The Roswell Conspiracy tl-3

by Boyd Morrison

  Despite Morgan’s arguments, the flight director wouldn’t call off the launch. He said that the company had everything riding on this demonstration to secure more investment funding, and without a direct court order, the flight was going forward. With no official identification, her speculation about a stolen weapon being snuck onto the spaceplane sounded like the ravings of a lunatic, even with Grant there to corroborate her story. She would have threatened him at gunpoint if she thought it would change the man’s mind, but she knew that would just divert attention to the control center, leaving the spaceplane unguarded.

  They exited the trailer and resorted to their only option. Sitting on a bench near the spaceplane, they used the infrared goggles to scan the crowd. Bystanders would think they were using high-tech binoculars to watch the airplanes.

  “Do you think these guys will still be tagged?” Grant said.

  “The ID dust is persistent,” Morgan said. “The ones who escaped in San Diego will still have some of it on them.”

  Grant sighed dramatically. “Ah, San Diego.”

  “Oh, my God. You’re not going to get all mushy about what happened, are you? You were just there at the right time.”

  “Mushy? Hell no. Can’t a guy reminisce about a fun afternoon?”

  “Good. Because that’s all it was.”

  “Fine with me.”

  They scanned for a few more minutes before Grant said, “But just for the record, I wouldn’t mind having another afternoon like it.”

  Morgan smiled. “Maybe we’ll find the right time again.”

  “I know a great hotel in Chicago. When this is over …” Suddenly Grant went quiet and tensed up. “There’s one of them. Twenty yards away.” He was pointing at a man with a rounded face and dark hair wearing a grey T-shirt and jeans. He must have just come from behind the trailer housing the control center. She put the goggles up and saw the man covered with red crosshairs.

  “How do you want to take him?” Grant said.

  “I’ll approach from the front and distract him while you sneak up behind him.”

  “You mean like this?” a voice behind them said. Morgan felt the barrel of a gun jammed into her back. “Move and you die.”

  The man they’d been observing strode toward them, a pistol tucked underneath the event program in his hand. He cautiously pulled the pistol from her waistband, then took Grant’s.

  The guy behind them leaned closer to her. “You should have picked a partner who’s less conspicuous than Mr. Westfield. I spotted him the moment you walked into that mobile control trailer.”

  He removed her goggles and used them to look at his cohort.

  “The intelligence was correct. They did develop ID dust. I told you that’s how they knew we were in the house in Tijuana.” He lowered the goggles and put them in the pocket of his cargo pants.

  “Where’s Colchev?” Morgan said.

  “Nearby. We’ll take you to see him. Get up slowly.”

  She and Grant both stood. She could now see that the men had silencers on their SIG Sauers. A jacket over the arm concealed the other man’s weapon.

  “Now move.” They started walking, a pistol in each of their backs.

  “We know what your plan is,” Grant said.

  “So?”

  “So I’m just letting you know it won’t work.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “We convinced the flight director to abort the launch.”

  The Russian smiled. “If that were true, there would have been an announcement. Now keep walking or I’ll kill you right here.”

  “That would ruin your plans, wouldn’t it?” Grant said. “A couple of gunshots would bring a lot of attention out here. Might even stop the flight.”

  “That’s a risk we’re willing to take. Are you?”

  Grant glanced at Morgan, and she shook her head. With the constant noise, two silenced gunshots might be mistaken for a backfiring aircraft engine.

  As they walked, the Russians had to stay right behind them to keep their weapons concealed. The close range was a double-edged sword. The Russians couldn’t miss if they got shots off, but it also meant that Morgan had a chance to disarm one of them. All she needed was the proper distraction.

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “Does that matter?” Grant said, glaring at her. At first she thought he was genuinely angry with her, but then she saw the slightest widening of his eyes.

  He was trying to give her a distraction. She played along.

  “Well, I wouldn’t ask,” she said, “except that we got caught so easily because of you.”

  “Oh, this is my fault now?”

