“As do we all.” The general chuckled.
“Fuck you very much, sir. I’m going to Disney World. Jesus,” Summers shot back as she changed TV channels, stopping at one on which the political talking heads were barking about the cost versus value of the Mars mission. She turned off the set and called loudly toward the door, “Liz? You got that FBI stuff?”
Benton Freedman walked in, carrying a handheld computer. “Got it all right here. You want a hard copy? I can send it to your BlackBerry.”
“Not yet.” She didn’t want him spinning off into techno-talk. “Talk to us.”
“Right. That Undersecretary Curtis fellow has disappeared, leaving a bomb in his residence, two agents killed and four wounded, another bomb found and defused at his office, his car abandoned in Maryland, la-da-da-da-da … and, uh, that’s it from the FBI.”
“Liz?” General Middleton arched an eyebrow.
“Sir, Lieutenant Colonel Summers asked for the FBI material. I was being specific, but the CIA has some interesting new stuff. You want to hear that, too?”
“Yes, Commander Freedman. If you please.” The general sighed. The Lizard could be a curse.
“They’re no longer sure he is a mole for the New Muslim Order at all, sir. He has strong connections with them, but there’s no evidence that he actually is like a soldier or a guerrilla. More likely, he works with them on some things but also is a lone wolf, carrying out his own agenda. He was married to a Muslim woman, and they had a son, but both were killed during the U.S. bombing of Baghdad during Desert Storm. The CIA believes personal revenge to be his motivation. Financial records show his construction company had a stake in building the bridge.”
Double-Oh interrupted. “He sounds like one helluva disturbed creature. A facilitator doesn’t booby-trap his house and office. Too bad about his wife and kid, but shit happens in war. Anyway, what about right now? Is he on some mission here, or is he flying down to Rio?”
Freedman’s round face lit up. “Flying Down to Rio. Ah. That was the first time Fred Astaire danced with Ginger Rogers. Black-and-white film, 1933. Neither of them was the star; that was Dolores del Rio.”
“Back on track, Liz,” Summers coaxed.
“From everything that has been dug up so far, I believe that Mr. Curtis is still within the United States, because everybody is looking for him, particularly along the borders and at the airports, commercial and private. He will be too busy staying ahead of the folks with badges to do any more mischief.”
Swanson walked away from the window and filled a cup with coffee. “He’s not done,” Kyle said. “This all started with him, when he put the DSS onto chasing Beth Ledford, and he probably hired the two characters who attacked me before we left for Pakistan.”
“That is correct,” Lizard said. “Because the petty officer’s brother found the bridge in Pakistan, and was murdered there, she wouldn’t leave it alone. As long as she fought the system, the involvement of Undersecretary Curtis and the New Muslim Order was at risk. She is a brave young woman.”
Swanson smiled. “So it is going to have to end with him. He’s not done yet.”
“Which is why our Coastie should have an FBI escort for a while, particularly when she goes out to California with her mother to visit San Diego,” Summers said. “What about you? You want to go to Disney World, too?”
“I will leave Mickey Mouse to our esteemed general. Beth will be fine, because Curtis has bigger problems, like staying alive. I’ll be spending some time running tests on the new Excalibur rifle, so I will be out at 29 Palms in California in the middle of thousands of Marines. Good luck to Curtis on coming after either one of us.”
“Feebs will probably have Curtis soon, but you stay in touch with Coastie and keep your eyes open anyway, Kyle.”
“I always do, sir. Always do.”
31
KENNEDY SPACE CENTER, FLORIDA
AT TEN O’CLOCK ON Saturday morning, Eastern Time, astronaut Buck Gardener and the rest of the support crew rode the elevator up the side of the America. From high up, Florida’s coastline seemed straight out of a picture book of how beaches should look, with long white combers breaking in on brown and white sands. About a half-million people were expected to watch the launch, and tents and mobile homes had formed temporary neighborhoods of spectators who had already begun to party.
