THE MISSILE GAME
A DR. SCOTT JAMES THRILLER
GLENN SHEPARD
MYSTERY HOUSE
Copyright ©2014 by Glenn Shepard. All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the United States of America Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced or distributed in any form or by any means or stored in a database or retrieval system without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Mystery House Publishing, Inc.
Newport News, VA
ISBN 0-9905893-4-1
ISBN 978-0-9905893-4-1
Cover and interior design by Annie Biggs.
Printed in the United States of America.
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
CHAPTER FIFTY
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
CHAPTER SIXTY
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
CHAPTER SEVENTY
CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE
CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO
CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN
Acknowledgments
CHAPTER ONE
Operating Room
Scott James Surgery Center
6:41 pm
THE DECISION TO OPERATE on Elizabeth Keyes was a mistake.
She refused Propofol as her anesthetic because it killed Michael Jackson, then turned down the use of the second best medication, Versed. At the end, she said she wanted an older style of anesthesia, Valium and Demerol, but in reduced doses. She claimed that she was sensitive to all sedatives.
Sure enough, it took only 2 mg of Valium and 50 mg of Demerol to knock her out. Most people required 10 mg of Valium and 100 mg of Demerol, with a little extra if they begin to wake up during the operation. Not so with Elizabeth Keyes. She slept soundly.
And kept on sleeping …
I stood over the operating table, looking at her, waiting for her to wake up, then asked, “Why’s it taking her so long to recover from the anesthetic?”
Dr. Boyd Carey, my anesthesiologist, looked over his half-frame glasses and said, “If you hadn’t bowed to Keyes’ ridiculous demand for a particular sedative, this would have only taken forty-five minutes.”
Dr. Boyd Carey was a thin vegan who probably would’ve been happier if he ate a burger once in a while. Fine wrinkles in his 45-year-old dark skin made him look 60.
“Come on now, Boyd. Relax.” I arched my back, stiff from bending over so much. After yet another twelve-hour day, I was exhausted. I’d just hit 40 and I was really starting to feel it. “Hey, at least we aren’t working in the tobacco fields.”
“Oh God, you’re not going to start in again on your stories of slaving away in the fields to pay for college—”
“I could if—”
“Please, spare me.”
I removed my surgical gown and gloves, then took off my surgical cap and finger-combed my hair. Dr. Carey looked at the patient for a minute, and then said, “No. She’s still sound asleep. We should have given her Propofol, like we do with all our patients. She’d be awake by now. But no. You always grant all your patients’ every wish and kiss their surgically-raised asses.”
That’s not exactly true. Each day I look out on a waiting room, and when I see broken pieces, I try my best to put them back together. I grew up on a farm, working in the fields. Now I am the founder of a surgery center for craniofacial reconstruction, with an emphasis on facial deformities, such as cleft lips, deformed mandibles and maxillae, and orbits that are too widely separated, or compacted.
In other words, I fix people’s faces.
Dr. Carey growled, “She hasn’t had enough sedation to hurt a fly. You should just go home. I’ll watch her until she wakes up. At least one of us should be able to enjoy this evening.”
“No. I’m not leaving until she’s awake. I’ll be in the waiting room. Call me and I’ll be back in a second if there’s a problem.”
I left the operating room to look for Anna Duke, the friend who was supposed to pick up Elizabeth Keyes after surgery. Keyes was my office manager—another reason why operating on her was a mistake—but I didn’t know Anna Duke, and there was no one in the waiting room. We had no information on her in our records, either, which was strange.
I made a quick phone call to my wife, Alicia, telling her that Keyes hadn’t awakened from surgery yet, and it would be another hour before I could leave my surgery center. “Alright,” she said, “do what you have to. But there’s always something to keep you there late. The boys wanted to see you and—I’ll put the boys to sleep and keep the casserole hot in the oven,” she sighed as she continued, “again.”
Just as I hung the phone, I clearly heard a thump. I was still in the waiting room. I ran down the hall to the OR, opened the door, and saw Dr. Carey lying there. With blood on his neck. His eyes and his mouth were open like he had tried to scream, but he was frozen, paralyzed.
