Brown, Dale - Independent 04

by Storming Heaven (v1. 1)

  “The problem is getting pilots to fly these missions,” Ysidro said. “The money ain’t attracting ’em anymore, Henri—everyone knows it’s a one-way trip.”

  “That’s not a problem,” Townsend said confidently. “We have a system that can fly any of our planes by remote control now.”

  “It ain’t gonna fucking work, Townie,” Ysidro said. “Just find some cocky slug pilot who wants the money. Stupid pilots will do anything.”

  “My GPS system has tested very well on a small singleengine plane,” Townsend said emphatically. “It’s simple and basic, like a large radio-controlled model plane except much more sophisticated. It uses a simple digital autopilot system with altitude and vertical speed presets, hooked into a Global Positioning System navigation set. I can launch, the plane by remote control, tie in the autopilot and the satellite navigator, and it’ll fly right to the coordinates I punch in. With the GPS controlling the plane’s altitude, I can have it dive-bomb right on top of whatever coordinates you like.”

  “The GPS satellite system’s accuracy can be degraded by the Department of Defense,” Cazaux said. “Our attacks call for precise guidance and accurate delivery.”

  “With those fuel-air explosives, Henri, you can miss the target by almost a half-mile and still blow the shit out of it,” Townsend added.

  Cazaux thought about that idea for a moment, then nodded his agreement. “Very well, we will use the GPS-controlled planes as well, but only with the smaller planes—I want human pilots controlling the larger aircraft. Where are your GPS-controlled planes, Gregory?”

  “I just flew the first one into Boone County Airport for testing,” Townsend replied. “I can pick up the fuel-air explosives canisters and fly it anywhere you want.”

  “Very well.” Cazaux gave him a destination airport, then said, “Tomas is correct—there seems to be no shortage of pilots who will fly these missions foi* the proper sum of money. You are authorized to offer any amount necessary to get a crew to fly our planes. But understand this: any crew we contract with will either deliver the weapons on target as specified, or they will die the same fate as Monsieur Lechamps. Is that clear?” There was an immediate chorus of “Yes, sir” all round the table and its grisly centerpiece.

  “The key to a successful strike now is to destroy the ground-based air defense sites nearest the designated target,” Cazaux said. “We shall stage commando raids on the nearest Patriot, Hawk, and Avenger batteries to the designated target, and on the master command and control van on the ground. Our scouts can locate each of these assets and plan coordinated attacks at every point.”

  “That leaves the fighters and the radar systems that control them,” Townsend said. “We can attack the terminal radar antennas to knock out the ground-based radars; we know their locations precisely. But the airborne radar planes and the fighters will still be in operation. If they’re on the ground, we can hit them. We know the radar planes’ main operating base is in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, and our scouts can locate any other aerodromes they may use to deploy their radar planes. The fighters are widely deployed—we’ve seen them at the most unlikely aerodromes, parked beside fabric-winged planes and tiny line service plywood shacks trying to top up on jet fuel—and they fly more aerial patrols instead of returning to ground alert after a run. That means they’ll be harder to target. But we’ve got the manpower and the hardware to raid a dozen locations simultaneously, Henri. Just give us a target and a time. A few days after we get the planes, we can—”

  “I’ve got a better suggestion,” Harold Lake interjected. “Why don’t we quit while we’re ahead here?”

  The entire room turned as quiet as a tomb. The other staff officers looked at Lake in astonishment, wondering how he or any man who knew Henri Cazaux could dare to suggest such a thing as stopping an operation that Cazaux was actively directing. Lake noticed the sudden, deathly silence, took another deep swig of Scotch, and went on. “Look at you bums, looking at me like I just developed four fucking heads. Henri, I’m serious about this.” Lake turned to Cazaux. He knew the terrorist respected strength and military protocol, and so he straightened his shoulders and said in a clear, steady voice, “Permission to speak, Henri.”

  “Of course, Harold,” Cazaux said, nodding his approval. “You have earned the right. I have been remiss in not acknowledging your contribution to this campaign. I was distrustful and wary of your idea concerning using the stock and options markets to raise money for our operations, but you have far exceeded all expectations. I congratulate you, and I admit that my hesitation about your plan was because of my ignorance. Speak.”

