by D C Alden
The soldier draped his big arms along the back of the couch. ‘Where d’you want me to start?’
Ray shrugged. ‘Where every story starts. At the beginning.’
It took two more pots of coffee and a round of sandwiches before Ray felt he had a thorough understanding of why Kelly Novak had been murdered, and why Kenny Chase, a decorated Special Forces soldier, had driven out of Fort Bragg in the middle of the night, never to return. Much of it was hearsay and would require verification. That would be tough, Ray knew.
Throughout Chase’s narrative Ray had made numerous notes. Now he flicked back through them, his eyes skimming the pages of old-school shorthand.
‘Just to confirm, the rest of the Delta survivors from Baghdad are all deceased?’
‘Every single one of them.’
‘And they all died on the chopper in Alaska?’
‘Official story is a bird strike. ’
‘From which you got pulled at the last minute?’
‘About an hour before they boarded. My dad had a stroke, so I jumped a flight from Elmendorf back to Bragg. When I got there I heard about the crash. That’s when I realised I was the last man standing.’
‘Except for Costello, right?’ Ray referred back to his notes. ‘Sergeant-Major Nick Costello. You said he handed in his papers, left the service.’
‘That’s correct. After we got back to Kuwait, a couple of suits from DC made us all sign hush papers. Nick refused, so they threatened him with thirty years in Leavenworth. Nick had a real hard-on for the President. He said she’d played all of us, that she’d deliberately sacrificed everyone in that embassy for political gain.’
‘And you agreed?’
‘Someone was fucking with us in Baghdad, that’s for sure. Major Roth and RSO Bosco were convinced that State was playing us off against each other. Bosco was told we were part of a coup that was happening in DC — ’
‘A coup?’
’That’s right. Look, someone had the juice to cut that embassy off from the outside world, probably the same person who triggered Grand Slam. How many people in DC have the power to do that and cover it up? A handful at best, right?’
Ray said nothing as Chase cleared his throat and shifted on the couch. Dredging up memories of Baghdad was clearly upsetting him.
‘The debriefings took almost a month,’ he continued. ‘They grilled us all one by one, day in, day out, tell us about this, tell us about that, how did you feel about such and such. It was relentless. Baghdad was the worst kind of hell, and we had to relive it for weeks afterwards. By the time we got back home most of the guys were pretty strung out, especially the family guys. So we got together, made a pact; we’d put it all behind us and move on. Nick was pretty mad about that. He called us all traitors. Turned out he was right.’
Ray’s pen scribbled across the page. ‘Are you still in contact with him?’
Chase shook his head. ‘Not since he left service.’
‘Any way of getting in touch?’
‘I can give you his contact details, but my guess? He’s dead.’
Ray’s pen froze. ‘Why would you think that?’
‘When I landed at Bragg and found out about the chopper crash, I knew I wasn’t going to make it. I was the last one, the sole survivor, so I grabbed some gear, drove to Fayetteville and dumped my car. I kept moving, stayed off-grid, until I ended up here.’
Ray wrote for another minute or so, then looked up. ‘How’s your dad?’
Chase shrugged. ‘He didn’t make it either.’
‘I’m sorry.’
He meant it too. The guy had lost pretty much everything; his father, his brothers, as he referred to his Delta buddies, and a career that he loved. He’d lost Kelly too. Chase had every reason to feel that the gods were conspiring against him, but his story resonated with Ray. Kelly had trusted him, believed in him. Ray would take it one step further.
‘Before I came down here I tried contacting RSO Bosco. Seems he’s out of the country on State Department business. They wouldn’t tell me where.’
Chase shook his head. ‘You won’t get to any of the survivors, and even if you did, they won’t talk. They’ve bought off everyone they can and killed the rest.’
‘And you believe all this was sanctioned by President Coffman?’
‘Probably others too.’
Ray thumbed through his notebook. ‘You said the reason you went to Iraq in the first place was a classified mission. Can you tell me about that?’
Chase picked up his mug and drained the last of his coffee. ‘The job was to neutralise a bio-weapon facility. It was hidden beneath a disused oil rig, a series of very sophisticated labs. It’s where Jackson got sick.’