The elevator halted at the platform from which a narrow bridge led from the steel support structure to the gleaming spaceship. There were eight members of the support crew, the same as the primary crew that would haul the huge ship into space. Although they were serious about their jobs, there was also an air of foolishness about them today as they went through the White Room. The support crews, since the earliest Vanguard missions, traditionally stashed away pranks that the astronauts on the flight would not discover until they were cruising into the dark void. In the big pockets of their coveralls, each had some unauthorized items, from nude pictures torn from Playgirl magazine to pink jockstraps to a Slinky toy, and those would be stuffed in nooks and crannies throughout the vessel. The jokes always helped break the tension on a flight.
The final vehicle and facility closeouts were a frantic period, with checks being conducted on everything from the flight deck to navigational control software, and Buck had responsibility for final check for loading the power reactant storage and distribution system. It took him less than a minute to peel off the panel and exchange an already installed circuit board with the one he had retrofitted to include a tiny battery, a bit of wiring, and an altitude-sensitive ignition switch. He put the real one in his pocket and closed the panel, studying his work. Nobody would detect anything.
He rejoined the rest of the support crew, and as they finished the day’s tasks, the spaceship was less than a day from launch. The countdown clock stood at T minus twenty-three.
Joke’s on you, my dear Erin, he said to himself as they reboarded the elevator and descended through the open web of the support tower. At T minus three, Buck Gardener and the closeout crew were to return to the rocket for final checks of the crew module and to assist the astronauts into their positions for the launch.
Gardener planned to be long gone by then. After the support crew reached ground level, he reported to the flight surgeon and complained about a mild headache and nausea. His temperature, blood pressure, eyes, and throat were normal, but the doctors would not chance the introduction of flu-like symptoms into the spacecraft. Buck would be replaced for the final closeout by a member of the backup crew, and he was soon on the road out of Merritt Island, heading toward Orlando, only forty-five miles away.
A final meeting and status report, another payday, and then Buck Gardener would board a flight at Orlando International Airport and jump over to the Bahamas, and further destinations unknown.
SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA
BETH LEDFORD HAD TO leave her rented town house in Alexandria, Virginia, before dawn, but it still took an hour to get up to Glen Burnie, Maryland, in time to park in the long-term lot, then get through security and aboard the flight from the Baltimore Washington International Thurgood Marshall Airport to San Diego. She pulled a blue blanket and a small pillow from the overhead, and just after takeoff she was sound asleep, her head on the pillow against the window.
She awakened an hour later, went to the restroom to freshen up, then got a cup of coffee from the attendant’s station and returned to her seat. An egg-and-cheese croissant that she had made and left in the refrigerator the night before, then put in her bag that morning, had warmed during the flight, and she ate it slowly, enjoying the flavor. That drew a disapproving glance from the man beside her, who was making do with airline food, a combo bag of pretzels and peanuts.
As the sun rose behind the plane, Beth was alone with her thoughts, eagerly anticipating spending a few days with her mother, playing tourist in southern California. See the whale jump, shop in La Jolla, get some quality beach time by the cliffs in Del Mar, enjoy spicy Mexican food, and drive up
the coast. After Pakistan, doing nothing but hanging out with Mom sounded pretty good.
The flight crossed the country and several time zones in only four and a half hours, touching down at Lindbergh at 10:50 A.M., Pacific, which was almost two o’clock in the afternoon back on the East Coast. It felt like she had been given three hours to live all over again, and she smiled as she came out into the California sunshine. The iPod stack she had chosen for the long trip was on the Chicago sound track, and while she gathered her suitcase and waited in the cab rank, she jacked up the volume for the incredible jailhouse tango number. How she would have loved to see that on Broadway. Her fingers tapped her luggage in time with the music.
Her private cell phone chirped, and she dug it out of her purse to look at the calling number. Mom. She softened the music and took out a bud so she could press the phone to her ear. “Hi, Mom. I just got in. Are you at the hotel?”
“Beth?” Margaret Ledford’s voice trembled, and her mom never got nervous. Something wasn’t right.
“Yeah, Mom?”
