Spectre Rising

by C. W. Lemoine

  “Losing the hostages was a major setback,” Zhang replied.

  “I took care of Aalee for his incompetence,” Alvarez said, turning to face Zhang. He had called in the “anonymous tip” as soon as his contact confirmed Aalee was in the safe house. His informant in the FBI had told him that Kasim had already said too much. Aalee was a loose end that needed to be tied up quickly. He knew Aalee would never let himself be captured. He was far too arrogant. He wanted to die a martyr.

  “I told you he was a risk,” Zhang said condescendingly.

  “He served his purpose, and now we’re here,” Alvarez replied.

  Alvarez turned and sat in his leather executive chair. He crossed his feet on the desk and opened a drawer, pulling out a cigar box. “Cigar?” he offered, opening the box.

  Zhang shook his head as Alvarez pulled out his gold cigar cutter and cut off an end. He lit it with his pocket lighter and took a long drag. Zhang frowned.

  “Relax, it’s not Cuban,” Alvarez said with a puff of smoke in the air.

  Zhang said nothing. He was not impressed by Alvarez’s laid-back demeanor.

  “How much longer will it take your men?” Alvarez finally asked, changing the subject.

  “If she talks, they can have everything downloaded by tomorrow afternoon,” Zhang replied. “And then it will take another day to disassemble for shipping.”

  This caused Alvarez to raise an eyebrow. The original deal did not involve any human intelligence gathering from the girl. Once the plane arrived, Zhang’s team would dismantle it into many pieces and ship them all separately to Beijing. The kidnapping had been intended as an insurance policy to ensure she followed through.

  However, after establishing Moss as an asset, Alvarez didn’t think she required any further leverage. The American girl had serious issues that had been very easy to exploit. She was so completely unhappy with her job and bored with her love life that she was almost begging Alvarez to do whatever he wanted. And she had been great in bed to boot. The crazy ones were always the best in bed. It had been a deeply pornographic experience. Alvarez smiled.

  “Why are you smiling?” Zhang demanded with a furrowed brow.

  Alvarez snapped back to reality and the angry Chinese intelligence operative staring him down across his desk. “I’m sorry. How long will it take if she doesn’t talk?” he asked.

  “One way or another, she will talk, but if we get no useful information from her, it will take another two days for my technicians to hack the systems,” Zhang replied.

  Alvarez considered the delay for a moment. He had been watching the American news agencies, and so far, they were still searching for the wreckage. The bad weather over the Atlantic had severely hurt their efforts while helping his cause, but he needed these men gone before the Americans realized there would be no wreckage. Another two to three days was just unacceptable.

  “Perhaps I should try to talk to her,” said Alvarez as he waved his cigar in the air.

  “You?” Zhang laughed. “You have betrayed her, why would she talk to you?”

  “She will talk if she thinks I am still in this with her,” he replied. “Relax! I know what I’m doing.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Homestead, FL

  “I’ve never even heard of an American pilot defecting in the last twenty years,” Spectre said shaking his head. He was back in Marcus’s office after telling the story of his morning with Baxter and Decker, and their realization that Chloe was likely still alive.

  “Dude, she’s just a fucking whore,” Anderson replied abruptly. “It doesn’t have to make sense.”

  Spectre shot Marcus a disapproving look. “I don’t know what I believe anymore.”

  Spectre had spent the short drive back to the store going over everything in his mind. Chloe had been acting strangely in the weeks leading up to the crash, but at the time, he figured she was just stressed about her upgrade flights and other work related stresses. She just didn’t seem like the type to cheat on him or betray her country and defect.

  “I know it’s tough, Cal, but I knew that chick was bad news. Military chicks are crazy.”

  “Probably so, but I still don’t see why she would defect. She wasn’t that crazy,” Spectre knew he sounded like a man strongly in denial despite overwhelming evidence, but he just couldn’t seem to wrap his head around it.

  “Nah, I remember a guy defected with a trainer back in the 60s from here. It was all over the news, but his family was Cuban. He was also Air Force,” Marcus said. “Here, I’ll Google it.”