  “Thank you, Henri. I’ll preface my suggestion with the quartermaster’s report, gentlemen: we have almost ninety million dollars in cash or liquid securities in our hands right now. The options that will expire in the next three to five days will net us another ten to twelve million—”

  “You’re shitting me!” Ysidro cried enthusiastically. “I don’t believe it, Drip—you really made that stock option shit work!”

  “This is by far the largest war chest we’ve ever had,” Lake went on. “The only payables we have right now is the refurbishment and reregistration of the Shorts Sherpa following Henri’s Memphis mission. We’re not just repainting it, of course, but we’ve got to create new airworthiness certificates and registration documents, and all that takes time and money—and of course the prepurchase of the new aircraft, weapons, and hardware for the next mission.

  “But each securities transaction I accomplish now is getting more and more attention, and it’s only a matter of time before someone starts a Securities and Exchange Commission investigation. I’m not worried about that—the source of the money is very well covered, and besides, everything I’m doing is completely legal—but it will create a little attention, and we can always do without that. But when we purchased the Airtech transport we used on the Dallas raid, I’m sure our paperwork was scrutinized by the FBI or the Marshals Service. Any plane that even slightly appears as if it might be used in a Henri Cazaux-style raid will be subject to a more intensive search. In short, Henri, the heat’s being turned up everywhere—not just over the target, but in the brokerage houses, banks, and the airplane dealers.”

  “So what’s the point, Drip?”

  “The point is, this might be a good time to take the cash, fold up our tents, and get out of the country,” Lake went on. “Our operating expenses from our normal smuggling and tactical operations were about six million dollars a year. That’s half of what we’ll make on interest on our war chest alone, without ever touching the principal. In addi- , tion, I’ve established several iron-clad legitimate business entities in seven countries just in the past two weeks, all completely untraceable to any of us. I’ve got entrees into * the defense and aviation ministries, from countries like the Czech Republic, Indonesia, and mainland China, which - means they will sell us weapons and aircraft with a phone call and a wire from a bank that we own.

  “Henri, this is no shit, I swear it—I’ve got us tapped into resources, government officials, bank accounts, letters of credit, and industry pipelines to over ten billion dollars’ worth of airplanes, weapons, real estate, anything you want,” Lake went on excitedly. “We’re players now, ' Henri—global, international, zero-frontier players. With all due respect, Henri, we’re almost as big now as we were as just Henri Cazaux’s smuggling gang, and far more legitimate-looking. We can pull the strings from anywhere on the planet that has a phone—not even a phone, man, as long as we could see the sky to aim at a satellite—and we could get away from the FBI and the regulators forever. And if we turned our backs on it all, flew the Shorts down to South America, bought a plantation outside Caracas or Rio or Cartagena, we could live like kings and have enough dough to set our grandchildren up in business fifty years from now.”

  Harold Lake had mesmerized this audience—he even seemed to have Cazaux’s full attention. Tomas Ysidro said, “Hey, Henri, the Drip is paintin’ a pretty sm
ooth picture right now. I see stuff on the news about the feds closing in on us—I don’t see it happening, but, you know, it kinda gets stuck in your brain, you know ... ?”

  “Ysidro is babbling as usual,” Townsend said, “but I share his thoughts. In any previous operation, Henri, we have never stayed in a country as long as we have for this one. Staying on the move, and especially outside the States, has helped us keep out of the reach of the authorities. I feel we’ve overstayed our welcome here, as well. Perhaps it is time to consider taking the cash and laying low for a few weeks.”

  To everyone’s surprise, Cazaux nodded—the sense of relief was obvious. “Very well,” he said, crossing his arms.on his chest. “My adviser has indicated to me that the authorities are indeed closing in on us, and so we shall close our operation, disperse, and meet again in a new location— after one more mission.” He turned to Lake and said, “Harold, you indicated that Universal Equity still has two major companies in America untouched—Westfall Air at Dallas-Fort Worth Airport, and Sky Partners Airlines in New York City.” .