  “I knew I shouldn’t have brought you with me. You’ve been nothing but a pain in the ass since I met you.”

  “And since I met you, you’ve been nothing but a raging bitch!”

  Both Russians laughed at the comment. That was her cue.

  She whirled to her right and raised her hand as if she were going to smack Grant in the face with her left hand. Grant made a show of twisting to avoid the slap. Their momentum carried them around so that they both rotated 180 degrees.

  Grant struck the man behind him with a crushing blow to his shoulder. Trusting that Grant would live up to his billing as an expert in hand-to-hand combat, Morgan focused on her own guy. She grabbed the man’s pistol wrist, clasped his trigger finger, and bent it backward. The ligament snapped, causing the man to scream and drop the SIG.

  The man elbowed her with the other arm, the point striking her in the ribs. She went to her knees but got back up and whipped around, grabbing the man’s hair as she slammed her shin into his thigh.

  He cried out and went down. Morgan helped him, bashing his head into the pavement with a crack. The man went limp.

  She looked up in time to see Grant’s opponent topple to the ground unconscious.

  He stood, brushed his hands off, and walked over to Morgan. “You all right?”

  She stretched her back. “I’ll be fine. Looks like you handled your guy almost as well as I handled mine.”

  “His head had an unfortunate encounter with my knee.” He put his hands on her shoulders. “Sorry about the ‘raging bitch’ comment.”

  She pulled him to her and kissed him hard. Damn adrenaline.

  When she let him go, she said, “I have to say, you are sexy as hell when you hit people.”

  “You should see some video of my wrestling days.”

  “I have,” she said with a smile. “Never missed one of your bouts.”

  He grinned. “Why you little … And you let me think all this time that you hated me.”

  “I could tell your ego was already big enough. No sense gushing over you.”

  He chuckled and picked up one of the SIGs. “We have to show these guys to your bosses. Should be the proof we need to get the flight shut down. I’ll text Tyler to let him know that Colchev is down two more men.”

  While Grant sent the message, Morgan scooped up the other gun and searched the man for any additional weapons or information about their plans. She came up empty and was about to tell Grant to wait here while she got security, but she didn’t need to.

  Two policemen ran up to them, guns drawn. They saw the two men laid out, and pointed their pistols at Morgan and Grant.

  “Drop your weapons now!” both of them yelled.

  They let go of their guns and put up their hands.

  “I’m a federal officer,” Morgan said.

  “Show me your ID.”

  “Don’t have it on me.”

  The men exchanged looks, then one said, “On the ground! Do it!”

  Morgan and Grant lay face down next to each other. As they were frisked, Grant said, “Maybe this isn’t going to go as smoothly as we thought.”

  FIFTY-FOUR

  Seething with anger, Colchev read the text message on Tyler’s phone and knew he’d have to alter his plan. According to Grant Westfield, Nisselovich and Oborski were in custody. Colchev k
new they were too well-trained to talk, but without them the crew would be two passengers short when they got to the spaceplane. The flight director would certainly know something was wrong. They’d never get off the ground.

  Only eight minutes remained until they were supposed to drive to the Skyward.

  Colchev considered using the original passengers, who were now locked inside the hangar’s storage room, but he needed them alive, so he couldn’t take them on the spaceplane with him. He turned and eyed Tyler and Jess. Their sizes were slightly off: Tyler was taller than Nisselovich and Jess was shorter than Oborski, but they’d do.

  Colchev picked up the pressure suits and thrust them at Tyler and Jess.

  “Put these on.”

  “Why?” Jess said.

  “You two are going to be astronauts.” Seeing that they were about to protest, Colchev said, “If we don’t make it onto the Skyward, I will have no choice but to detonate the Killswitch on the ground. The gamma radiation will kill everyone at the air show. Now do it.”

  Zotkin was already in his pilot’s uniform and helmet. Because he was going to fly the carrier jet, he didn’t need a pressure suit. The crash helmet and sunglasses would be enough of a disguise for him.

