The Omega Command

by Jon Land

  Easton felt the boy take him inside at the same time the girl parted his lips with hers. He groped for her thin buttocks and squeezed them to him, vaguely conscious of the boy’s head rising and falling, taking more of him in with each thrust. He wanted both of them, he wanted all of them. There was no time limit, would be no rude interruptions. They were his for as long as he wanted them. Madame Rosa’s never failed to satisfy.

  Easton’s right hand wandered toward the girl’s small, hairless vagina, his left finding the boy’s long hair and caressing it as his head rose and fell … rose and fell … rose and fell. Easton felt the pleasure mounting everywhere, surging, yet he still had the sensation of something terribly wrong an instant before the door shattered inward.

  At that same instant Easton’s metamorphosis back to himself was complete. He pushed the girl from him and went for his gun. But two figures had already stormed into the room with weapons blasting. The boy’s naked body absorbed the first barrage, red punctures dotting his flesh. The girl’s head exploded next to him, and Easton felt a volley of bullets pierce his abdomen as his hand closed on his pistol.

  He might have lifted it from the holster had not the boy’s bloodied corpse collapsed atop him, pinning his arms. The boy’s sightless eyes locked on his, and Easton felt the bursts of pain everywhere the pleasure had been only seconds before. He was still trying for his gun, finding it just wasn’t there anymore, as his breath rushed out and all that remained was the boy’s dead stare before oblivion took him.

  “I’ve already been briefed on this mess,” the President said, striding grimly into the Oval Office. “I want to know what’s being done to clean it up.”

  The two men seated before his desk rose as he approached it. CIA director Barton McCall was the more nervous looking of the two. But McCall always looked that way, just as Andrew Stimson, head of the ultra-secret Gap, always appeared calm.

  “New York is cooperating brilliantly,” Barton McCall reported. “Under the circumstances we couldn’t ask for more. Fortunately the woman called us first.”

  The President stopped halfway into his chair. “What woman?”

  “Madame Rosa,” answered McCall. “Owner of the … house where Easton was killed.”

  “She knew his identity?”

  “Apparently.”

  “Terrific.” The President’s eyes flared toward Andrew Stimson. “Helluva ship you got running there, Andy.”

  Stimson seemed unfazed by the comment. “Madame Rosa’s has enjoyed an exclusive clientele for fifteen years. Easton never told her a damn thing. She knew he was intelligence and therefore knew approximately whom to call this afternoon. She’s got a feel for such things.”

  “And apparently Easton had a feel for something I don’t exactly remember seeing in his file.”

  Stimson shrugged. “An agent’s private life is his own business.”

  “Not when it gets him killed.”

  Stimson nodded with grim acceptance. Years before, when the CIA had come under increasing scrutiny and the methods of the NSA under fire, a gap resulted between what the intelligence community needed to bring off and what it could effectively get away with. So a new organization was created to take up the slack, appropriately labeled the Gap. Stimson was its first and so far its only director.

  “Just remember, sir,” he said to the President, “that the pressure men like Easton are under sometimes forces them into undesirable pastimes.”

  “The mess at Madame Rosa’s can hardly be referred to as a pastime, Andy.”

  “I think we’ll be surprised when we find out the identities of the customers in the other rooms at the time.”

  The President cleared his throat. “The real question, gentlemen, is whether Easton’s murder was random, perhaps the result of someone else’s kinky fantasy, or whether it was carefully orchestrated.”

  “Evidence seems to indicate the latter,” reported CIA chief McCall. “The men behind it were pros all the way. No one saw them go in and we’re not even sure anyone saw them go out. We got a report that two black men were seen leaving the area immediately after the murders, but even that’s sketchy. The weapons used were Mac-10s, a pair of thirty-round clips totally emptied.”

  “Jesus …”

  “Easton took fourteen slugs alone, the kids about the same.”

  The President raised his eyebrows. “We going to have any problems from the relatives of those kids?”

  McCall shook his head. “Madame Rosa was their legal guardian. She’ll take care of everything.”

