Black Skies

by Leo J. Maloney

  “Come along now!” Lily yelled down over the roaring wind. “I think I see the chopper coming!”

  Morgan held McKay as she stepped up to the open window. She was shaking uncontrollably. She took off her shoes and climbed onto the ledge with Morgan holding her hips. She slowly stood, her body outside the statue, reaching up to Lily.

  “I’ve got her!” said Lily. Morgan leaned out the window, giving McKay a leg up as Lily pulled her from the other end. He watched as the senator disappeared onto the crown. Then he turned back to Clarke, who was watching the stairs.

  “Your turn,” said Morgan.

  “They’re gonna be here any second,” said Clarke.

  “Then let’s get the hell out of here!” Morgan said.

  “I’m not getting up on the head and you know it,” said Clarke. “I’m too old. Could barely walk up these stairs.”

  “Come on,” said Morgan. “I’ve got you. I’ll push you up, and Lily will help from the other side.”

  “That ninety-pound girl? No way, José. Take a look at this gut.” He patted his stomach. “I’m staying right here. I spent thirty years guarding this old statue, and I’m not about to stop now.”

  “Then I’ll stay with you,” said Morgan. “We can hold them off together.”

  “Now, don’t argue,” he said. “You’re young and I’m old. I’m staying, and you’re going.”

  Morgan looked up at the low ceiling of the statue’s head. McKay was up there. All this had been at least partly about her. Weinberg, responsible for this and possibly more, was still at large and had a dangerous weapon in his hands. Morgan’s honor told him he had to stay and help Clarke, but he had more important things to do.

  Morgan held out the Glock to Clarke. “Are you okay using these?” he asked.

  “Boy, I was in ’Nam before you were even in diapers,” he said. “Give that here.” Clark held the submachine gun in his right hand, the Glock in his left. “Get the hell out of here. I’ll hold them off for you.”

  “You’re a good man, Clarke.”

  “No,” he said with a smile. “Just old. But I’ve got some use in me yet.”

  Morgan faced the opening and took a deep breath. Goddamn heights. He hated them more than he hated facing down the barrel of a gun. He climbed up on the window, forcing himself not to look down, then stood up, this time on the outside of the statue. He held on to one of the spokes of the crown. Winds whipped his body, but he held firm. He had to shut his eyes tight to avoid looking down.

  He heard gunfire below as he pulled himself up to the top of the crown. He thought he might slip when his feet were raised off the ledge, but his arms held. Lily and McKay were already there, crouching and clutching each other for support. Morgan could see the chopper now too, nearing fast from the west. He held on to a spoke of the crown and looked down.

  He saw innumerable dead bodies, of security personnel and guests alike. The survivors were all huddled around the center of the square, with about ten gunmen standing guard around them. What was the point of this? Morgan thought in horror. It can’t have been all about McKay. But what the hell was it about?

  Morgan felt the wind of the chopper’s blades and turned around to see it hovering over the head of the statue. The side door opened, and a ladder unrolled until it was within their reach.

  McKay climbed up onto the chopper first, followed by Lily and then Morgan. Clearing the top rungs, he thought he heard an exchange of gunfire within the head of the statue. As the chopper flew away, it seemed as though all the shooting had stopped. Clarke had fallen, but he had died saving them.

  Chapter 48

  June 15

  New York City

  The Eurocopter AS365 Dauphin carrying Morgan, Lily, and Lana McKay touched down on an empty parking lot outside an abandoned department store on a dark suburban street in Newark. The rotors were still turning when three sedans maneuvered into the lot and formed a rough semicircle around the chopper. Conley got out of the driver’s seat of the first car, a maroon Toyota Corolla, and six other men came out of the other two, all large with an air of ex-military about them. Morgan stepped down off the chopper first, and helped Senator McKay off.

  “What the hell happened back there?” asked Conley. Morgan told him the story as quickly as he could, from the time the armed men emerged from the sea until their ascent to the crown of the statue. He then asked, “Do you have any news about what’s happening on the island?”

