The Missile Game (The Dr. Scott James Thriller Series Book 1)

by Glenn Shepard

  When I was released from jail, I had no plan, no car, and very little cash in my wallet. I decided to walk around town for a while, hoping to clear my mind and figure out what to do next. An hour later I was crossing Magnolia Avenue when I heard a woman’s voice yell my name. Raising my forearm to shade my eyes from the sun’s glare, I looked in the direction of the voice and saw an arm waving at me through the open window of an aging, fender-dented, white Honda Accord. As I approached the car, the driver called out again, “Dr. James!” It was Elizabeth Keyes.

  Elizabeth Keyes had been my office manager for the past two months. Never before had a staff member endeared herself so quickly. Everyone who came in contact with Elizabeth liked her. It probably didn’t hurt that the thirty-two-year-old blonde was fashion-model gorgeous.

  “Elizabeth.” I said, surprised to see her. “Good to see you. Clearly, you’re feeling better than last time I saw you.”

  “Likewise.”

  “Thanks.” I stood for a moment, then said, “Poor Boyd.”

  “Yeah. Dr. Carey. That’s so sad.”

  Then, lowering her voice, she asked, “So you’re a free man now?”

  “Um, well, sort of … ” I stammered. “At least for now. I’m out on bail.”

  “Wow! How’d you come up with all that money? The paper said it was, like, two million.”

  “I didn’t,” I said quietly. “Someone else paid it.”

  “Do you know who?”

  I shook my head and looked around nervously. This was not a conversation to be having with an employee who also happened to be the patient who’d almost died in my operating room. After all, that unfortunate incident was being investigated as an attempted murder, for which I was the prime suspect.

  Leaning toward the car’s open window, I said, “Well, I’d better get going. I’m glad to see you’re doing well. Take care, Elizabeth”

  “Dr. James,” Keyes called after me as I stepped away from the car. “Do you need a ride somewhere?”

  I hesitated, not sure I wanted to trade the freedom of walking for the confines of a car. But then I thought, Maybe Keyes knows something I don’t, like what happened to the friend who was supposed to pick her up. Maybe she saw someone else in the OR . . .

  “Sure,” I said.

  As I got into the front passenger seat, I couldn’t help but notice that her curves were accentuated by her skin-tight T-shirt and workout pants. “You look a lot better than the last time I saw you. But are you sure you’re okay now?”

  “All better!”

  “You had me worried there,” I said.

  “Oh, I just had too much Valium. Once it wore off, I was fine,” she said. “Where to, James? Your house or mine?”

  This was a side of Keyes I’d never seen, and it caught me a little off-guard. But I liked it.

  “Well, since my wife gave me the boot and started screwing around, I don’t have a home to go to,” I said. “But you can take me to a hotel.”

  “And you’re going to pay for that how?” she asked.

  How does she know I’m broke? Before I could ask the question, Keyes answered it. “Rumor has it your wife cleaned you out, and since you haven’t been able to work … ” Turning toward me, her face filled with empathy, she laid her hand on my leg and cooed, “I’m so sorry all this is happening to you. You’re welcome to stay at my place.”

  “Alright.”

  “In separate bedrooms, of course,” she added quickly.

  My two options flashed through my mind: Sleep on a park bench, or go home with a beautiful woman. It took all of two seconds to decide.

  “Are you sure?” I asked.

  “Positive.”

  “It’ll just be for a couple days, till I figure something else out.”

  “Buckle up, Doc,” she said as she pulled the Accord away from the curb.

  “Could we stop by my office on the way?”

  “You’re allowed in there?”

  “I just want to check on my orchids.”

  “You and your orchids. Can they wait till tomorrow? I’m all sweaty from my Zumba class and really want to get home and shower. And I’ve got a ton of stuff to do today.”

  I had no choice but to agree.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Hangar 9

  Camp Peary, Virginia

  1:25 pm

  CAMP PEARY SITS ON a 9,200-acre parcel of land separated from the rest of Virginia by an eight-foot chain-link fence topped with barbed wire. About 8,000 acres are wooded, and 2,000 cleared acres are used for military housing and training areas. The enormous, three-mile-long airstrip at the base is surrounded on one side by the York River and on the other by the 400-acre Bigler’s Millpond. It is the most technologically advanced runway in the U.S. defense system.

  The airfield at Camp Peary can accommodate the largest aircraft in the world. Embedded in the concrete are sensors that measure wind speed and direction, barometric pressure, air temperature, cloud and fog cover, and precipitation. At times of dangerous weather conditions in Washington D.C, planes flying important government officials to the capital are rerouted here.

  Apart from such emergency situations, the Camp Peary airstrip is closed to all civilian and military aircraft, and is reserved, with special clearance, for high-ranking military officers, and for secret landings by the world’s most important diplomats. Though shrouded in secrecy, the camp has long been rumored to be a training base for the CIA, used for the testing of various classified materials and equipment.

  In this isolated and secured environment, three men now worked under the body of an MQ-1 drone, or Predator, as it was known. The unmanned aircraft was small—only twenty-seven feet long, with a wingspan of forty-eight feet. For three days, the men had been fitting a direct energy laser system to the underbelly of the aircraft. The little pilotless airplane only stood about four and a half feet off the ground, and that made for back-breaking work.

