The Omega Covenant

by Richard Holcroft

  Somers looked up from his notepad. “Who are these people, any idea?”

  “Don’t know. Only that Hollingsworth bragged about them occupying positions of great power in business, finance, and government.”

  “And their motive supposedly was because of the president’s policies?” Somers asked.

  Tom nodded. “He claimed they weren’t doing it for themselves but rather for the good of the country. Hollingsworth was adamant that nukes in Iran had to be destroyed and McHugh removed from office. McHugh was driving our country to ruin, he said, and they were going to do something about it.”

  Agent Somers thought about it for another few moments and walked away to make a cell call while Henderson continued debriefing Marchetti and Shannon.

  A few minutes later, another vehicle–a grey sedan with dark navy markings–pulled up, and an older officer stepped out. Henderson looked at Marchetti and gestured toward the officer. “This is Captain Doug Walsh, base CO.”

  “Gentlemen,” the captain said and nodded.

  “These men are Mike Marchetti and Tom Shannon.” Henderson then recapped what Marchetti and Shannon had told them.

  Agent Somers rejoined the group and directed his attention to Tom. “The lead agent on the presidential detail wants to talk to you. He’s with the president. We’d like you to follow Agent Henderson to Lihue.”

  Marchetti said, “Go ahead. I’ll meet you there.”

  Tom left with Henderson, while Marchetti continued talking to Walsh and the base security NCOs. “It’d be helpful to take a look at the operations control room, but if someone did activate a smallpox virus in there, we might not want to do that.”

  Kendall’s face got red. “You’re going to stay clear in any event. This is a US military base conducting classified operations and not some slip-and-fall location, or whatever else it is you’ve had experience with in the past.”

  Marchetti interrupted. “With all due respect, Commander, if what Hollingsworth said is true, every minute we spend farting around discussing security and protocol could bring the president one minute closer to dying, if he was exposed.”

  Captain Walsh thought about it for a few moments. “Letting you into the missile operations center would be highly unusual without prior approval, and none of us is going in until the Hazmat gear gets here.”

  Marchetti asked Somers, “What is security procedure in a case like this anyway, in a situation where the president is paying a brief visit to a military base? How detailed would your team inspect the launch facility before his arrival?”

  Somers’ eyes darted around the exterior of the building. “We went over this building thoroughly yesterday before the president’s visit, then sealed it off to all but authorized personnel. Once he left the base, it would be normal procedure to reopen it.”

  “Would everyone with clearance have to pass through a magnetometer or be hand wanded?”

  Somers paused a few seconds, looking slightly uncomfortable. “Usually, but in this case, no. We assumed everyone in the president’s party, plus those stationed at the base with authority to watch the launch, would not need that type of screening.”

  “And for what level of classified material would they be cleared?”

  Kendall said, “All naval officers and senior NCOs expected to be present for the launch are cleared ‘Top Secret’ as part of their normal duties.”

  “As for the president’s party, I don’t know,” Somers said. “You’d have to check with DOD.”

  Marchetti wasn’t satisfied with the answers but nevertheless continued. “Hollingsworth told my partner the virus would be released before or during the launch using a remote control device. I’m thinking a small triggering mechanism–either timer or hand-activated–to activate a dispenser of some sort.”

  “No one here would’ve done–”

  “It might even have been triggered from outside the building if it’d been an RF device capable of penetrating concrete walls.”

  Somers nodded and looked at Captain Walsh. “There’d be no reason why this building would be shielded, would there?”

  “No,” Walsh said. “In fact, it’s actually a relatively old building remodeled a few years ago and outfitted with modern communications and telemetry. The communications portion of the building is shielded to protect transmitters from outside interference, but that’s the extent of it.”

  Marchetti then eyed Agent Somers. “So in the normal course of things you’d look every place you could think of in the operations room to locate anything suspicious? A bomb, for example.”

  He thought for a moment and nodded. “I wasn’t here at the time, but yes, I assume it was done. That would be procedure.”

  “Then why don’t we have our people give it a once-over now, just to satisfy all of us?” Captain Walsh said.

  “Control personnel are still analyzing telemetry data in the communications room,” Commander Kendall said.

  The captain thought about it further and then made a cell call. When he was finished, he gestured for Marchetti and base security NCOs to move away from the building, back toward the main gate.

  “That was base medical,” he said and shook his head. They’ve contacted CDC infectious diseases. No one inside for the launch leaves the building until further notice, and no one enters without full Hazmat gear.”

  41

  Agent Somers had a base corpsman check his Hazmat gear and then nodded to the maintenance and master-at-arms enlisted men similarly outfitted. Somers and five NCOs–three from base maintenance, two from security–entered the operations building and began inspecting every chair, table, monitor, lecturn, and piece of electronic equipment accessible in the surprisingly small control room.