  The President didn’t bother pursuing the matter further. “Someone must have wanted Easton dead awfully bad. He was due in soon, wasn’t he?”

  “Tonight,” answered Stimson. “That’s when the briefing was scheduled, by him I might add.”

  “So he had completed his current assignment.”

  “At least enough to bring it to the next level.”

  “Okay, Andy, refresh my memory of what he was on to.”

  “Internal subversion,” Stimson replied. “Terrorist groups, revolutionaries, that sort of thing.”

  “Specifically?”

  “Something big. Easton felt he was on to a group whose size and resources went way beyond anything we’ve faced before. His reports were vague, but he was closing in on the top. He believed there was a time factor involved.”

  “Which this afternoon’s incident has apparently confirmed,” the President noted. “Now all we have to do is find out who was counting the minutes. Terrorists?”

  “That’s the assumption,” Stimson acknowledged. “But the Gap’s dealt with plenty of terrorist groups here at home without losing agents to such brutal assassinations. Like I said before, whatever Easton uncovered was a helluva lot bigger than a run-of-the-mill bombing or hostage situation.”

  “And since we have no idea what,” said the President, “I hope you gentlemen have devised a contingency plan to find the missing pieces.”

  “He might have left some bit of evidence for us somewhere,” McCall suggested.

  “We’re checking that possibility now,” Stimson responded. “Safe deposit and mail drops, hotel rooms, safe houses—all that sort of thing. Easton’s car, too … once we find it.”

  “Find it?” said the President.

  “I’m afraid it was conveniently stolen around the same time Easton was killed,” Stimson reported.

  “Then the logical question is what does that leave us with? What in hell do we do?”

  “Replacing Easton is our first step,” came McCall’s swift reply. “Send someone out to pick up where he left off.”

  “All well and good if we knew where that was,” Stimson countered. “We haven’t got a clue, and if we did, sending a man out now would be tantamount to having him walk a greased tightrope.”

  “I believe, sir,” McCall said, turning toward the President, “that my people are more than capable of picking up the pieces as soon as you authorize this as a Company operation.”

  “It started with the Gap and that’s where it will end,” Stimson said staunchly.

  “Stow the bullshit, gentlemen,” the President said. “I asked you here for answers, not boundary squabbles. Andy, you sound pretty adamant about keeping this within Gap jurisdiction. I assume you’ve thought out our next step.”

  Stimson nodded, stealing a quick glance at his counterpart in the CIA. “What Barton said before about a replacement for Easton has to be the first priority. But there is no one present in our active files who fills the necessary criteria and who we can afford to label expendable.”

  “That puts us back at square one,” muttered the President, his voice laced with frustration.

  “Not exactly.” Stimson paused. “I suggest recalling someone from the inactive list.”

  “Recalling who?” McCall asked suspiciously.

  Stimson didn’t hesitate. “Blaine McCracken.”

  “Now, hold on just a min—”

  “I’ve thought this thing out.” S
timson’s voice prevailed over McCall’s. “McCracken’s not only the perfect man for the job, he’s also … expendable.”

  “With good reason,” McCall snapped.

  “McCracken,” said the President. “Don’t think I’ve ever heard of him.”

  “Consider yourself fortunate,” McCall went on. “McCracken’s a rogue, a rebel, a deviant son of a bitch who—”

  “Has always had a knack for successfully completing missions,” Stimson broke in.

  “Always on his own terms and always with complications.”

  “I would suggest that in this case the terms and complications are meaningless,” Stimson followed with barely a pause. “Results are all that matter.”

  “At what cost?” McCall challenged. “McCrackenballs doesn’t obey orders and has proved an embarrassment to this government every time we’ve sent him into the field.”

  The President leaned forward. “McCracken what?”

  McCall cleared his throat.

  “It’s a long story,” Stimson replied.

  “We’ve got loads of time. Easton’s funeral isn’t for two days,” the President said bitingly.

  “I’ll sum up the man we’re dealing with here as succinctly as I can,” Stimson continued as if he had memorized the words. “The early stages of McCracken’s career were routine enough. Two decorated tours in ’Nam with the Special Forces. Lots of medals. After the war the Company put him to use in Africa and later South America. Deep cover. McCracken’s specialty was infiltration.”