“Can anyone else hear this conversation?”
“Not really. I’m in line for a cab. What’s up?”
“You have to talk to this man. I’ve been, uh, kidnapped, and he wants to talk to you. I’m OK, Beth…”
Ledford tensed, and had to fight to not to stagger and fall. Kidnapped?
The voice of a man took over, serious and calm. “Petty Officer Ledford, listen carefully to me and your mother will not be harmed. You are unaccompanied, are you not?”
“That’s right.”
“Don’t try to be a hero. You and Kyle Swanson did enough of that at the bridge in Pakistan.”
“OK. I understand. Who is this?” Someone got into a taxi, and the line moved forward. She shuffled along with it.
“I have been trying to find you for some time, but you and Swanson are quite elusive. Now do you know who I am? Do not say my name out loud.”
Undersecretary Curtis had rejoined the game, despite being the most hunted man in America. “Yes. I know.”
“Good. Then follow my instructions, and do not vary at all, because there will be no second chance for mommy dearest. For now, proceed to your reserved room at the Hacienda Hotel in Old Town. Do not contact law enforcement. I’ll call you there and give you more directions.”
“Let me speak—”
“You want to hear her? Listen.” There was the startling sound of a loud slap, followed by a woman’s scream. “Did you hear that well enough, bitch? Don’t even try to think you’re going to control this situation. I will call you at the hotel.”
The connection was broken, and Beth Ledford just stood there momentarily, staring straight ahead, listening to the buzz, before folding it up and putting it away. She stepped out of the taxi line and moved to a quieter zone, thinking hard while the tango girls sang low about how the men they had murdered had it comin’ and only had themselves to blame.
Well, Mr. Curtis, you should be careful of what you wish for, because you might get it. Lay a finger on my mother and your worst dream will come true. She made a decision. As a matter of fact, that nightmare will come true anyway. Beth rummaged around in her purse and found the slightly bigger, more complex, and totally secure cell phone that Trident had issued her, scrolled to the frequent numbers, and hit the SEND button.
29 PALMS, CALIFORNIA
It was late morning on Range 400 at the sprawling Marine Corps Air Ground Combat Center in 29 Palms, and Kyle Swanson lay sprawled on his belly, slowly taking in the slack of the trigger, bringing it straight back. The big Excalibur was resting on a bipod, trailing lines of wires that linked it to sensitive computer-monitored data collection gear lined up on a small table. Seated in a chair was J. Horace “Verify” Wellington, a short, bespectacled man buttoned up in a scientist’s white frock coat, with thick earmuffs to protect his hearing. He looked like a clockmaker, had never served in the military, and still was recognized as the best gunsmith in Great Britain. In the old days of swords, a blade forged of Birmingham steel was considered the ultimate weapon. In the modern day, a rifle bearing Wellington’s imprint had the same value. He was called “Verify” because he tested and retested and retested before clearing anything on which he worked. The Excalibur 3GX had not yet earned his stamp of approval, although he had been on the project from the start.
“Ready,” said Swanson.
“You may fire,” replied Verify Wellington, and Kyle finished the trigger pull. The big gun bucked with a burst of high energy as it spat a .50 caliber round downrange. Swanson took the big recoil but did not reposition the gun. Instead, he moved away as Wellington approached with more measuring instruments.
Kyle removed his soft utilities cap and wiped his brow. He had chosen Range 400 on a weekend when there were not too many other people about, but had to piggyback on a previously scheduled live-fire exercise. Rifles, heavy machine guns, and mortars all banged away at targets.
Private Jerry Hubbard punched an elbow into Private K’Shan Lincoln. “Hey, K, ain’t that the Ghost over there?”
Lincoln squinted. “I think so. Look at the freakin’ gun he’s got.”
“Holy shit, dude, did you hear the sound of that thing? Sounded like a cannon!”
“Let’s go say hello. The LT won’t mind, and we’re on a ten-minute break anyway.”
