Act of Terror jq-2

by Marc Cameron

  “Calm down, Airman. I know I’m the queen of West Texas bitches-but I don’t bite…” Her smile turned coy, perking up on one side. It made her physically ill, but she knew how to play a man. It had even worked on Dr. Badeeb, many times.

  Arlow swallowed hard and looked over his sparse mustache to consult the clipboard in his hand. “I got you down here for a full complement of four-eighty cannon rounds. I get that.” The M61A2 machine gun fired at a rate of a hundred rounds per second, giving her roughly five one-second shots.

  Airman Arlow continued. “You got two Slammers and two Sidewinders. I get that too.” He called the AIM 120 and the AIM 9M/X missiles by their nicknames. “What I don’t get is the GBUs. I’ve never loaded out live bombs for an over-watch run on home soil.”

  Tara pitched the empty soda can toward a fifty-five-gallon oil drum used as a trash barrel. She purposely missed and it clattered to the gleaming white hangar floor.

  “I know,” she said, bending over slowly to pick up the can. She felt like her suit was about to split. She could feel his eyes on her.

  “Weird, huh?” she said. “They got Speedo running air-to-air tonight during the big soiree. I’m working air-to-air and air-to-ground. I suppose the big heads that think all this up are worried about waterborne attacks on the island-especially with all the talk of moles and traitors on the news.”

  Arlow shrugged, his eyes locked on Tara’s white T-shirt. “Makes sense, I guess.” He was from a little town outside Houston and though he blanched every time she got near him, she knew he considered his fellow Texan an ally. “Anyway, we’re loadin’ the stuff written on the orders. It’s just odd, that’s all. He tossed the clipboard on the seat of the aircraft tug. “Eight GBU 39s coming your way, ma’am…”

  He pulled on a pair of gloves and went to help his chubby partner finish the load-out.

  The GBU 39 SDB or Guided Bomb Unit/Small Diameter Bomb weighed just two hundred and fifty pounds. Its lethality radius was roughly the size of a tractor trailer-not particularly large considering the awesome firepower of the F-22. Doyle had already programed the guidance systems to home on four specially designed transmitters-strategically placed. They were accurate enough to fall within fifteen meters of their intended destinations-and for human targets that would be close enough.

  Tara arched her back against the tug, closing her eyes to prepare herself for the next move.

  Flying “slick,” in stealth mode, the Raptor was literally wrapped around its weapons system. All four missiles and eight bombs were tucked in the aircraft’s belly, out of sight behind the bomb doors. Speedo would check his own bird, but leave Tara to check her ordnance. The captain who had forged her orders was one of them. That left Airmen Arlow and Tracy as the only loose ends that might show up in the short term.

  “So,” she called out, looking at her watch as they finished affixing the last load of four bombs to the mounting carriage on the starboard side of her aircraft. The late shift would be arriving in less than an hour. “I need to go over some inventory with you boys back in the storeroom…”

  The storeroom, with row after row of head-high shelving units stocked with aircraft parts and fluids, was a favorite place for squadron members to hold clandestine meetings. People went in looking intense and emerged flushed and pensive. Tara had never met anyone back there herself, but knew well enough what was going on.

  She threw her head in a saucy tease and began to walk toward the gray double doors beyond the tool racks. She’d let her flight suit slip, showing a thin line of pale belly skin below the hem of her T-shirt. When she glanced over her shoulder, both Arlow and Tracy followed as though they had ropes through their noses. She patted the slender fillet knife inside the thigh of her suit and gave a long quiet sigh, smiling. It was all too easy.

  First she would kill these witless men. Then, very soon, she would rain down death on the very heads of those who believed they were the most powerful people on earth.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

  Governors Island, New York

  There was a good deal of grubby work yet to be done and Nancy Hughes hadn’t yet changed into the navy-blue dress she’d wear to watch her only daughter tie the knot. She’d had her hair done that morning, but wore a pair of faded jeans that were comfortably big in the hips and a red Texas Tech Red Raiders sweatshirt. She looked up from where she stood behind the small mahogany table at the threshold of the three-story brick home known as the Admiral’s Mansion.