  Never before had a laser weapon system been installed on a drone aircraft. In the past, existing laser systems had been too heavy. Operational lasers, such as the type President Reagan had proposed in his Star Wars plan for missile defense, weighed over five tons.

  The leader of the laser group, Jacob Weizman, was a thin, balding Israeli in his sixties. Generally, he gave instructions to the other two men, and then before they could perform each assignment, elbowed them away and did the work himself.

  Alpha Charlie, wearing sunglasses, a Redskins cap, and a sweatshirt, watched at a distance. He smiled as he witnessed the interaction between the owner of the aircraft company and his men. Both of his guys had been with him for twenty or more years.

  Weizman held a variety of patents on pilotless aircraft and weapon systems for drones. Over the past decade, Weizman’s California-based company had successfully sold six different drone prototypes to the U.S. Air Force. For the past three years, his attention had been focused solely on direct energy laser systems.

  It was Weizman who had sponsored the gaming competition that Charlie had won, and Weizman who had urged the CIA to recruit Charlie. And it was Charlie who in turn had the money to buy his own aircraft and finance Weizman’s research. The CIA didn’t have enough money assigned to drone operations to get the job done.

  So it was that the CIA and Charlie became partners.

  Charlie had started by financing his own fleet of four, MQ-1 Predators, the first and most commonly-used type of drone, all of which were now operational and combat tested. As Charlie’s fees—and reputation—grew to legendary status, he had plans to buy more aircraft, including the Predator’s successor, the MQ-9 Reaper, and eventually, the biggest one of them all, the RQ-4B Global Hawk.

  At last, the old engineer stood back, folded his arms, and smiled. Weizman waved Charlie over to talk. Despite having resided in California for so long, Weizman still spoke with a
strong Israeli accent. It was so bad at times that even the men who worked with him had a hard time understanding.

  “They’re still saying it can’t be done. But this will show them.” he said to Charlie. “The weight of this DE Laser is only 1,100 pounds. It’s the same weight as the Hellfire system that MQ-1s now use.”

  Weizman’s reduction in the poundage of electrical wiring needed to make all the connections, lighter metals in the casings, and the newest lithium batteries, had shaved a half ton off the weight. His innovations allowed directed electromagnetic radiation to melt the wiring in ground vehicles, and more importantly, the guidance and detonation systems of modern missiles. He felt the laser could even destroy the wiring systems in ships.

  Hitting stationary or slow-moving trucks or cars would be of course easy, but achieving Weizman’s dream, hitting and destroying missiles in flight, would be tough, very tough.

  “No one has ever used the DE system to arm drones, but with this small unit, I will do it. With your skills, Charlie, we’ll make history,” Weizman said.

  Charlie slapped the thick lenses on the laser pod. “I’m looking forward to testing these babies.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Keyes’ Apartment

  Jackson City, North Carolina

  3:30 pm

  KEYES PARKED THE ACCORD in the carport of a two-story fourplex in need of refurbishing. The inside of her second-floor apartment was equally outdated.

  “Please, sit down and relax while I take a quick shower,” she said as we walked in. “Then I’ll make us something to eat.”

  Half an hour later I was standing at the sink, hand-washing the dishes, when suddenly Elizabeth appeared by my side, startling me. She stood so close I could feel her breath. She smelled wonderful … like a white orchid.

  “Your turn,” she said, holding out a fresh washcloth and bath towel. “Go take a nice, hot shower while I throw dinner together.”

  It was an offer I couldn’t refuse. The showers at the jail were short and lukewarm. The food was disgusting, and I hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast: two rubbery eggs, burnt toast, greasy fried potatoes, and watery orange juice. After being released, I’d been tempted to get lunch at a café downtown but decided against spending any of the little money I had.

  I was famished.

  “You know, that sounds really good.”

  Keyes’ Apartment

  5:20 pm

  I walked into the dining room to find Elizabeth carrying two plates of spaghetti and meatballs from the kitchen. Already on the table were a bottle of red wine, a bowl of green salad, and place settings for two. After choking down jail grub, that simple meal was looking good to me.

  “Just in time,” she said, smiling. “That was one long shower. I was starting to worry about you in there.”

  “Aren’t you worried about being alone with an accused killer?”

  “Nah. I trust you.”

  “Well, you’re the only one who does,” I said. “And the way the investigation is going—” I stopped myself from saying more.

  “You can tell me all about it over dinner,” Keyes said.

  “And spoil a perfectly good meal talking about my hideous problems? Let’s just enjoy dinner now.” Then, lifting my wine glass, I toasted, “Bon appétit!”

  While we ate the satisfying meal and drank the cheap wine, we made small talk. Every few minutes, Keyes would slip in a question about my case, and I’d sidestep the question or answer it cryptically, then change the subject. As dinner wore on, my discomfort increased. Just being there seemed surreal. I mean, I barely even knew this woman.

  The only time I’d previously spent with Keyes was at work, and our relationship was always all business. We rarely spoke, and our communication was limited to matters relating to patients and running the office.