The two young Marines moved before they had second thoughts and trotted the twenty-five yards to where Kyle Swanson was watching Verify do his thing. They stopped, came to attention, and gave sharp salutes. “Gunny Swanson? Privates Lincoln and Hubbard, sir.”
Swanson returned the salute. “Don’t call me sir, privates, I work for a living. And I don’t like being saluted.”
“Aw, c’mon, Gunny; you’re a living Medal of Honor winner. Even the commandant has to salute you.” Lincoln smiled broadly. “Wow, man, this is an honor.”
Kyle had won the nation’s highest award for bravery by saving General Middleton from terrorists in Syria, but Middleton insisted that Kyle was just lucky—it was an accident of fate, and he had been about to escape all by himself when the sniper showed up and ruined everything. The general knew that wasn’t the way it happened, of course, but he felt bound to needle Swanson at every opportunity.
The Medal could at times be a heavy weight to carry, and Swanson felt a duty to play the role when necessary. This was one of those times that he had to be an ambassador, take the opportunity to teach some young Marines about respect and the meaning of the Corps. They were good kids, and since Verify was still probing and measuring and taking barrel temperatures, Swanson walked with them back to their group, shook hands all around, and talked for a while about the big Excalibur without revealing its secrets. They would have to graduate from Scout Sniper School before they could ever touch that weapon.
When his cell phone rang, he gave them a wave and a Semper Fi and went back to his position. He recognized the number. “Beth,” he said. “Wassup?”
CARLSBAD, CALIFORNIA
Bill Curtis checked Margaret Ledford’s bindings once again. A strip of silver duct tape covered her mouth, and flex-ties were on her ankles and wrists. “Sorry about the slap, but I had to make sure that your daughter understood that I was serious,” he said.
It had not been difficult to take her as a hostage. A knock on the door of the big red-roofed hotel in Old Town that morning, a pistol jammed into her ribs, and a quick trot to the van in the upper parking garage. No one noticed them. Finding a truly isolated area was just as easy, for Californians hugged the coast, paying to get as close to the Pacific Ocean as they could afford. He drove up to Carlsbad, then bent inland twenty miles, and he was soon parked off of a twisting side road in the dry mountains, beside a forgotten grove of gnarled manzanita trees.
“Now let’s get you all set up,” he said and pulled a green tarpaulin from a large cardboard box. “I fixed all of this yesterday, Margaret, just for you and your pesky daughter. Got the vests from a sports equipment store.
The stitching is a little rough, I admit, but an old construction hand like me never forgets how to handle dynamite.”
Her eyes grew wide in terror, and she struggled against the restraints as she recognized what she was seeing. The man was going to wrap her in a vest of explosives.
“I figured you were both about the same size, small, so that made things easier. See? Matching outfits.” Curtis opened the van door and pulled her outside, then cut the flex-cuffs, forced her arms into the vest, and put new plastic ties on her wrists. “Be still! Don’t make me slap you again, and there is no one around to hear you scream.” With a few more moves, he secured the vest tightly. Sticks of bound dynamite covered the back, the wiring was in the generous pockets, and a detonator was on her right shoulder. He put her back into the van and removed the tape from her mouth only long enough to give her some water.
Curtis climbed into the driver’s seat, turned on the ignition, and flipped the air-conditioning on high. It was noon, and the August temperature was climbing in the open chaparral country. “OK. Let’s go pick up Beth now.”
As he drove back toward San Diego, he kept the radio on, listening to the news from the Cape about the Mars rocket. The reporter, lapsing into space talk, said it was “T minus nineteen and counting.”
Curtis was satisfied, for things were in motion. Tomorrow would be a very Black Sunday for the United States, with simultaneous terrorism strikes on each coast. One would be payback for Raneen, and the other would be payback for the bridge.
32
DISNEY WORLD, ORLANDO, FLORIDA
“I AM ON VACATION. I am wearing a mouse-ears cap and a flowery blue Hawaiian shirt, baggy cargo shorts, black socks, and sandals. Why are you bothering me?” General Brad Middleton growled into his cell phone.
Running the Maze Page 26