‘Why were US forces involved?’
‘They were manufacturing the Angola virus there. For global dispersal. The plan was to kill half the world’s population.’
Ray’s eyes widened. ‘Excuse me?’
Chase got to his feet. ‘I’ll make some more coffee.’
It was after two a.m. when Ray finally called a halt to the interview. Chase offered him the spare room and Ray left the former Special Forces soldier sitting on the couch, a black rifle lying within easy reach.
The next morning, after coffee and eggs, Chase drove Ray back to the edge of town. When the Chevy stopped and the blindfold came off, Ray saw they were parked in a dirt cutaway on an empty, wooded road. The soldier got out and Ray climbed behind the wheel. He powered down the window and Chase handed back his phone.
‘I’ve got a burner,’ he told Ray. ‘I programmed the number into your phone, under Kelly’s name. I’ll turn it on for five minutes, every day at midday. In case we need to talk.’
‘Good to know.’
Chase handed him a Wells Fargo ATM card. ‘The PIN code is written on the back. There’s a couple of hundred bucks in there. Do like I say and it’ll confirm what I’ve told you.’
Ray took it. It was a standard EasyPay visa card with Chase’s name embossed in the corner. ‘What will you do now?’
‘I got plans,’ he said, his eyes watching the road, the trees. ‘Nick Costello was right about one thing; we betrayed the guys we left behind, not to mention the twelve hundred people who died in that embassy. I couldn’t see it back then, but I see it now. Not sure I can live with that.’
Ray was suddenly afraid for the man standing by an empty roadside. ‘Don’t do anything stupid, Kenny. If you need help, I can arrange it.’
The soldier’s bearded face cracked a smile. ‘Forget about me. You just focus on blowing this thing wide open.’
‘That could take years.’
‘So don’t let me keep you.’ He slapped the roof of the car. ‘And try not to disappoint Kelly, okay?’
‘I’ll do my best.’
‘Do better than that.’
Chase turned around and disappeared into the trees. Ray sat for a moment, the engine idling quietly. He had a story, that was for sure. Where it would lead him was another matter. If Chase’s account panned out, this might just turn out to be the most dangerous assignment Ray had ever undertaken. His fingers hovered over the radio button, then he decided against the distraction. He needed to think, percolate the information, let it brew. Then make a decision.
He slipped the visa card in his wallet, the car into gear, and headed east towards the expressway.
Cash Point
They would come for him, he knew that.
The moment Ray Wilson started asking about Alaskan helicopter crashes, the reporter would be put under surveillance. His emails would be intercepted, his phones tapped, his home watched, his vehicles tracked. They would know that someone had spoken to Wilson about Baghdad and they’d know it was Kenny Chase.
He’d warned Wilson they would say bad shit about him, that he had PTSD, drug and alcohol problems, that he was a threat to himself and others. They would provide medical reports, witness accounts, maybe even grainy CCTV footage of a Kenny Chase lookalike waving a gun around. They would try and c
onvince the reporter that Chase had gone loco and had to be locked up or put down. Either way, he was well and truly screwed.
Wilson himself would be pretty safe, the Delta man figured. After all he was an important guy, a senior editor at a well-known DC publication. Wilson was chummy with Congressmen and Senators, and had White House press credentials. He was a face around town, an experienced guy who knew how shit worked. Chase felt pretty sure Ray Wilson would be okay.
But not him. That’s why he had to move fast. Wilson had promised to hold off his inquiries until nine a.m. the following morning, which gave Chase a twenty-four hour head start. After that, all bets would be off. While they gave the reporter the runaround, others would trace Wilson’s movements, track his phone to a diner outside of Bryson city. They would send men with guns to talk to the locals, sniff around, but Chase had been careful. No one knew about the cabin.
He stepped outside into the cold November air. The sun’s rays carved through the forest, burning off the blanket of pre dawn mist that clung to the wooded slopes. He made his way around the back of the cabin, to where his midnight blue Toyota Land Cruiser was parked beneath a camouflage net strung between the trees. It was registered to his father’s elderly neighbour, recently serviced and juiced to the max. It had power and traction, plenty of storage room, and enough space to make a bunk if he needed to.