  There was virtually no personal information on her job application; she’d even left the space for emergency contacts blank. She didn’t wear a wedding ring, and had no personal photos on her desk. She never talked about her family, either, so I had no idea whether she had a husband or boyfriend, or children, or siblings. The only mention of a friend had been the name of the no-show, Anna Duke, who was supposed to have transported her home the day of surgery.

  I knew from her job application that she’d graduated from a nursing school in Texas, but I didn’t know if she’d been born and raised there or moved there from somewhere else. When I was opening the surgery center, I’d been so busy that I’d hired Keyes without checking references and after only a ten-minute phone interview.

  During the two months she’d worked for me, prior to Dr. Carey’s murder, she had done an excellent job and was always cordial to me and the rest of the staff. But she’d never formed a personal connection with or socialized outside the office with any of us. Now, here I was in her apartment …

  Who is she?

  Swallowing, I said, “Elizabeth, you know all about me, but I know nothing of you.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Well, for starters, where are you from?”

  “Texas.”

  I waited for some elaboration. None came, so I asked, “What were your parents like?”

  Keyes carefully laid down her fork and sat there staring at her plate for a long minute. When she finally raised her head, her facial expression was cold but her eyes were like red-hot lasers boring through me. “What if I’m an orphan?”

  “Are you?”

  “What difference does it make to you?” she snapped.

  “Um, none, I just, I was just . . .” I stammered. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “No, I’m sorry. It’s a long story, and opening that book just opens up old wounds,” she said. “I’d rather talk about how I can help you to clear your name.”

  “That’s kind of you, but why are—”

  “You helped me, now I’m helping you.” Her smile returned as suddenly as it had disappeared.

  Before I could respond, the dusty grandfather clock in the corner chimed six times and Keyes sprung out of her chair.

  “Gotta run!” she said. “I’ll be back in a couple hours. Just make yourself at home. When I get back, we can talk about your case.”

  She rushed out of the apartment, grabbing a leather backpack from a hook by the door on her way out.

  I sat there in a daze while a cacophony of thoughts prayed on my mind. By midnight Keyes was still not home, and I was exhausted. I stripped to my boxers and climbed into bed, falling into a deep sleep, seconds after my head hit the pillow.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Washington, DC

  10:00 pm

  THE TWO CIA CASE officers took the expensive cab ride to the Naked Monkey Bar, a DC hot spot where Omar Farok was known to mingle when he was in town. If everything went according to plan, Farok would soon be in their custody.

  But his bodyguards were always by his side, and they were brutal. Recruited from the Republic of the Congo, they came from the ranks of the rebels who’d fought in the Second Congo War, where they’d treated their prisoners with extreme cruelty. These were trained and experienced torturers. They knew how much injury they could inflict on a human body without killing their victim, frequently removing the victim’s organs and eating them, a ritualistic practice reflecting their tribe’s cannibalistic past. Torture of Farok’s girlfriends was a common thing.

  At midnight, Farok slipped out of the Naked Monkey Bar, and headed back to his rented townhouse. He walked briskly toward his destination, only four blocks away. He didn’t notice the two CIA operatives who were following him until he was within two blocks of the townhouse. He rarely went anywhere without bodyguards, but that night, he’d felt confidant. He’d misjudged. He’d been a fool to send his guards away.

  Farok rarely used his cell phone because there wer
e too many electronic ears listening, waiting for him to slip up. But this was an emergency. He pressed “1” on his speed dial, and made an immediate connection.

  “I have company. Two of them,” he said quietly. “I’m two blocks away, on M Street by Connecticut Avenue. Take them before they take me.”

  Four men in black suits and starched white shirts without ties raced from their room to a limo parked at the curb for quick departure. Within a minute, they were behind the two CIA operatives trailing their boss. The limo slowed. Two of the bodyguards jumped from the car, crept up behind the CIA men, and slammed ten-inch jambiyas into their backs, just left of the spine. The attackers thrust upward and then sideways, carving gaping holes into the aorta and heart. As the agents fell forward, the Congolese killers grabbed them under their arms and dragged them to the limo. They shoved the bodies into the back and jumped in.

  The limo sped down the street until it caught up to Farok, then it slowed almost to a stop alongside him. The front passenger door swung open and Farok jumped into the car. While the car raced to a parking garage two blocks away, the rebels removed the cell phones from the pockets of the dead men, wiped off the blood, and handed them to Farok. “We’re leaving tonight,” Farok said in a quiet voice. “I want to be closer to the target when Celena locates it.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Keyes’ Apartment

  Jackson City, North Carolina

  7:45 am

  I WOKE IN A cold sweat, heart racing, disoriented. It took me a minute to get my bearings. I pulled on my clothes and walked down the short hall to the bathroom. The door to Keyes’ bedroom was closed, but I could hear her snoring softly inside. Must’ve been a late night.

  After getting cleaned up, I went to the kitchen to make some coffee and breakfast. Except for a few bottles of water, some condiments, and a moldy cantaloupe, the refrigerator was pretty much bare, so I walked to the corner market to pick up a few groceries.