  The weather had turned out on the chilly side but clear-perfect for a wedding-and she’d left the front door open in an attempt to air the mustiness out of the old manor house.

  She situated the white taffeta guest book between two Montblanc fountain pens held upright in marble stones shaped like eggs. With all the politicians in attendance, the expensive pens were sure to “run off,” as her mother would say, before the night was over. Still, Jolene wasn’t going to get married again anytime in the near future. No detail was too minor.

  Nancy had eloped to keep her daddy from killing young Bobby Hughes. That was long before anyone thought the skinny boy from across the tracks would amount to anything at all, let alone the vice president of the United States. She would never admit it out loud, but this wedding was as much about her as it was her daughter. It had to be perfect. And now security that rivaled a meeting of the United Nations General Assembly threatened to turn the whole thing into a circus.

  For the last day and half Governors Island and its surrounding waters had become a spewing fountain of activity.

  The two-hundred-and-ten-foot U.S. Coast Guard cutter Vigorous, bristling with a twenty-five-millimeter chain gun and fifty-caliber deck guns fore and aft, prowled the Buttermilk Channel between the island and Brooklyn, New York. The hundred-and-sixty-five-foot Algonquin class cutter Escanaba, down from Boston, lay just off Liberty Island. A half dozen orange and gray USCG fast-boats, each also armed with a fifty-caliber machine gun mounted on the foredeck, patrolled upper New York Harbor and the entrances to the East and Hudson Rivers. These vessels, along with as many NYPD patrol boats, enforced a two-thousand-foot mar-sec standoff, keeping any other boats away from Governors Island.

  A virtual army of Secret Service, Department of State Diplomatic Security agents, and NYPD secured the concrete docks and dilapidated redbrick industrial buildings on the Brooklyn side. Three hundred more from the same agencies locked down Battery Park and the entire southern tip of Manhattan. The Brooklyn Battery Tunnel that ran underwater adjacent to the island, connecting Manhattan and Brooklyn, had been closed for the day. The Secret Service Uniform Division manned a series of checkpoints at the Governors Island Ferry dock, ready to double-check the guest list for those arriving by water. Each guest, no matter his or her rank or standing, would be required to pass through full-body scanners like those that caused all the brouhaha at airports. Heads of state would arrive by helicopter and would be exempt from such scrutiny, though their staff members would be scanned at the security checkpoint in the center of the island, under a large, circus-like tent set up in the wooded park beyond the helipad.

  Spotters with binoculars watched from virtually every rooftop. A heavy thump of helicopters shook the bluebird-clear sky. Navy and Air Force fighters streaked overhead, rattling the floor-to-ceiling windows in the historic mansion. Nancy felt as if she was on the deck of an aircraft carrier rather than setting up the final details of her only daughter’s wedding. She’d have to call Bob and see if he couldn’t pull some vice presidential strings and quiet the sky down a few hundred decibels.

  Nancy stepped out and leaned against one of the Doric pillars on the full-length front porch to rest. Jolene would arrive in four hours; guests would start showing up an hour after that. Oh, for a few minutes with her feet up before they all descended upon her. It was unladylike, but she scratched her back against the column, sure some of the flaking white paint had rubbed off on her red sweatshirt.

  She caught Special Agent Doyle’s eye and gave hi
m a grin. He stood post, ramrod straight in his dark suit, at the corner of the porch.

  “Sorry, Jimmy,” she said, sliding up and down like a bear against a tree. “I really hate that you get to see me absent my good Southern manners.

  “The United States Secret Service sees nothing-and everything,” he said, returning her grin. “But if it’s any consolation, Mrs. H., everyone scratches their itches.”

  “For what it’s worth, Jimmy,” Nancy said, “I’m glad you’re the one assigned to this. Feels safer having you here.”

  She looked up to see Amanda Deatherage standing on the brick walkway. Her mouth agape, she stared up at the sky.

  “Are you all right, dear?” Nancy said. Her wedding assistant seemed to grow more agitated at each pass of the military jets.

  The girl’s head snapped around as if she’d been slapped. “Yes… ma’am,” she stammered, a hint of something sullen in her eyes. Her hands trembled slightly as she wrapped blue and yellow ribbon around the black barrels of two heavy antique cannons on either side of the brick walkway.