  “Well, the truth is,” said Conley, “they disappeared.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “A serious attack was being mounted,” said Conley. “Four teams of Navy SEALs, two in helicopters and two in boats, were about to launch a coordinated raid when the attackers just walked away. Went right back into the sea, according to the guests, and didn’t come up again.”

  “Is anyone going after them?” asked Morgan.

  “Sure,” said Conley, “but there’s been nothing yet. These guys knew what they were doing. My bet is that they had an airtight exit strategy.”

  “Christ,” said Morgan. “What now?”

  One of the men who had come with Conley stepped forward. He was a thin, angular man, with a pointed nose and a pointed chin with thin, short blond hair.

  “This is Agent Walker,” said Conley. “He’s the head of Tactical at Lambda Division.” Morgan got the feeling that Conley didn’t care much for Walker.

  “A pleasure to meet you, Cobra,” said Walker. “That was a hell of an escape back there. My hat’s off to you.” Even giving a compliment, Walker seemed to be sneering.

  “Thanks,” Morgan grumbled.

  “First order of business is getting the Senator out of here and somewhere safe,” said Walker.

  “I’ll take care of that,” said Morgan. “I can take her into hiding, somewhere no one will find her.”

  “I appreciate your intentions here, but we’re taking her back to Lambda Headquarters,” said Walker. “We have a secure facility where she’ll be safe.”

  “Like at a party with full security personnel?” said Morgan. “Whoever did this will stop at nothing to get at her. There’s no guaranteed safe place. The best option is to hide somewhere as far away from major centers as possible.”

  “A place where she’ll be completely vulnerable if she’s found out?” said Walker.

  “I think we just saw,” said Morgan, “that any place will be vulnerable if she’s found out.”

  “Excuse me,” McKay spoke up. “I’m very glad everyone is so interested in my well-being, but I really ought to have a say in this, don’t you think? I’d rather go with Mr. Morgan.”

  “With all due respect, ma’am, we need you where we can best protect you,” Walker said.

  “She’s coming with me,” said Morgan. “You’ll force her to go with you over my dead body, do you understand?”

  “If that’s what it comes to,” hissed Walker.

  “Hey, hey!” Conley hollered. “We don’t need this pissing contest right now. Walker, you and your team have your hands full. Senator McKay trusts this man. Let her go with him.”

  “All right,” said Walker, “but if something happens to her because she was with him and not with us, this is on your ass.”

  He drew a phone and walked out of earshot. Conley moved in closer and spoke in a low tone.

  “Look, Morgan, there’s something else. We lost communication with Zeta about half an hour ago. There are some reports, very sketchy, that there’s been an explosion.”

  “Are they alive?” asked Morgan.

  “We don’t know anything yet,” said Conley. “Police and firefighters are on the scene, but they haven’t even started to clear away the debris yet, so it’s going to be awhile.”

  “Goddamn it,” said Morgan. “So this means—”

  “We’re on our own for the time being. Listen, you take Lily and get McKay somewhere safe. Use my car.”

  “You got any trackers on that?” Morgan asked.

  “N
o,” he said. “But I can’t promise you one of the Lambda people didn’t bug it. There’s a bug sweeper in the glove compartment, though. Stop for gas a few miles out and give it a once-over.”

  “You don’t trust these people?” Morgan asked.

  “I maintain a healthy skepticism at all times,” said Conley. “Keeps me alive and in one piece.”

  “Got it. We’re going to need a couple of guns, too.”

  “I’ve got two Colts stashed in the car,” he said. “One strapped under the seat, another in the trunk, under the spare tire. Don’t tell me where you are going, and keep your cell phone off. I keep an encrypted sat phone in the glove compartment, too. Completely untraceable. Call me every thirty minutes for updates.”

  “Got it,” said Morgan. “Keep me in the loop. Weinberg’s still at large with the EMP. This isn’t over yet.”