I checked on Keyes—EKG, pulse—saw she was still sleeping, then went to work on Dr. Carey. I got on my knees next to him and checked for a pulse. There wasn’t one. I jerked the stethoscope out of his
jacket and listened to his chest. It was very faint, just a feeble bump, bump, bump. I started chest compressions. I gave him six compressions and two breaths. His heart sounds were slow and distant. I grabbed the phone and dialed 911. I said, “A man’s been stabbed. He’s dying. I need help. Please send an ambulance STAT.”
As I waited for them to come I kept working on Carey. Within just a moment, his heart sounds were basically gone. Silence.
I remembered my stash of Valium. I had a huge quantity of Valium, over a hundred vials of liquid, plus a large number of ten-milligram tablets. Valium had been so popular as an anesthetic and the drug salesman had given me such a good price on it at the time, that I had stocked up.
But such a quantity was going to look bad when the medics got there. I had to hide it. I grabbed the stash of Valium. For the first time in my entire surgical career, I was panic-stricken: Valium everywhere and Boyd Carey on the floor, dead, with two needle marks in his jugular.
What just happened? I was only gone for a few moments.
CHAPTER TWO
Kandahar Airfield, Afghanistan
Three Months Earlier
5:58 am
EVER SINCE HE WAS seven years old, Charlie played video games. He had mastered the games almost immediately, having innately good reflexes and hand-eye coordination. He also lacked moral qualms ... about anything. After winning several gaming competitions in his late 20s, he was contacted by the Central Intelligence Agency, and accepted their offer to move from murdering virtual foes to slaughtering real ones.
The CIA granted Charlie access to a new program which involved piloting drones. Charlie learned, very quickly, to operate the robot aircraft as well as the Air Force’s best pilots. His penchant for video games made his skills exceptional, and these gaming talents readily transferred to drone operation. Charlie had even proven himself to be brilliant under pressure, and once he’d tasted actual combat, he’d gained a voracious appetite for it. The thrill of killing a virtual terrorist couldn’t compare to the rush of killing one made of flesh and blood.
“Alpha Charlie” was now a CIA-paid civilian contractor whose mission in Afghanistan was to control pilotless aircraft, and destroy enemy targets. He had spent the last four days glued to the monitors in the control center, even as the other eight members of the Air Force forensics team took brief meal and sleep breaks. Ninety-six hours earlier, just before he was scheduled to return to his civilian job in America, Forensics had identified the Al Qaeda leader Muhammad Bin Garza. He was only 230 miles away, in the Mir Ali area of North Waziristan. Charlie canceled his flight home. He wanted blood.
Alpha Charlie was stationed in one of two identical Quonset huts, spaced roughly fifty meters apart, on the air base. The U.S. Air Force forensics team was housed in the other hut. Their function was to get the drones airborne, to locate and identify targets, and to land the vehicles when their missions were completed.
Alpha Charlie spent most of his time sitting alone inside his own hut. He did not sit in an ordinary chair. At the end of each armrest were two joysticks, one for each hand.
“Alpha Charlie, Alpha Charlie, get ready for action. The target’s on the move.”
The words vibrated in Charlie’s earpiece as he bolted upright and flexed his 220 pound, six-foot, two-inch frame.
It had been two years since they’d had a positive ID on Bin Garza. The notorious Al Qaeda leader was responsible for the suicide bombings in Mumbai, Amman, London, and Somalia, and had connections to the World Trade Center attack in New York. Now he was a sitting duck. He had been spotted while entering a complex of tents and adobe houses adjacent to the mountains. He would be leaving any moment now. This was the one and only chance Alpha Charlie would ever have to eliminate Bin Garza. Bin Garza’s death would be the ultimate notch in his gun barrel. His job back home could wait. He had taken out terrorists before, but Bin Garza was the trophy he had been training for his whole life.
Just as Charlie was receiving the alert, Air Force Colonel Ben Edwards, director of drone operations, ran into the hut.
He glanced at Alpha Charlie’s hands as they moved the joysticks. Edwards marveled at how Charlie’s fingers glided over the controls and easily performed maneuvers that his other pilots struggled with.
Edwards suddenly saw the blinking red light on the fuel gauge. One hundred pounds of fuel left. Seventy-two miles of life left in the fuel tank, not enough to get the aircraft halfway back to Kandahar. “Charlie,” he said, “you’re running out of fuel.”