  “Along with teaching schoolchildren how to make Molotov cocktails,” McCall added.

  “His orders were to promote resistance against the rebels.”

  “And there was hell to pay for his little escapades with the kiddies once the papers got hold of them. If we hadn’t covered our tracks in time, the whole episode would have made the Nicaraguan training manual business look like back-page news.”

  “He was following orders,” Stimson reiterated.

  “No, Andy, he was interpreting them in his own unique manner.” McCall shook his head as if in pain, turning toward the President. “We sent him to London to train with the SAS.”

  “Buried him there, you mean,” Stimson snapped.

  “But he dug himself up quite nicely, didn’t he?” McCall shot back. “There was an unfortunate episode where an Arab group nabbed a plane and threatened to shoot a passenger every minute the authorities exceeded their demands deadline. The British were convinced they were bluffing. McCracken was certain they weren’t. In the end, by the time the SAS stormed the plane, four passengers were dead.”

  “Oh, Christ …”

  “McCracken screamed at British officials on national television, shouted that they had no … balls.”

  “His word?” the President asked.

  “His exact word,” nodded McCall. “Then to reinforce his point, he went to Parliament Square and blew the balls right off Churchill’s statue with a machine gun, at least the general anatomical area under the statue’s greatcoat.”

  The President looked dumbfounded.

  Stimson leaned forward. “Because innocent people died at Heathrow. McCracken can’t stand civilian casualties.”

  “And he’s convinced he’s the only man who can avoid them,” McCall countered. He swung back to the President. “McCracken’s a goddamn lone ranger who won’t even let Tonto play. Dismissal at his level was, of course, out of the question. So we started moving him around from one petty post to another to avoid further embarrassments. He finally settled as a cipher operator in Paris.”

  “And he’s stuck it out, hasn’t he?” Stimson challenged. “Does everything he’s told to from confirming scrambled communications to sorting paper clips even though it’s probably busting him up inside.”

  “An agent could do a lot worse.”

  “Not an agent like McCracken. It’s a waste.”

  “More a necessity, Andy. He’s brought all this on himself.”

  “Fine. Then I’ll take the responsibility for lifting it off.” Stimson’s eyes found the President’s. “Sir, I would like McCracken reassigned from the Company to the Gap to take the place of Easton.”

  “Out of the question!” McCall roared.

  “Which,” the President began with strange evenness, “would have been my exact reaction if you told me yesterday that one of our agents was going to be gunned down at a bordello in the company of two pubescents. Andy, if you want to use McCracken to clean up this mess we’ve got, then use him. Just get it done.”

  McCall’s face reddened. “Sir, I must protest—”

  “The matter is closed, Barton.” The President sighed. “In the past twenty-four hours, we’ve had a deep-cover agent murdered and a space shuttle blown right out of the sky. Nathan Jamrock will probably be here tomorrow with a report indicating that little green men destroyed Adventurer and, who knows, maybe the same little green men visited Madame Rosa’s this afternoon carrying Mac-10s instead of ray guns. Wonder where they’ll strike next?”

  A heavy knock came on the Oval Office door. Before the President could respond, his chief aide stepped swiftly into the room.

  “Sorry to intrude, sir,” said the wiry, bespectacled man, “but we’ve just got word a jet has been seized by terrorists in Paris with over a hundred Americans on board.”

  The President’s empty stare passed from McCall to Stimson, then to neither. “Well, boys, it looks like my question’s been answered.”

  Chapter 2

  “SO WHAT ARE THEY asking for?” Tom Daniels, chief of CIA operations in France, asked Pierre Marchaut, Sureté agent in charge of the seizure at Orly Airport.

  Marchaut regarded the American patiently as he moved away from the telephone and consulted his notes. “The usual things, mon ami. Release of political prisoners being held in French jails, safe passage to the country of their choice, a message to be read over the networks this evening.”

  Daniels strode abruptly to the window and looked out over the 767 in question, apart from other aircraft on one of Orly’s main runways.