  After a few minutes of hunting and pecking on the keyboard, Marcus squinted at the screen as the search results came up.

  “Right here,” Marcus said, pointing at the screen. “In July of 1963, Airman First Class Roberto Ramos Michelena defected to Cuba with a T-34 from the Tyndall AFB Aero Club. Ramos had been on a routine flight from Pensacola to Miami in the Club’s private T-34. When he failed to arrive in Miami, a search was initiated until Havana Radio announced that the Airman had deserted and returned to Cuba.”

  “Damn you’re old,” Spectre shot back with a grin.

  “Fuck you, I just remember hearing about it as a kid. This ain’t just a hat rack,” he said, tapping his head.

  “Whatever you say, old man,” Spectre replied. “But anyway, what would make her just lose it and steal an F-16? I’m not buying it.”

  “Didn’t another one of your Air Force guys do something similar in ’97 with an A-10?” Marcus asked.

  “You mean the guy that crashed an A-10 in Colorado?” Spectre replied.

  “Yeah, that one. I was at MCAS Yuma working CAS with the Harriers down there when they started the search. He took off from Tucson to go to the range with live bombs, but ended up crashing in Colorado. They sent us looking for the bombs, because they never recovered them at the crash site.”

  Spectre remembered the story quite well. It had been taught in his human factors classes in both pilot training and when he was in F-16 school.

  On the morning of April 2, 1997, Captain Craig Button took off loaded with four live Mk-82 five hundred pound bombs out of Davis-Monthan Air Force Base in Tucson, Arizona. After air refueling near Gila Bend, Button broke formation and headed northeast, turning off his transponder to prevent identification. Nearly two hours later, he was last spotted 100 miles west of Denver before impacting terrain fifteen miles southwest of Vail, Colorado. The cause of the mishap was never fully determined, but many believed his death to be a suicide. A psychological autopsy revealed that Button had been suffering from mental anguish over his former girlfriend’s unrequited love and his mother’s Christian Pacifist Faith. The four bombs that he had been carrying on his A-10 were never located.

  “You think she killed herself somewhere else?” Spectre asked.

  Marcus shook his head. “No, I’m saying that even you superhuman, zipper suited sun god fighter pilots can be batshit crazy and do things that don’t make sense. Sometimes it’s best not to even try to delve into the mind of someone who goes off the reservation like that.”

  Spectre stared off into space, deep in thought. He had to admit to himself that his relationship with Chloe hadn’t been as passionate in the last six months as it had started, but he chalked that up to being part of love. Infatuation was only a temporary aspect in relationships. Settling into a comfort zone was to be expected. Spectre had always thought they had settled into a strong relationship. Besides Marcus, she was his best friend.

  He was coming to terms with the probability that the woman he loved had left him, but the why of the equation was still bugging him. Crazy or not, Chloe wasn’t the type to be the first defector in modern U.S. history. He thought back to his discussion with Agent Baxter. And then it hit him.

  “Remember how you said the e-mail drafts were meant to hide stuff from outside agencies?” Spectre asked.

  “Yeah, I remember,” Marcus replied.

  “So what if you’re wrong?” Spectre asked.

&nbs
p; “I’m never wrong, but go on.”

  “What if whoever wrote them wanted them to be seen?”

  “Whoa, that’s reaching man,” Marcus replied, putting his hands up. “I think you need to get some rest and stop trying to jump through your own asshole to figure this out. You’ll drive yourself crazy.”

  “Hang on, hear me out,” Spectre replied. Marcus saw an intensity in Spectre’s sky blue eyes he hadn’t seen before. It was apparent Spectre truly believed he was on to something.

  “Go on,” Marcus said, sitting back.

  “The OSI agent said people defect for a lot of reasons. Money, power, attention, or coercion. Their theory is a combination of money and attention. In a vacuum, I would agree. Money makes the world go ’round and the e-mail makes it look like she was getting attention from this Victor asshole. But what about coercion?”