  The three blue and gold pressure suits, however, were fully enclosed. The Skyward was pressurized, but the suits were required in the event of a hull breach. The lightweight material wasn’t exactly form-fitting, but it wasn’t nearly as bulky as the old suits the Apollo astronauts wore. While they were on the ground, a small slit in the base of the helmet allowed them to breathe. On the spaceplane the slit would be closed and an oxygen hose from the onboard environmental system could be plugged into the suit.

  Colchev was wearing his, and the absence of air-conditioning in the hangar was beginning to make the suit stifling. Tyler and Jess struggled into the suits, which consisted of both an inner insulating layer — to protect against the freezing cold of the vacuum at seventy miles — and an airtight outer skin.

  “What are you going to do with those men?” Tyler said, pointing at the storage room.

  “They’re going to ensure my legacy,” Colchev said with a smile. “Did you recognize any of them?”

  “Call me crazy,” Jess said. “but I’m pretty sure one of them is Trent Walden.”

  “The action movie director?” Tyler said.

  Colchev nodded. “Correct. He was supposed to be one of the passengers on the flight. The other passenger is a Russian producer named Mikhail Arshan. They were planning to film shots of the Earth from space for an upcoming movie they’re making together. They and ExAtmo thought it would be good cross-publicity for both ventures. Who better to reveal what I’ve accomplished here today?”

  “You’re letting them live?”

  “Of course. Not only will the Russian government have no doubt about my patriotism, but the Russian people will hear of my glorious triumph.”

  “And the American government won’t rest until they bring you back here or kill you.”

  Colchev smiled. “If they thought I was still alive. But why would they think I could survive such a cataclysmic event? Then it will just be a matter of getting a new face once I’m back in Russia. Your country isn’t the only one with a program to give its citizens new identities.”

  Static from the pilot’s walkie-talkie told Colchev a call was coming in from the flight director. He left Zotkin to watch them while he answered.

  “Yes?”

  “We’re ready out here. Are you suited up?”

  “Acknowledged.”

  “Good. The driver is on the way to get you. Out.”

  Colchev returned and gave Tyler and Jess their helmets. The mirrored visors would make them unidentifiable.

  “I will be by the Killswitch at all times. The helmets stay on. If you take them off or you make any gestures for help, I will press the button. You understand?”

  “We understand,” Tyler said. “If you do that, you’ll kill tens of thousands of people for nothing. And if you set it off in space, it’ll be just as meaningless.”

  “Wrong! It will finally tip the scales in Russia’s favor. With this single action, I will change the equation that has dominated world culture since the Cold War ended. Now America will know what it’s like to be a second-class world citizen.”

  “You don’t know my country very well. We’ll bounce back like we always do.”

  “You don’t understand the power of chaos. I’ve seen it myself when the Soviet Union fell. All it takes is a push to unbalance the situation. And thanks to your own military-industrial complex, we have the weapon to give that push. I’ll never tire of the irony.”

  “If your men were captured, the police will know you’re here,” Jess said. “They’ll stop us before we even get to the spaceplane.”

  “Then why did I get a call from the flight director a few minutes ago saying that they’re ready?”

  “Maybe it’s a trick to lure you out.”

  Colchev knew she was right, but he had no choice now but to march on assuming victory. “For the sake of everyone here, I hope you’re wrong.”

  A knock on the door, followed by a shout. “Your bus is here!”

  Colchev put on his helmet and told Tyler and Jess to do the same. Zotkin hefted the bag containing the Icarus parachute system and his own normal parachute as well as several bungee cords. Colchev took the handcart, the Killswitch now in a black padded duffel. His hand was inside the zippered opening, his finger near the arming button.

  “They’ll notice you’re carrying that,” Tyler said.

  “Oh, you mean Walden and Arshan’s film equipment?” He gestured at a pile of cameras and lenses heaped on the floor.

