focused as he held one of the phones to his ear. “Don’t put me on hold! We need—” He stopped. One or two people ran by him but barely noticed him. The noise, the smoke, the smell of the burned coffee and the shrieking of the alarm shattered normalcy.

  He got to all seven phones.

  No one would suspect they were tampered with. The sat phones were now unscrambled, and no one but Landry, Eric, Jolie, and Jeff Briggs’s crew knew about it. Pretty soon the mess in the break room would be cleaned up, the kitchen area back to normal except for the burning smell and perhaps a simple remodel. There would be a new microwave, definitely. And now Landry’s friends in the satellite van would be able to listen in to everything that went on at the ag farm.

  As he waited for the satellite van to come in from El Paso and move into place, Landry spent the rest of the day playing security guard. Which mostly meant poking around some more, looking for anything unusual. Jace had made a big deal of the hydroponic plants. That was what he wanted the new hire to focus on. But there were a lot of buildings on the property, and sooner or later Landry planned to visit all of them.

  Security guard work was a lot of walking around, driving around, and sometimes, sitting around. If there were visitors, he would escort them, on occasion. But mostly he was either driving a go-slow or checking buildings. There was a little talk about the fire in the break room, but the compound had an excellent air-filtering system, and after a mop-up there was very little damage.

  Miko Denboer stayed until early afternoon. He looked nervous. The day had started out wrong and continued on that way. That, in itself, could throw some people.

  He saw Landry and nodded to him. “What say you drive me to Hangar B? My knee is acting up again.”

  “Yessir.”

  Miko climbed into the cart Landry brought around from the side of the building.

  “How’d you like the excitement?” Denboer said as they drove down the asphalt lane between buildings toward Hangar B.

  “It was that, sir.”

  Miko looked sideways at him, as if seeing him for the first time. “You former military?”

  “Yessir. US Army infantry.”

  “What did you do?” Miko stared out at the field to their right. He seemed distracted, but Landry wondered if he was trying to get information about Landry or just wanted to talk.

  “Transport. I drove a truck.”

  “Jace said you were in the militia, is that right?”

  “I was, sir.”

  “Jace told me you warned him about Kilbride. Is that right?”

/>   “Yessir.”

  “How’d you find out about the plot?”

  The plot.

  “I went out for a smoke and heard Kilbride telling someone about it.”

  Landry was aware of the man staring at him. Landry met his eye. “I couldn’t just keep that to myself.”

  “Some people would have. Let’s pull in here,” he added, pointing to a side door to Hangar B. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome, sir.”

  “Did you . . . hear anything else?”

  “Like what, sir?”

  “Anything about me. Did you overhear any conversations about me, other than the one possibly touching on Jace?”

  “I didn’t hear anything about you.”

  “What about here?”

  “Here, sir?”

  “Yes. Your coworkers.”

  “No. I hardly know any of them.”

  Yes, the man was definitely nervous, and possibly paranoid.

  Or just worried.

  “If you want me to keep an eye out, sir.”

  “That might be good. I’ve got local law enforcement covered, but I can always use a sharp eye.”

  Landry nodded.

  “I want to thank you for what you did for Jace. I’m glad to have you onboard. Now, you walk on back and I’ll keep the cart. Okay?”

  Landry walked back to the offices, thinking about their conversation. The dialogue between them had been nothing much. But Miko Denboer was afraid of something, or someone. He’d hidden it fairly well, but he was shaken by the fire in the break room.

  Maybe he thought it was more than that. Maybe he thought it was sabotage. Or a diversion. Or an attempt on his life. Landry decided to let the idea roll around in his head for a while. But he was thinking about something else. Hangar B.

  Hangar B was off-limits to everyone except two guards. Landry rarely saw them, but he knew they were there. Landry pegged them as former elite military. There was no way you could mistake them for security guards. There was no casual dress, no golf carts, no shooting the shit in the break room. These men were operators. Whatever resided in Hangar B was in good hands.

  Landry thought Miko had an office inside Hangar B.

  He thought that Miko had his regular security guards, but also, an inner circle. The few men he could depend on. Hard men. Former military, no crybabies need apply.

  These were people you couldn’t scam. These were guys you couldn’t get around. These were guys who could drop you like a bag of rocks. And they were posted at Hangar B.

  This made him all the more interested in what was inside Hangar B. It probably had something to do with stealth technology. It was easy to draw that conclusion, considering Denboer’s son drove a black Camaro with the paint job from hell. Stealth technology was a hot item, particularly as a way to level the playing field for many smaller and poorer regimes. He thought cloaking technology—depending on how far along the developer was in the process, and what they wanted to sell it for—would be worth a lot of money to the right person. Or the right small country.

  From the farm Landry drove around the back roads, looking for the satellite van. He found it, situated in a pullout under a massive cottonwood tree, a quarter mile away from the Denboer farm. The road was two-lane blacktop and passed between fields, windbreaks, and the occasional farmhouse.

  Landry pulled to the side of the road and got out. His eyes were hidden by his sunglasses. Landry had been in the military and he had also, off and on, worked for other agencies in the government, so he knew how to approach them.

  One of the guys was sitting on the step of the van, eating a sandwich. He looked up as Landry approached. He eyed Landry’s black Dodge Ram, and nodded.

  As Landry walked toward him, he let his hand brush back his jacket, just a quick peek. What one of the surveillance guys termed, “The slow lifting of the kimono.” Just a tiny peek.