  Morgan got into the driver’s seat, with Lily in the passenger seat and McKay in the back. He took out the back panel of his phone and removed the battery without taking it out of his pocket, then drove out of the parking lot and toward I-78.

  Chapter 49

  June 15

  New York State

  Alex Morgan had been following the van for nearly an hour when it stopped for gas.

  She had run out of the building when she had saw them take in the bomb—she knew it was a bomb, of course, once the ground shook with the explosion. She panicked, not knowing what to do. Her father’s car was not there, so at least he was not hurt.

  Not knowing how to proceed, she called 911 and continued with her original plan. She reached her motorcycle, which was parked around the corner, and turned it on. When the van peeled out of the garage, she took off after it, keeping the safe tailing distance that she had learned from her father. And so she followed them, to the Mass Pike due west, for a mostly uneventful tail, during which she tried and failed repeatedly to call her father.

  Now they were stopping for gas. Alex couldn’t stop with them without blowing her cover. And, she noted, looking down at the fuel gauge, she’d need to stop pretty soon, too. It looked like they might be going a long while yet, and she didn’t want to run out of fuel mid-pursuit.

  She sped on ahead, flying as fast as she dared down the highway until she found the next gas station, some five miles down the road. She filled up, paid with a few crumpled bills she had stuffed in her pocket, and guided her bike to a dark corner of the parking area, killing her lights. She tried to call her father again three more times, but got only voice mail. She sent him a message this time—911 call me.

  A few minutes later, the van drove by. At this time, there were too few cars on the highway. Not wanting the driver to notice he was being followed, she kept the lights on her motorcycle turned off. As she drove onto the highway, it was much darker than she had imagined it would be. Apart from the pool of light of the van ahead, she was riding on a sea of blackness. She kept her eye fixed on the van’s lights, making a mental map of the road as it weaved ahead of her—if she didn’t, she felt sure that she would drive off the road and into a tree.

  They drove like this for another hour or so. Alex nearly got run down by a speeder, who missed her by mere inches. Eventually, the van turned off the highway onto a local road. This proved tricky, as the byway’s sharper turns were more difficult for her to follow with the headlights off. Before long, the van turned into a dirt road in a forested area.

  Alex stopped. There was no way she’d be going in there without headlights. So she stayed at the side of the road for about ten minutes—as long as she could stand waiting. Then, hoping that she had given the van enough time to reach its ultimate destination, she turned on her lights and drove into the woods.

  The road was tolerably smooth for being a dirt road. She moved along it carefully, wary of running into the parked van. But she didn’t have to worry, because she spotted its destination a half mile away. Floodlights lit up an entire clearing ahead. She took the bike off the road and parked it out of sight, behind a thicket. She approached the rest of the way on foot.

  When she drew close enough to get a clear view, her jaw dropped. An entire runway had been built here, in the middle of the forest, extending over a mile away from where she was standing. On the end closer to her was a large military-looking cargo plane. Its back door was open. The van was parked behind it, near a small refrigerated truck and a Jeep. At least a dozen men moved about busily, and the door to the back of the refrigerated truck was open. Alex stayed in the darkened tree line, out of sight, and moved in closer to get a better look.

  The men were pulling out a large, heavy box from the truck. It took six men to carry it, and they seemed to be struggling. One man seemed to be in charge—large, blond, and muscular, almost handsome if he weren’t so intimidating.

  She looked at her phone. Why wasn’t her father answering?

  Chapter 50

  June 16

  Boston

  Diana Bloch clutched her abdomen as she walked down the hallway of the fifth floor of the Boston Mandarin Oriental, closely followed by the contrasting figures of O’Neal and Spartan. O’Neal seemed smaller than usual, and her typical life and energy seemed drained from her. Spartan had, characteristically, turned defiant in the face of tragedy. To her, it was a personal affront, the attack on Liberty Island as much as the one on Zeta. Her face was bruised, but she kept her chin up.