  Mrs. Hughes nodded warily, unconvinced. “Have the flowers arrived?”

  Deatherage smoothed a large ribbon into a bow at the muzzle of a cannon. “They have,” she said. “I took care of them myself. I picked the best ones for the vice president and the president since he’ll be the guest of honor.”

  “My daughter is the guest of honor.” Nancy Hughes glared. She was too exhausted to suffer the girl’s foolishness. Still, it wouldn’t do to make an enemy of her today. Nancy softened her tone. “You were correct to pick a good one for the president, dear.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.” Deatherage brightened. “I’ll take care of putting them on myself so they don’t get mixed up with the ones for the groomsmen.”

  Agent Jimmy Doyle raised a brow, dark eyes flitting back and forth from Nancy to the girl.

  “I want you to take care of the photographer tonight,” Nancy said, hoping to give the witless girl something to keep her mind occupied. “When President Clark comes through the receiving line, I’d like to capture that moment. Could you see to that?”

  “Oh, yes, ma’am,” she said. “It would be my honor.” Deatherage gave her a long smile, then turned back to her duties.

  What a strange girl, Nancy Hughes thought. She wouldn’t be staying on after the wedding. That was a certainty.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

  Manhattan Chinatown

  “You should have let me kill the Cuban woman,” Beg said, walking briskly beside his boss. His mouth was set in a tight line as if he’d just eaten something unpleasant.

  “She is hospitalized and helpless.” Dr. Badeeb held a glowing cigarette in front of him as if to ward off the press of people on teaming sidewalks of Canal Street. “Hardly a matter that requires someone of your skill. I have sent a competent man to take care of that problem.”

  Beg ground his teeth like a predator deprived of a favorite piece of meat. He’d been looking forward to learning more about the lovely creature that was Veronica Garcia… before he killed her.

  He suddenly found the crush of the city extremely annoying. Tourists jostled by, mouths agape at the sheer press of foreign humanity on American soil. Beg walked dutifully beside his employer, waving off the persistent Chinese women offering their knockoff goods with a whispered buzz of: “Handbag-handbag-DVD-DVD-handbag…” Finding them bothersome as blowflies, Beg had to press back the urge to kill all of them with one of the colorful pashmina scarves that hung by the dozens in every other tourist and T-shirt shop.

  “I need you to strangle Li Huang,” the doctor went on, as if reading Beg’s thoughts and throwing him a bone. “The Pari School has been compromised. Who can say where the Americans will come with their questions? She knows far too much.”

  Beg had expected the order to murder the doctor’s wife for some time. He found it interesting that Badeeb had prescribed the method for her death. Those details were customarily left up to Beg and the Mervi found himself a little put out by such micromanagement.

  “Do you suppose they are aware of your plans?” Beg said, musing. “The Americans…”

  “No one is aware of my complete plan,” the doctor grunted, drawing back his cigarette to take a drag before holding it out again. “Not even you. That said, Li Huang knows far more than she should know. I grew careless with her.”

  “Of course I will do as you wish, Doctor.” Beg glanced at his watch as he walked. “I mean no disrespect, but I should have been the one to see to it Tara Doyle follows through with her mission.”

  Badeeb stopped suddenly, causing the flowing crowd to pile up behind him like water caught on the back side of a dam, before pouring sullenly past on both sides. He glanced up at Beg, nodding.

  “Perhaps,” he said. “But once she is in the air…” He shrugged. “There is a point when she is out of our control.”

  The odor of garbage, car exhaust, and cigar smoke mixed with day-old fish and musky, overripe fruit. If Beg closed his eyes, he could imagine he was in Urumqi, Samarkand, or any other large Central Asian city. When he opened them, the sea of yellow cabs reminded him he was in New York.

  A cold breeze blew, swirling bits of litter from sinister alleys and clattering dungeon-like basement stairwells.

  “Let us return to the issue of my wife.” The doctor took one last drag from the stub of his cigarette before tossing it to the gutter. “I am loath to give such an order,” he said, eyes sagging with exhaustion. “But times, they are very strange, causing those we care for to do strange things.”