  An hour later, they appeared ready to conclude there had been nothing to indicate a bio-weapon of any kind. The Chief Master-at-arms in charge looked around one last time–specifically at the walls and ceiling. The air conditioning system seemed a simple arrangement of return ducts at the base of two walls and four supply ducts in the ceiling.

  “How about we remove those grills,” he said to the base maintenance petty officer third class.

  One of the other maintenance NCOs nodded and retrieved a screwdriver from his maintenance kit. He first began attempting to remove screws on the air return duct grill on the south wall. It was obvious he was struggling. “They’ve been painted over and won’t budge,” he said, finally. “Don’t want to strip the heads.”

  “Which means they haven’t been removed recently, either–including by Secret Service agents,” the chief said.

  Agent Somers conceded the point.

  The maintenance NCO continued working on the grill but couldn’t loosen any of the four screws.

  A second NCO got down on his hands and knees and shined a flashlight into the return duct. After a minute, he shook his head. “Nothing I can see either.”

  They then moved to the second return duct grill, located on the west wall behind the lecturn, a few inches above the baseboard molding. The petty officer second class again knelt down with his screwdriver and began loosening the second set of screws.

  “No question… these have been loosened,” he said, as he continued working. The others walked over to join him. “Cleaned recently, too,” he added and set aside the grill. “No dust along the top edge like the other one had.”

  The senior NCO handed his partner the flashlight. The Master-at-arms second class shined the light inside the ductwork and looked up as far as he could. “It’s partially insulated and only as wide as the wall studs, so I can’t see very far.” He put the flashlight aside and reached up into the duct with his arm. After a few seconds, he said, “Hold on...” He lay down on his side and strained to reach his hand up the shaft as far as he could manage. “Bingo,” he said through the clumsy face mask, and slowly drew out his arm.

  “What’ve you got?” the chief asked.

  The second class got back on his knees and opened his hand. All six men stared fo
r a minute at the hard plastic, rectangular container two by three inches in size with a magnetic clip on one side and a small nozzle-type valve protruding from the end.

  Agent Somers set it down gently on a piece of paper towel. The chief found a small metal box in one of the cabinet drawers and gently placed what appeared to be a remotely-activated atomizer in the box.

  Somers left the room for outdoors while the chief and the others finished going through the control room.

  Once Somers removed his Hazmat outfit, he looked at Captain Walsh and asked, “Who had access to this room the past twenty-four hours?”

  “No one I know of, until we started admitting men who needed to get things ready for the launch.”

  “We’ll need names,” Somers said. “We found the atomizer.”

  Commander Kendall said, “It’s possible it’s been here for some time. A week or more, perhaps, and your agents simply didn’t find it.”

  He nodded. “Possible. But I suggest you seal off this building immediately and talk to CDC and state health authorities about whether or not you want to quarantine everyone present for the launch.” He then tapped on the small, metal atomizer and said, “At least until we determine what we’ve got. My lead agent will contact CDC and the FBI field office in Honolulu to have someone analyze this thing.”

  “Thank you,” Captain Walsh said, still not quite believing what’d happened.

  “Can we isolate everyone who was here for the launch?” Somers asked.

  “Isolate them where?” Kendall snapped. “We’re not equipped for that.”

  “How many people are we talking about?” the captain asked.

  Kendall thought for a moment. “Probably the fifteen still in the building now, plus at least ten others present during the launch who’ve gone back to their posts. The president’s party, too, of course.”

  Somers looked back at the operations building. “We don’t know for sure yet whether the atomizer had been activated, but if it contained smallpox or some other deadly virus, the last thing we want is to have it spread throughout the base.”

  “Absolutely,” Walsh said, “at least until we find out what it is. The prudent thing to do would be to keep them separated at least from the general base population until the bioweapons experts determine whether it’s communicable.”

  “Some have comingled with base personnel to some extent already, “ Kendall said. “If it has been activated, we could have an outbreak of our own right here on the base.”

  Agent Somers nodded. “The FBI needs to get involved immediately. It’s their area of expertise, not ours, except for how it relates to the president.”

  “Of course. We’ll give them whatever resources they need,” Captain Walsh said.

  Marchetti walked up to the others and added, “And while you’re talking with them, ask the Honolulu agents what they’ve come up with concerning the outbreak on the mainland. CDC says it originated in the Hawaiian Islands, so there’s definitely a connection.”

  Somers nodded and assured them he’d pass it on to the lead agent assigned to the president.

  Marchetti turned to Somers and said, “I’d like to head back to Lihue as soon as possible, if you’re okay with that.

  Somers nodded. “Sure. I’ve got to get going too, to join up with the presidential detail. I’m sure my supervisor has plans for me tonight.”

  “Will you be talking to this Hollingsworth person soon?” Kendall asked.

  “Expect to. He’s got some explaining to do.”

  Marchetti added, “I’d suggest getting hold of him before he has a chance to get off the island.”