He fired up the engine and loaded his gear. He didn’t have much, just a large waterproof holdall with clothes and toiletries, a couple of tactical rucks and his weapons cases The first contained an M4 carbine that was smuggled out of Iraq several years ago. Nestled in the second was his favoured weapon, a Heckler and Koch G28 Designated Marksman Rifle. Chase was more than proficient in its use, something he’d proved many times during the course of his active duty deployments.
With the vehicle loaded and ready to go, he returned to the cabin and gave it a final once over. He’d broken in without causing damage, and he was pretty sure the owners would be unaware someone had stayed there. He climbed behind the wheel of the Toyota, dropped it into gear and drove back down the track towards the valley floor. It took ten minutes to get there, another fifteen until he’d cleared the Bryson city limits, and then he headed north-east towards the Ohio border. He would drive slowly and carefully, because right now no one was looking for a midnight blue Toyota with a former Delta Force operator behind the wheel.
The moment Ray Wilson picked up his phone in Washington DC, all that would change.
As Kenny Chase headed for the Ohio state line, Ray Wilson was hiding in a beat-up GMC cargo van in the parking lot of the Rhode Island mall in Brentwood, Washington DC.
Not hiding, he reminded himself. He was surveilling, just like a cop. Sat next to him in the rear of the vehicle was the Times’ chief sports photographer Chris Farmer, who had his telephoto Canon camera set up against the rear window. Farmer was clearly getting a buzz out of his new-found surveillance role, and admitted to Ray — with a wink and a wry grin — that it was almost on a par with shooting the Philadelphia Eagles cheerleading squad. Ray had laughed; that was the kind of joke a guy just couldn’t crack in the office anymore.
Twenty minutes earlier Ray had handed Kenny Chase’s ATM card to a homeless dude on Tenth Street with strict instructions to use it in one of the ATMs just outside the mall’s main entrance. Ray had given Pablo Vasquez fifty bucks, and the promise of fifty more on completion of the task. He could also keep everything he took from the ATM. The rake-thin, fifty-something addict had agreed without question.
The minutes ticked by. Ray looked at his watch for the tenth time in as many minutes. Next to him, Farmer was squinting through his viewfinder. Then he twisted the optical ring of his Canon. ‘Here he comes.’
Ray picked up a pair of binoculars and zeroed in on the mall. He sawVasquez strolling towards the ATM, his long, greasy mullet spilling out from beneath a Redskins beanie, his body wrapped in a thick winter coat.
‘Are you getting this?’ Ray asked the photographer.
‘Uh-huh.’
Ray didn’t know what to expect as he watched Vasquez insert Chase’s card into the ATM. He felt a little guilty coercing the guy, but Vasquez had assured him he’d done far worse things for money. Ray studied him through binoculars as he tapped in the PIN; he could almost feel Vasquez’s excitement as he stabbed at the buttons before whipping the cash out of the dispenser and stuffing it in his pocket. Then he loitered, pacing up and down outside the entrance. Farmer tracked him with the camera. After a few minutes, he turned to Ray.
‘You want me to keep filming?’
Ray was about to answer when he saw two dark coloured Dodge Chargers turn in off the street and speed towards the mall entrance, red and blue grill strobes flashing. Vasquez turned and hurried away in the opposite direction. Doors flew open and the fleeing man was quickly surrounded by a group of men in civilian clothes and dark glasses. Ray caught a glimpse of guns, then Vasquez was cuffed and bundled into one of the cars and they took off at speed, leaving a crowd of bemused onlookers in their wake.
‘Holy shit, did you see that?’ Farmer asked him.
‘Tell me you got the license plates.’
Farmer scrolled back through the footage. ‘Got ‘em.’
‘Good. Let’s get out of here,’ Ray said.
So, Chase was right. The Delta operator was being hunted, and the speed with which his pursuers had reacted was chilling. Ray felt a cold stab of fear; he was getting involved in something very dangerous here. Or not, he thought. He could drop the whole thing right now, make a call to Kelly’s mother and tell her that her daughter’s investigation had led nowhere. But that went against everything Ray Wilson believed in.