  “Sure,” Lake replied, “and they’re trying to make a comeback of sorts, using the public’s fear as a marketing tool. Universal Express has moved most of the package stuff to other airports, and the blowhard president, McSor- ley, is promising to fly even if all the other carriers close up shop during the air emergency. We missed Westfall Charter when those dopers failed to attack Dallas-Fort Worth, Henri, but Westfall is small potatoes—Sky Partners is the real prize. The stock is on the upswing—ripe for another fall.”

  “Then that will be our objective ... our secondary objective,” Cazaux said. “And now I will brief you on our primary objective—and what I demand of all of you.”

  After completely destroying a corner of a very expensive Persian carpet in the billiards room, Ted Fell leaned on the pool table, his eyes filled with tears, trying to block out the grisly image of a murdered man’s heart being dangled in front of his face. Cazaux had butchered a man and brought his heart back, obviously as a warning to everyone else. What was really sick was that Mexican bastard Ysidro. Cutting out a man’s heart and stuffing it into a Ziploc bag was one thing—pulling it out and gleefully examining it as if it were a pet mouse or a newly discovered seashell was another thing. Fell thought he had never seen anything as disgusting in his life.

  A few guards checked Fell, but they ignored him as the attorney continued to dry-heave in the corner, chuckling at the bean-counter’s cowardice as they walked away. The image would simply not go away—Fell saw that gruesome piece of flesh everywhere in his mind’s eye. He finally stood upright and tried to force fresh air into his lungs, noticing that the front of his suit was stained with vomit. He left the billiards room to find a bathroom and clean his suit, and perhaps get some help in cleaning the room. It was obvious that Henri Cazaux and most of the others were out of place in that big New Jersey mansion—Cazaux looked as if he belonged in a southeast Asia jungle or an African swamp—but he still feared meeting the wrath of Cazaux or Ysidro if they found the mess he had made, so he thought he better clean it up.

  Fell heard voices coming from the kitchen, but he decided to avoid that place—the guards, most likely on break or getting dry. He noticed what looked like a broom closet at the top of the stairs, so he quietly stepped upstairs. No guards were nearby to stop him. He reached the top of the stairs and found some towels and cleaning supplies, then went down the hallway to the bathroom to wet the towels. He was about to enter the bathroom when he passed a set of stairs leading up to the third floor—and he heard a woman’s faint sobs coming from upstairs.

  At first Fell told himself to forget what he just heard, forget all about whoever was up there. He thought that Cazaux probably didn’t have a wife or girlfriend—who in hell would want a psychopath like Cazaux? Was she a captive? Some kind of sex slave? Was she a hostage? In any case, he didn’t think Cazaux would take too kindly to someone sneaking around his house. Fell heard a groan and a labored cough—she obviously sounded hurt, perhaps recovering from being strangled or hit. Beating up on women was the mark of a coward—and so was terrorism. Henri Cazaux fit both descriptions perfectly. And what was Ted Fell made of? He was either very brave or very stupid, because he found himself quietly tiptoeing up the stairs and pushing open the one door.

  The attic had been turned into a very nice little studio apartment—but what else he found was not so pretty. Fell saw a woman lying on her back on the bed in the center of the apartment, her clothing ripped away from her body, her breasts exposed, her dress piled up around her waist, exposing her crotch, her legs dangling off the side of the bed. She was facing away from him, so she could not see him. Her dark hair was a tangled mess, her hands and fingers were stained with ...

  “It is not safe for you to be here,” she said suddenly. There was a slight pause while she sniffed and let out a painful breath; then she added, “Mr. Fell.”

  Fell resisted the urge to run down the stairs and back to the billiards room as fast as he could—obviously he had made a lot more noise than he thought he did, even though he had tried to be quiet. But her shaking voice and trembling hands and shoulders told him that she was in real trouble. “Who are you?” he asked in a loud whisper. “How do you know my name? What happened to you? Was it Cazaux?”

  “My name is not important,” she replied weakly. “I know all who come to this place, except you, so you must be Mr. Lake’s assistant, whom I have not met. I...”