  That shut them up. They couldn’t see it underneath his helmet, but Colchev was grinning.

  Zotkin opened the door and ushered Tyler and Jess outside. Colchev followed with the handcart. When they all got on the bus, he made sure to keep the Killswitch between him and Tyler.

  The driver eyed the luggage but said nothing. He closed the door and drove off.

  As they approached the Skyward, Colchev spotted the massive crowd that had gathered to watch the crew board the ship. They would have plenty to tell their grandchildren someday, provided they weren’t in an airplane or a car when the Killswitch went off.

  Colchev leaned over to Tyler and Jess. “Remember: wave, but no other gestures. And say nothing to the ground crew. I will be listening.”

  When they got out of the bus, the crowd cheered. Colchev gave them the thumbs up, and the mob went wild. They had no idea that he was sending them an insult. As opposed to signifying that everything was great, in Russia the thumbs up meant “up yours”.

  Tyler waved, and Jess put up both her hands in the V sign to the crowd’s delight.

  After a few more waves, the ground crew escorted them to the open hatch of the Skyward. With Zotkin making sure that Tyler stayed too far away to attempt anything, Colchev went first and brought the Killswitch up with the ground crew’s help. Then Tyler and Jess climbed aboard. Zotkin was last and pulled the hatch closed behind him. The Lodestar’s four engines were already spooled up and humming.

  The interior of the Skyward was flooded with light from the myriad triangular windows covering the fuselage, so they were still in full view of the spectators. Three rows of seats, one on each side, straddled the center aisle. The pilot’s chair sat in the front center of the ship. With weight at a premium and flights costing more than $200,000 per person, there was no room for a co-pilot.

  “Rear seats,” Colchev said.

  While Tyler and Jess were standing at the rear of the spaceplane, Zotkin ordered them to turn their backs to the windows. Pretending he was adjusting their suits, he wrapped bungee cords around their wrists and guided them into seats across the aisle from each other. Zotkin belted them in with the four-point safety harnesses so that their arms were under the nylon straps. Once they were secure, Colchev and Zotkin lashed the Killswitch and Icarus betwe
en the seats.

  Zotkin climbed into the carrier jet, and Colchev closed the hatch behind him before taking his seat in the pilot’s chair. He plugged his helmet into the onboard communications system. By switching the unit between channels, he could either talk to the flight control or to Zotkin on the Lodestar.

  “All right, Skyward,” the flight director said, “now that you’re on board, let’s begin the checklist.”

  “Roger, control,” Colchev said. Before the director could get any further, Colchev switched to Zotkin’s channel. “Are you ready?”

  “The flight controls are exactly what I anticipated. I’m ready to taxi.”

  “Then do it while they still think you’re the real pilot.”

  Colchev switched back to the flight director’s channel just in time to hear, “—Skyward, do you read me?”

  “I read you loud and clear, control.”

  “Why aren’t you following the established takeoff procedure? What’s the problem?”

  “No problem here. Skyward signing off.”

  He should have closed the channel, but he rather enjoyed listening to the flight director’s confused shouts as the engines powered up and the spaceplane rolled across the tarmac to the runway.

  FIFTY-FIVE

  Grant strained at his handcuffs as he watched the Lodestar reach the end of the runway. The aircraft began its takeoff roll a second before he heard the engines go to full power. After ten minutes of telling their tale to the arresting officers, he and Morgan were not getting a sympathetic ear. The policemen’s major concern was clearing them out of the busy pathway so that the incident wouldn’t disrupt the event.

  “You have to listen to us,” Grant said to the officer guiding him to the oversized utility cart. “You have to call the flight director of the Skyward and tell them there is someone here who may have planted a bomb on their plane.”

  “Right. And those unconscious guys are Russian spies.” They’d already carted the Russians off in medical units. “Look. We’ve relayed your concerns to the appropriate people. We’ll take you to the security office. If your ‘story’ checks out, then we’ll see if we can find the other Russians.”