Alpha Charlie pretended not to hear. He had already extended the flight time five hours by using the updrafts of the mountains to conserve fuel and by lowering the aircraft’s speed to 320 mph. But now he was concerned. An hour earlier, he’d ordered his Global Hawk refueled, but the airborne tanker had yet to appear on his radar screen.
His focus remained locked on the three monitors in front of him. Screen A showed a scurry of activity in the small, peaceful Haqqui tribal village. Bin Garza was going for a ride. That was it. Charlie’s waiting was over. He leaned forward and watched carefully.
In the center of the village, a 1960s Mercedes sedan and a 1980s Chrysler New Yorker were parked in front of an adobe house. Alongside the two cars, a small entourage surrounded three men who had just left the house and were walking to the vehicles. A dozen cheering villagers reached out to touch the men as guards pushed them aside. On Screen B, the forensics experts focused on the faces of the men and enlarged them. Screen C showed a broad view of the five-square-mile area surrounding the target.
Screen A showed the men getting into the two cars, while screen B flipped through stills of the faces. The computer fine-tuned the quality of the images, and then Charlie heard excitement build from the other hut.
“That’s definitely Bin Garza,” Charlie said in a low voice.
“And that’s his number two, Shakel, with him. We can get two for the price of one, if we hit ‘em now.”
The third man on the screen kept his shemagh pulled over his face and could not be identified.
“Alpha Charlie,” Colonel Edwards said, “we have Al Qaeda’s two top men together. Targets confirmed. It’s now or never. Get ‘em.”
Alpha Charlie turned to Screen A, the target monitor that showed live pictures from the MQ-4A Global Hawk drone he controlled. This aircraft was the largest and best-equipped drone in his fleet, but it was brand new and untested. It had been airborne for nearly 48 hours and had circled at 50,000 feet, filming the area where Pakistani intelligence had said the Al Qaeda operatives were staying.
Sweat dripped down Charlie’s brow as he saw the plummeting fuel gauge now reading empty.
Time was running out. Charlie focused the camera, centering it on the now moving car.
A pissed off Edwards looked at Screen C. “Fuck! There’s a hill! They’ll disappear behind it in twenty seconds. Charlie, you gotta strike now!”
Alpha Charlie didn’t respond, but he heard Edwards. He had one shot and didn’t want to miss. His mental clock ticked down - 20, 19, 18; he remained calm and showed no signs of tension. His left hand guided a blinking red target square over the car. With the image of the square fixed to the target, Charlie centered the X. He quickly touched the red trigger button with his right thumb and fired the five foot-long missile which carried over thirty pounds of explosives. Click. The Hellfire missile locked on the Mercedes. 7, 6, 5, 4 ... At a speed of 950 MPH, the missile would be paying the car a surprise visit within three seconds.
But would it get there in time?
CHAPTER THREE
The Mir Ali Village, Afghanistan
6:04 am
A HIGH-PITCHED WHIRRRRR, like the sound of a model airplane, filled the sky above the village. The driver of the Mercedes looked up to see the silvery flash of reflected sunlight emerging from the obscurity of the mountain behind.
As the driver accelerated, he
saw the five foot-long Hellfire missile speeding towards them. Bin Garza screamed in terror as he gripped the seat of the car and braced himself. The explosion was tremendous, ripping the men and car to pieces.
One hundred feet away, the unidentified man in the shemagh, Omar Farok, felt his Chrysler bounce around like a toy ball. The concussion of the impact nearly deafened him. He watched from the Chrysler as a fireball swallowed up the Mercedes, followed only by a blinding cloud of smoke and dirt.
Fortunately for Farok, his driver was familiar with the terrain of the village and the Chrysler instantly turned left onto a mountain path, dodging around trees. As the Chrysler slammed to a halt, a terrified Farok dove out of the car and ran into a mountain cave. He sat trembling as he watched another Hellfire missile devour the Chrysler in a ball of red flames.
Farok’s driver staggered into the cave. His face had been blackened by the flames and his clothes nearly ripped from his body. Farok stood and walked to him. “We alone survive. We are going to turn away from Al Qaeda. You will help me as we merge with the Islamic State in Levant. Our state is Iraq and Syria. The caliphate. The Islamic State in Iraq and Syria. ISIS is the new direction.”
The Missile Game (The Dr. Scott James Thriller Series Book 1) Page 1