  “The deadline?” he asked Marchaut.

  “The first batch of prisoners must be delivered here within two hours.”

  “Delivered here? Great, just great. And if we refuse?”

  “They will blow up the plane.” The burly Marchaut, whose face was dominated by a pair of thick black side-burns, shrugged. “Did you expect anything different? The terrorists also requested fresh meals for their hostages.”

  “How compassionate …”

  “My thoughts exactly.”

  A thin man walked quickly into the operations room with a manila folder open in his hands. He spoke so rapidly in French that Daniels was barely able to keep up with him.

  “We have just received positive identifications of the two male and one female terrorist involved. They are known professionals wanted in a combined total of seventeen countries. They have all killed before, especially the bearded leader, an Arab named Yachmar Bote. The woman has been linked to a number of brutal assassinations as well.”

  “So now we know they are capable of doing everything they say,” Marchaut concluded grimly.

  “If they’re caught, it means the death sentence,” said his assistant. “They have nothing to lose.”

  “Wonderful,” Daniels moaned, starting for the phones. “I’d better call Washington.”

  “What about the explosives?” Marchaut asked.

  His assistant shrugged. “Inspection of pictures snapped through windows reveal heavy wiring and what appears to be plastique. But without visual inspection there is no way to be sure.”

  “And the positions of the hijackers?”

  “The bastards are clever. One is always seated among the passengers, presumably holding the trigger for the explosives.”

  “Then a raid is out of the question,” Marchaut said with his eyes on Daniels, who had hesitated before lifting up the phone. “And so, I’m afraid, is acceding to their demands.�
�

  Daniels stepped forward, closer to Marchaut. The others in the room, French police and airport officials, surrounded them in a ring.

  “Then our only alternative is to play a waiting game,” the American said. “That would have been my suggestion anyway. It’s worked before and I don’t buy the explosives bit at all.”

  “Yes,” Marchaut added, “once the deadline passes, the advantage shifts to us. Perhaps there is a way to use this request for food to our advantage. …”

  “The hijackers won’t eat it,” came an American voice from outside the circle. “The passengers are their biggest worry, not you clowns. You know, feed the prey before you slaughter them. Keep them full and happy.”

  The fifteen or so men and women gathered in the emergency operations center turned toward a tall athletic-looking man with dark hair and perfectly groomed black beard highlighted by a slight speckling of gray. His skin was tanned and rough, that of a man accustomed to the outdoors and quite comfortable in it. A bent nose and a scar running through his right eyebrow marred an otherwise ruggedly handsome face. His piercing eyes were almost black.

  “Oh, no,” muttered Daniels.

  “You know this man?” Marchaut asked, taken aback.

  “Unfortunately.” Then, to the stranger, “McCracken, what in hell are you doing here?”

  “All the movies were sold out, so I had to seek my entertainment elsewhere,” Blaine McCracken said. “I’m not disappointed. You people really know how to put on a show. Really give a guy his money’s worth.”

  “Get out of here this instant!” Marchaut ordered.

  “Intermission already?”

  Marchaut started forward. McCracken’s eyes froze him.

  “Do as he says, Blaine,” Daniels advised.

  “And miss the finale? Not on your life, Tommy my boy.” He moved forward just a step. “You guys should really listen to yourselves. It’s a scream, let me tell you.”

  “Who is this man?” a now uncertain Marchaut asked Daniels.

  “He works in the CIA equivalent of the mail room over here.”

  “Then what—”

  “I’ll tell you what, Marchaut,” McCracken said abruptly, and the Frenchman reeled at mention of his name. “You assholes are talking about waiting the terrorists out, going beyond the deadline, and all you’re going to get for it is a planeload of hamburger. And in case you guys didn’t know it, there are forty seats in tourist being taken up by kids from a junior high in Fort Lee, New Jersey. Tell you what else, Marchaut, take a good look at the leader Bote’s file. He’s a walking psycho ward. He’s been trying to get himself killed in a blaze of glory for years. This is right up his alley, always was, right back to the time I met up with him in Chad.”