  She had tried to rise onto her elbows, but a shot of pain had cut her off. Fell darted into the room, closed the door, and sat on the bed beside her. Her face had been savagely beaten, covered with red and black bruises. Her nose was broken, and it did not look like the first time it had been done. He pushed her skirt back down over her knees, but couldn’t help noticing the blood that stained the bedspread under her anus. “My God ... the sonofabitch . ..”

  “He is no longer in control of himself,” the woman mumbled. “The dark master controls him.”

  “Cazaux? Who controls Cazaux .. . ?”

  “I tried to stop him,” she said. “I tried to tell him that he still had a choice, that he can still control his destiny. But his soul has been taken. He no longer listens to human reason.”

  “Forget Cazaux,” Fell said. “Is there a way out of here? I think you need medical attention.”

  “I cannot leave here,” the woman said. “There is no way out for me while Henri lives—but you can leave.” Her eyes no longer reflected the extreme pain she was suffering, but locked firmly on his, riveting him. A plan came instantly to mind—she just hoped she’d be there to watch it. “You are my only hope. You must stop Cazaux before he flies this last mission.”

  “What last mission? What do you mean?” The thought of he, Ted Fell, trying to stop Cazaux from doing anything was both laughable and terrifying. “Hey, I’m trying to help you, miss, but I’m not going to try to get in Cazaux’s way. The last guy who crossed Cazaux—well, there’s a human heart on the coffee table downstairs. I’d like to keep mine for a while longer.”

  Vega didn’t know about the heart, and she had to force herself to suppress a smile. My God, Henri really has gone over the edge! She hoped she could see the heart, see the knife that he did it with, maybe listen to him describe how he did it. But she forced a horrified expression on her face. “Ted Fell, listen to me,” the woman said. “You must kill Henri Cazaux.”

  “What.. . ?”

  “You must do it, Ted Fell,” she said. She reached under her mattress and came up with a tiny .22 caliber automatic pistol. “I’m too weak to do it. If he comes back for me, he’ll kill me, I know he will.” Vega let the remains of her blouse fall away, revealing her breasts to him, and she noticed with a tiny smile that, despite her face and the beating she took, he was admiring her chest. A typical male, she thought, wanting to suck tits and screw pussy without one single thought regarding the woman. He was going to do just fine, she thought—this little tit-sucking wease
l was going to pull a gun on Henri Cazaux, and when he did she was going to watch Henri, Townsend, and Ysidro chop him up into fish food. She pressed the gun into his hands. “You must do it, Ted . . . for me. You want to help me, don’t you?”

  She brushed her breasts against him, averting her eyes and letting a few wisps of hair fall innocently across her face—and he was hooked. He took the pistol, hefted it, then set his jaw and stuck the pistol in his pants pocket. Even if he never pulled it oufi Vega thought, someone would notice it. She would be listening, and the first sense of commotion she heard, she’d rush downstairs and hopefully be just in time to watch. “Go, Ted. Save me—please!” She pushed him off the bed with surprising strength, but Fell didn’t need too much prompting—he was already racing for the door. “Do not stop!” Her voice was cut off by another fit of coughing, but by then Fell was taking the steps three at a time, landing on each step on tiptoes.

  He reached the first floor without anyone seeing him. He glanced back upstairs, wondering if any guards were chasing him or had heard him stomping down the stairs, and had just walked past the double doors to the billiards room when he ran headlong into Thomas Ysidro. The Mexican executioner pushed him away, but held him tightly by his jacket. “Where the fuck did you go, asshole?” Ysidro growled.

  Fell’s mouth flapped open and closed like a dying fish— he was so scared he couldn’t answer. Ysidro’s expression went from suspicious to angry to murderous, and he grabbed Fell by the lapel and pulled him closer, shaking him like a dirty throw-rug. “I said, where the fuck did you... ?” Then he noticed the green and yellow stain on Fell’s shirt, then sniffed at the same smell coming from the billiards room. With Fell still in his grasp, he peeked around the comer and saw the mess on the carpet. “Shit, bean-counter, you barfed on my fuckin’ rug!”