  Marcus sat up straight. Spectre was on to something. He could see the fighter pilot coming out in him, making quick, high order calculations. He had seen brief flashes of it before as Spectre revamped the store with great success.

  Spectre didn’t wait for an answer. “Her fucking parents and brother were kidnapped! Everyone keeps treating it like they were separate incidents, but what if they weren’t? What if whoever is behind it did it to force her to steal the jet?”

  “Holy shit,” Marcus mumbled.

  “Yeah, holy shit is right,” Spectre said standing up. “She might have done this thinking her family would be killed if she didn’t. Which means right now she’s in trouble.”

  Marcus stood as Spectre turned to walk out. “Wait, what are you doing?”

  “I’ve got to talk to Baxter about this. They have to send a team in to get her back,” Spectre replied.

  “Cal, hold up a second. It’s just a theory. It’s decent, but it’s not airtight. What if they don’t do anything with it?”

  “Then I’ll do it myself,” Spectre replied. Without waiting for a response, he turned and walked out the door.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Castro Field, Cuba

  The sudden appearance of light was blinding as the door to her makeshift holding cell was flung open. There was a loud grunt followed by a figure stumbling in and falling to his knees. After the door slammed shut, it took Chloe a few moments for her eyes to adjust to the low light conditions of the room. She was still curled up in the fetal position in the corner.

  When her eyes finally adjusted, she could make out a man on his knees. He was naked except for a pair of light colored boxer shorts. It was too dark to see his face, but she could tell he had a slender frame.

  The man groaned as he collapsed on the floor. He took a moment to gather his strength and roll over onto his back.

  “Chloe?” the voice strained. The sweet accent that accompanied her name was unmistakable.

  “Victor!” she cried as she struggled to crawl to his limp body.

  Victor sat up and put his arm around her. As she got closer, she could see his face was bruised and his lip was bleeding. He appeared to be in pain. She had been right. He hadn’t betrayed her. She felt relieved and horrified at the same time.

  “My love, I am so sorry, I did not mean for this to happen,” Victor said, pulling her close to him.

  “It’s ok,” she said, kissing him. “I knew you wouldn’t do this. I was so worried. I thought you were dead.”

  “What did they do to you?” Victor asked, trying to look her over.

  “Nothing I couldn’t handle,” she lied. It had been all that she could handle. She had found herself going right to the breaking point several times during Ling’s interrogation, only to barely stop herself. Her training had paid off, but as her teachers had warned, everyone breaks eventually. She knew it was only a matter of time.

  “We’re going to get out of here together,” Victor replied, squeezing her.

  A tear rolled down Chloe’s cheek. “They’re going to kill us.”

  Victor groaned and pulled her closer. “No, my love. We are going to get out of here together, like we planned.”

  She didn’t believe him, but his words were reassuring. He always had that way about him. He could be so persuasive without saying too much. It was still hard to believe, however. She knew that the Ling would not stop until she gave him the answers he was looking for, or killed her in the process.

  “Do you think we can escape?” she asked.

  “No, he has too many men. We must cooperate,” he replied.

  Chloe let the idea roll around in her head. She was cold and hungry. She was still in a great deal of pain from her last encounter with Ling. Giving up seemed so easy, but it went against every fiber of her being. The line in the sand she had drawn for herself had been giving secrets to a rival country. But that line kept getting blurrier.

  “Baby, you know I can’t,” she pleaded. “I won’t.”

  Victor let out a sigh and then looked Chloe in the eyes. His brown eyes seemed to penetrate her soul. She could see the anguish he was feeling. It hurt more than the interrogation.

  “Then we will die together,” he said gravely.

  Chloe suddenly felt guilty. He looked badly beaten. She could tell he was in immense pain. They were doing this to get to her. Ling had probably done this to him. He would kill Victor in front of her if he had to. She was sure of it. She could barely withstand more of the torture, but seeing Victor badly hurt or killed was unbearable.