  “Indeed.” Beg nodded, glaring at a lanky Chinese woman hawking perfume. She had a mole on her eyelid that he found extremely off-putting. He suddenly found he wanted to kill her as well.

  Badeeb’s searched his jacket in a fluttering panic for another cigarette. “If pressed,” he said, “I fear Li Huang might let the cat from the sack, so to speak.”

  Beg stopped in his tracks, thought for a moment, then resumed his pace. “The bag,” he said. “You mean to say she would let the cat out of the bag.”

  “Precisely so,” Badeeb said. “In any case, the sooner you get to it the better.”

  “When?”

  “Tonight. At once. Now.” Badeeb glanced at his watch. “Our plan has begun to unfold as we speak. I would consider it a personal favor if she were dead within the hour.”

  Beg took a deep breath, picturing the old woman waiting patiently in the cramped apartment for her husband to return.

  A devout Hui Chinese Muslim, Li Huang was responsible for the deaths of many in pursuit of sheng zahn, the Chinese word for jihad, and of her husband’s dreams. She had been a faithful wife and deadly coconspirator with the doctor for over fifteen years. Deadly or not, there would be no sport in strangling her. It would be like dispatching a venomous spider. She was dangerous, but no match for the heel of his boot.

  In a near panic for a cigarette, Badeeb doubled his pace and shoved upstream through the crowd toward a magazine stand at the corner of Mott Street. Beg knew the Pakistani owner kept a good supply of Badeeb’s favorite Player’s Gold Leaf.

  The old man wasn’t there, having left the shop in the care of a slender boy in his early twenties, likely his son.

  “Peace be unto you,” Badeeb launched into the lengthy formalities of his pious greeting, right palm to his heart.

  The boy leaned forward, both hands on the counter. He looked as though he was having trouble stifling a yawn.

  Two more customers formed a line behind the doctor as he spoke.

  The boy rolled his eyes.

  “Yeah, yeah, whatever,” he said in a dismissive New Jersey accent. “Do me a favor and just tell me what you want. You’re holding up the line.”

  Badeeb slammed the money for two packs of Gold Leafs on the counter. He spun on his heels, ripping into the foil of one pack as if it contained the antidote to some horrible poison.

  “His father is a pious man,” the doctor seethed. “But the
child is an infidel. After you strangle Li Huang you should come back and kill him.” He flicked open his metal lighter, putting a flame to the cigarette. “His death would be most welcome.”

  “Very well,” Beg said, following the doctor east on Canal Street.

  “Very well, indeed.” Badeeb puffed away on his glowing cigarette. “So much hinges on this night. Plans are falling into place better than I ever imagined they could. In any case,” the doctor said as if he were actually going to be part of the immediate action, “let us go see to strangling my wife. Maybe that will cheer me.”

  Beg followed, his mind floating to the mysterious face of Veronica Garcia. Killing the old woman, the street vendor with the mole on her eye, or even the young infidel at the cigarette stand would be little solace for missing the chance to catch another glimpse of the beautiful Cuban and treat her to the taste of the wire of his garrote. Soon, she would be dead at the hand of a rank amateur and he would never have the opportunity. Such a waste.

  Marc Cameron

  Act of Terror

  CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

  Georgetown University Hospital Washington, D.C.

  Ronnie Garcia’s mind was awash with disjointed memories. An incessant beeping to her left set her nerves on edge. The smell of antiseptic and a lingering odor of chicken broth set her stomach doing sickening flips. Her back ached, and she was sure someone was sitting on her chest. Oxygen flowed into her nose through a tube looped over both ears.

  Her eyes fluttered slowly. She blinked, allowing the sterile white walls, the television, the lumps under the sheet that were her feet, to come into focus. She found it difficult to swallow and nearly cried from relief when she found a Styrofoam cup of ice water on a rolling table by the bed.

  Visions of icy stone mountains and roaring motorcycles flashed across her mind. Jericho Quinn… she’d thought he might be there when she woke up. She remembered the orphanage, the boys, the sickening impact to her back, and then searing pain as she realized she’d been stabbed. The sensations of not being able to draw a breath, of utter helplessness-of drowning in her own blood-all came roaring back. She could recall snippets of Quinn working frantically to save her life. She needed to tell him something, something she’d heard just before…