  The guy stood. His face changed. He had clearly seen the badge hooked on Landry’s belt, even though it was just a glimpse. Having dealt with law enforcement often, no doubt he was used to the casual nature of the reveal. When cops were dealing with fellow cops or government people, they didn’t flash their badges.

  Landry said, “Hope you guys are finding everything okay here.”

  “Pretty good so far.”

  “Just coming by to tell you we appreciate what you’re doing—it’s going to be a big help, believe me. If you need anything . . .” He let the offer trail off.

  “We’re good. You DEA?”

  “Yup.” He glanced at his watch. “Gotta take off. Good to see you’re here, and thanks again.” He nodded to him and headed back for the truck.

  Inside, he glanced at the guy in the rearview mirror. The guy didn’t seem to be impressed or unimpressed. He’d just gone back to his sandwich.

  Now Landry had put another face to the mission. Just another leg on the stool they’d created from nothing.

  Back at the Travelodge, Landry took a dip in the pool. It was surprisingly quiet in the late afternoon.

  His cell rang; Jolie’s number on the readout.

  “I think I need to go someplace else,” she said without preamble. “I can be much more help if I have resources. Being on this boat is impossible.”

  “Where do you want to go?”

  “San Clemente.”

  “My house?”

  “If it’s okay with you. That way I can be with my animals, too. I need to have resources, and the Internet on this boat is spotty. I need a sports car and I’m sitting in a covered wagon.”

  He saw her point. “We’ll have to coordinate on when you go and how. Tom can fly you from Las Cruces.”

  They agreed on a tentative schedule and Landry disconnected. The truth was, he could use all hands on deck, and Jolie was good at being a cop. She sounded like one because she was one, and had all sorts of contacts outside her own agency. Not only would it be safer for Jolie, it would be best for their mission. He called Tom and arranged for the flight, then called Jolie back.

  “Day after tomorrow, two in the afternoon. All Rand has to do is get you to the Las Cruces International Airport, and Tom will take it from there. You can get a rental car at LAX and drive straight to San Clemente. Louise next door knows where to find my extra key.”

  “Under a rock somewhere?”

  “No. It’s in a safe deposit box.”

  “You don’t leave anything to chance, do you?”

  “That’s why I’m still alive and kicking. If you need another name, I have one for you: Barbara Kay. I’ve put together a few things. She’s about the right age for you and all you’d need is a photo. But it’s up to you.”

  “Might be a good idea.”

  “And a burner phone, too. Tom will have everything you need when you get there. License, passport, if you need them. We good?”

  “We’re good.”

  He heard the smile in Jolie’s voice.

  She liked this cloak-and-dagger stuff as much as he did.

  Chapter 27

  At LAX, Jolie picked up the car Tom had rented for her and drove south to San Clemente. She encountered the usual: smog, multiple lanes of traffic that ebbed and flowed and sometimes stopped, the odd super-expensive sports car dodging in and out of traffic, missing her bumper by a hairsbreadth. LA drivers—they were nuts. The only way to deal with LA drivers was to drive as erratically and as fast as they did. Dodge in and out of lanes, close enough to take the paint off.

  But there was something about LA—Energy. She realized that living in that Podunk town with crooked cops and Miko Denboer’s Mordor just up the road was really not for her. She loved wide-open spaces, but she also knew that she could dodge and dart her way out of this city and end up in some beautiful places in no time.

  Plus, there was the ocean . . .

  As she
turned off at the exit for San Clemente, everything slowed. Literally. She was behind seven or eight cars waiting to go through a stop sign. But if she had slowed to a stop physically, she’d also come to a stop mentally. The spinning hamster wheel in her head slowed to a stop.

  There was the beach. Ahead, where the street trenched between the rooftops. She smiled when she saw that faint blue bar of ocean.

  Ocean! She buzzed the window down.

  The air! Mild, cool and yet warm, welcoming. As if it wrapped around her instead of assaulting her.

  For the first moment in a long time, she could relax.

  Not let down her guard. Oh, no.

  But, she could relax.

  It took her two trips up and down a winding road and a stop to ask directions at a Chinese-owned convenience store to find Avenida De La Estrella, the street that meandered back up the hill. And there was Landry’s rental, up a flight of terra-cotta tile steps, above a rolling garage door that opened up to the street. An envelope was attached to the waist-high wrought-iron gate. Inside were the keys to his house and a note from Louise, Landry’s next-door neighbor. She walked up the steps and turned to the left—Louise’s house. Heard deep-throated barking within. Big, scary barks.

  Rottweiler barks.

  The door opened and a slim woman with a beautiful smile and blond hair loosely held up by a Japanese stick barrette stepped outside, holding onto the collar of the straining Rottie. She let him go and he launched toward Jolie, wriggling and slobbering and whining—before racing around the pocket yard. Then back again, rolling on his back, wriggling some more.

  “Rocky!” Jolie said.

  “You must be Jolie,” Louise said.

  “In the flesh. I don’t know how to thank you for taking care of these guys.”

  “Well, that’s one portion of the welcome wagon. Get out of the way, Nikki,” she said to the barking schnauzer.

  Jolie followed her inside. A tremendous view from the plate-glass windows—you could see a little of the waterway down the hill, that same hazy bar of ocean. But on the couch right in front of her was Rudy, curled up on a chair cushion. He opened an eye and looked at her. Yawned, stood up, and stretched. And curled up again.