Even so, he was pretty relieved when Farmer steered the Chevy into the Times’ parking lot on New York Avenue. Thirty minutes later the photographer had emailed the edited footage to Ray who called a meeting with his Managing Editor. He took a seat in Tammy Lindberg’s glass-walled office overlooking the busy newsroom. Lindberg sat behind a desk piled with messy stacks of newspapers, cuttings and printouts. Like her father before her, Lindberg lived and breathed news. It was said that ink flowed through her veins. Ray was about to put that cliché to the test.
‘Thanks for seeing me.’
‘Make it quick, Ray. I’m on my way out.’
So he did, speeding through the story of Kelly Novak, her fledgling investigation, her suspicious death. He told Lindberg about a government employee who had intimate knowledge of the events leading up to — and during — the Baghdad disaster, a man who was now on the run for his life. And he told her about the recent incident at the mall.
‘I called around. No one’s been booked for any alleged crime outside that mall. It’s like the guy just disappeared.’
‘Maybe your friend Vasquez is waiting to be processed.’ Lindberg leaned back in her chair and folded one trousered leg over the other. ‘Who’s the government employee you’re referring to?’
‘I can’t give you a name. Not yet.’
‘And he’s intimate with Baghdad?’
‘He could be a she,’ Ray countered. ‘And yes, that person has first-hand knowledge of the events leading up to the disaster, including why US Special Forces were in Iraq in the first place.’ Ray leaned forward in his chair and lowered his voice. ‘Tammy, if this thing pans out we could be looking at the biggest political conspiracy in living memory. The word explosive just doesn’t do it justice.’
Lindberg hesitated.
‘Maybe we should take a breath here, Ray. You’re talking about the potential collapse of another presidency. I’m not sure the country could stomach that so soon after Stein’s incarceration. And Coffman’s approval ratings are the highest I’ve seen for any president. She’s built up a lot of trust.’
Ray opened his mouth to reply. He was about to tell her about the lab in Iraq, about the Angola virus, the planned decimation of the human race — the missing pieces of the puzzle that had seen an American president drag
ged out of the Oval Office in chains…
But he stopped himself. ‘Okay, so how should we play this?’
Lindberg toyed with the platinum wedding band on her finger. ‘For now, write it up and send it to me. I’ll need context and background, and I’ll need the name of your source.’
Ray shook his head. ‘I can’t do that, Tammy. I made a promise. His life is in danger.’
‘You don’t know that for certain. Besides, legal will insist on it. I’ll need to speak to the board too.’
Ray leaned back in his chair. ‘I’m sensing a little reluctance here, Tammy.’
Lindberg got up and approached the glass wall. She looked out over the newsroom, arms folded, silent, thoughtful. Then she turned around.
‘We have to tread very carefully, Ray. This can’t look like a witch hunt — ’
‘With all the bodies piling up? C’mon, Tammy.’
‘Be that as it may, we have to be sure about everything. Before we publish.’
Ray nodded, tight-lipped. Tammy was right, they couldn’t take a chance with this one. They had to be sure. And then a thought occurred to him. ‘I have an idea,’ he said. ‘An opportunity to test the story’s credibility.’
Lindberg crossed the thick carpet and sat in the chair next to Ray.
‘I’m listening.’
Snowcat
‘Please place your hand on the screen, Madam President.’
The palm print scanner was recessed into the granite wall and Coffman rested her hand against it, watching the light bar sweep up and down. The mahogany double doors parted with a quiet hiss of air.
‘Like something out of Star Trek,’ she observed with a smile.
Coffman stepped inside. Directly facing the door was another granite wall, this one decorated with the Seal of the President of the United States. She followed Schultz around the wall and the apartment opened up before them. The admiral, dressed casually in corduroy trousers and a roll neck sweater, had been at the mountain retreat for the last two days, and he gave Coffman the grand tour of the master suite. She had to admit, it was pretty goddamn impressive; a luxuriously-appointed bedroom, a vast dining and relaxation area that overlooked the snow-dusted plateau below, a private gymnasium, steam and sauna facilities, a library and even a private cinema room. It was an apartment built for a man who’d intended to rule the world. Unfortunately for him, he’d been forced to downsize into a narrow concrete box.