  Bloch slipped in the key card, opened the door and turned on the lights to suite 411. “Ladies,” she said as she walked through the room, “this is going to be our base of operations for the time being.” It was a spacious room, boasting, in addition to the irrelevant bed, a spacious desk, a small round dining table with four chairs near the window, and a large L couch upholstered in yellow.

  “Let’s get all surface spaces cleared up,” Bloch said. “Push the beds against the wall. Leave the desk for Shepard—you know how he likes his space. Set up a phone charging station over here on the coffee table—I don’t want anybody running out of batteries.” She turned. Spartan was carrying a large desktop computer under one arm and a monitor under the other that they had salvaged from the wreckage at Zeta headquarters. O’Neal was hugging her laptop against her chest.

  Bloch took out a second key card and held it up. “This is the card to the room next door. You’ll want a shower, I’m sure, and we can take shifts for twenty-minute naps. I know you’re tired but we can’t spare anyone any longer than that. Now, let’s get set up.”

  Spartan took the table by the window, setting the desktop on the floor and then looking for an outlet. O’Neal chose the couch, nearly collapsing on it, then opening up her computer on her lap. Bloch found the remote and turned on the TV to a news channel, which was showing an aerial feed of Liberty Island. There seemed to be nothing new.

  Bloch set the TV on mute, walked into the bathroom, and locked the door. She pulled up her shirt to expose her bandages. She still felt intense, stabbing pain. But she saw no bleeding, which meant that the sutures were holding.

  She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. She looked so tired, so disheveled. Her hair was out of place. She hadn’t had time to reapply makeup or to fix her hair. She had changed out of her shirt, which had been bloodied from her injury, but that the one she wore was rumpled and unkempt. The sight distressed her. This loss of her professional demeanor intensified the sense that things were spiraling out of control.

  Spartan had managed to climb up the elevator shaft and call emergency services. It turned out to have been unnecessary, though—the explosion had been heard from the outside, and firemen and paramedics had already been on their way. The emergency workers climbed down to Zeta Headquarters—Bloch thought of Smith and the nightmare that it would be to cover this up—put out the fires and took out the injured and dead. They’d taken Bloch to the hospital, where doctors wanted to keep her overnight. She refused to stay after she’d received emergency care, and nobody seemed to be in the mood to stop her.

  Of the others, only Kirb
y had remained in intensive care, and—

  Bloch turned away from the mirror, but then forced herself to confront what she wanted to forget. The name formed brightly and painfully in her imagination. Louise Dietz. She had accepted the job with a sense of adventure that overrode her natural meekness. Now she was dead, killed by the blast, the person closest to the elevator when it hit. The terrible responsibility of putting Dietz in harm’s way was weighing heavily on Bloch.

  Hearing a knock on the hotel room door, Bloch was drawn away from her guilt. She walked out of the bathroom and checked the peephole to find Lincoln Shepard holding two enormous shopping bags filled with boxes. She opened the door.

  “I come bearing gifts,” he said, holding up the bags. He walked in and examined the room. “Hey, great digs. It’s got a great no-rubble-or-burning-debris thing that I like. Very modern.”

  Shepard set the boxes down on the table by the windows and unpacked the equipment. He gave Spartan instructions in setting up her computer so that they could share information. When she looked at him blankly, he did it himself. Relieved, Spartan used her cell phone to reach out to a Homeland Security liaison.

  “Okay, I’ve got a link to the emergency responder network,” said Spartan, looking at her computer. “They have a list of casualties being updated in real time.... It’s up to fifty-six so far.”

  “Look for anything that could give us a hint of Weinberg’s purpose,” said Bloch.

  “The list of the dead just keeps growing,” said Spartan. “Two senators, the CEO of... look, the Speaker of the House.”

  “Hmm . . .” said Bloch. “Cougar said that they targeted Lana McKay specifically. And she’s—”

  “President pro tempore of the Senate,” said Shepard. “Elected this year. Youngest senator to hold that position in many, many years. Do you think it’s significant?”

  “Weinberg is not playing around,” said Bloch. “They had an agenda. They’re after something specific. Keep trying to connect the dots.”