  “I won’t let that happen,” she said.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to get us out of here. I have an idea,” she responded confidently.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Homestead ARB, FL

  The dull roar of idle chatter was interrupted by a loud voice calling the room to attention. On cue, everyone in the room stood as a group of high-ranking officials walked in. The group was led by a tall, lanky man in a business suit with gray hair and a crooked nose, followed by a two star general, a portly one star, a short colonel, and Colonel “Coach” Louhan. Spectre recognized the short colonel. It was “Cajun” Buchannan, the Wing Commander. Spectre had flown with him in the F-16 Basic Course at Luke. He had never met the two generals before.

  “Take your seats,” the man in the business suit said as he walked to the center of the room. It was a large conference room with a U-shaped conference table in the center surrounded by theater seating. Several high-ranking Air Force officials sat around the table, with the two generals and Cajun taking seats nearest the man in the suit who was now standing alone in front of the high-ranking officials. Spectre noticed Coach Louhan sitting near Cajun Buchannan. His fists clenched. He still hated the man with all of his being.

  Spectre sat in the front row of the stadium seating behind the conference table with Agent Decker. He had driven straight to Agent Baxter’s office from the gun shop, arriving just as they had finished briefing the Director of AFOSI on a teleconference.

  Although his visit had been a surprise, Spectre wasted no time in explaining his theory to the two agents. He didn’t believe Chloe was the type to defect on her own. The kidnapping had been the catalyst. He was almost sure that she had been coerced by the Cuban Intelligence Agent Alvarez and was likely doing it to save her family. It was the only explanation. Chloe just didn’t seem like the type to snap like that.

  To Spectre’s surprise, Baxter was on board with the theory, or at least felt it was plausible. There were logical leaps, as he put it, required to believe that she had willingly given herself up to the enemy just to save her family without contacting the authorities. But Baxter reasoned that people backed into corners could do unreasonable things, and it was entirely possible that the ruthless kidnapping of her family warranted taking no chances in meeting their captors’ demands.

  Decker wasn’t as easily convinced. In fact, she didn’t buy it for a second. Chloe Moss was a traitor, plain and simple. There was no gun to her head. She had plenty of opportunities to get help and get herself out of the situation. A high
ly intelligent woman like Chloe Moss wouldn’t just be a naïve victim and play along. She was complicit.

  The argument went back and forth for over an hour, mostly between Spectre and Decker. Baxter only played the referee, taking both sides into equal consideration, but leaning toward the kidnapping being the root cause.

  Before they could come to a consensus, Baxter received another phone call. Secretary of Defense Kerry Johnson was en route, having been at CENTCOM at MacDill AFB on other business, and would be landing in an hour. After hearing that a brand new F-16 had possibly defected, he wanted a full briefing in person. Baxter invited Spectre and Decker to attend, as long as they promised to sit quietly in the back and not argue with each other. If the SECDEF had any questions about the events at Chloe’s parents’ house or Aalee, it would be helpful to have them there.

  “Gentlemen, I think we all know why we’re here, so let’s get to the point,” the elder statesman began. Spectre couldn’t quite place the accent. It was very aristocratic with a touch of Bostonian. “Now who’s going to explain to me how we went from suspected mishap to whatever it is you’re calling this? Defector?”

  Secretary Johnson took his seat at the head of the conference table as Baxter stood from his chair at the far wall and approached the podium in the corner of the room. A large projector screen descended from the ceiling as Baxter brought up his PowerPoint presentation.

  “Sir, I’m Special Agent Sean Baxter with AFOSI Detachment 3 here in Homestead. I am the lead investigator on what we are now calling the disappearance of Captain Chloe Moss,” he said as he advanced to the next slide showing a timeline of events.

  “At approximately 2100 on the night of the crash, Captain Moss was leading a two ship of F-16s from the 39th Fighter Squadron in Warning Area 465 over the Atlantic Ocean during a routine training mission. At 2101, she executed a preplanned maneuver with her wingman, Lt Col Jeff Pitre, in which the aircraft would turn away from each other and descend. At 2102, Lt Col Pitre reported losing contact with Captain Moss—”