  Kendall looked at Marchetti disapprovingly. “You’re not in Dallas anymore, podner. I’d leave investigating threats to the president to the big boys, if I were you.”

  Marchetti glared back. “Thanks for the advice, commander. But if Hollingsworth is as guilty as we think, he’s not going to stick around long. He may be off the island already.”

  “We’ll take care of it,” Somers said.

  Kendall walked away to rejoin Captain Walsh.

  Somers then handed Marchetti his card. “Our temporary headquarters is on the ground floor of police headquarters in Lihue.” He looked at his watch. “We’d like you to also come by later, say in a couple of hours?”

  “I’ll be there,” Marchetti said.

  42

  Marchetti drove east on Route 50, pushing the speed limit, deep in thought. Five miles east of Barking Sands, where the road makes a sharp curve to the right, a black SUV suddenly pulled out from behind a road sign and blocked Marchetti’s lane. Seconds later, a second vehicle–a silver Honda van–pulled out right behind the SUV and blocked the opposite lane, as well.

  “What the hell–?” he said to himself, as he braked hard to a stop.

  A defensive tackle-size man holding a semi-automatic pistol got out of the van and stood to Marchetti’s left. Two others jumped from the black Ford SUV on the right holding semi-automatic rifles. A fourth individual remained in in the driver’s seat of the silver van observing the stop.

  One of the men to Marchetti’s right was the spitting image of former Panamanian dictator Manuel Noriega. Short and squatty; pock-marked, pineapple face; with a weathered, sunburned complexion. His partner was a musclebound guy with a tight, black T-shirt and tan cargo pants.

  When muscles began to circle around behind his car, Marchetti started to raise his hand closer to his shoulder holster, but then changed his mind about challenging them. He was seriously outnumbered and outarmed.

  Marchetti exited the car and asked pineapple face, “What’s the problem?”

  Marchetti heard muscles call his partner Pika.

  Pika said, “Mr. Hollingsworth wants to see you.”

  “I’m pretty busy right now. Why don’t we make it some other time.”

  Pika put his hand on his rifle. “It wasn’t a request.”

  One look at the man’s steely, nasty-looking glare and Marchetti decided he was mucho serious. He slowly dropped his hand back down to his side. Muscles, with his tight black shirt and gross teeth, was behind him now waving his rifle in an erratic, threatening manner.

  The man on Marchetti’s left hadn’t said anything yet, but he was four inches taller and twenty pounds heavier than either Pika or muscles. He had a pronounced scar on his neck, and his forearms were covered with colorful tattoos.

  Tattoo-man remained beside the van holding his pistol, while muscles–whom Pika referred to as Akamu–began patting down Marchetti. He pulled the revolver from his shoulder holster, then stepped back and spit at Marchetti’s feet before walking back to his vehicle.

  “You’re going to wish you hadn’t done that, shitbag,” Marchetti said. He focused on the man’s features to make sure he’d remember him clearly.

  Pika pointed his rifle toward the Expedition and ordered him inside.

  “Seems you’ve done Mr. Hollingsworth a favor, Marchetti,” he said, gesturing toward the front passenger seat. “We didn’t have to spend a whole lot of time finding you... you came to us.”

  Marchetti reluctantly shuffled toward the SUV and climbed into the front seat. Akamu slammed the door closed and took the bench seat behind him. Pika called tattoo-man Kale before he got behind the wheel of the SUV and cranked the engine. Kale crawled into Marchetti’s rented Charger to lead the three vehicle procession.

  The four men sped off down Highway 50. Marchetti figured they’d be taking him to the Plantation House since Hollingsworth’s lab had to have been smoke and ashes by now. When he realized they were continuing east past the scene of Brad Vaughn’s accident, he was even more convinced of it.

  Marchetti kept looking around trying to figure out where they were, since he wasn’t familiar with the island’s south coast and failed to recognize landmarks along the way. He wondered if, once they reached Hollingsworth’s place, he’d have a better chance to break free. But if anything, he figured, Hollingsworth would have additional guards and staff in
place, making escape even more difficult, not less. I’m guessing we won’t be sitting around over tea and cookies either.

  Marchetti sat back and considered possible ways to escape, but every option seemed either foolhardy or unrealistic.

  When they’d gone at least another five miles–past the Route 530 turnoff–Kale, driving Marchetti’s car, slowed and made a sharp turn to the left onto a more narrow two-lane road. The other two vehicles followed close behind. Has to be Plantation House all right. Tom described the area well. Marchetti looked over his shoulder to see Akamu staring at him, fingering the stock of his rifle.

  Once they’d reached the house, they opened the wrought iron fence and pulled up the driveway. Kale stopped Marchetti’s car on the circle drive toward the rear of the two-story mansion and jumped out. Pika pulled up beside him.

  Once Hollingsworth’s guards were beside the door of the SUV, Akamu ordered Marchetti out.

  Marchetti heard Akamu tell Kale to take him inside, while he and Pika would leave in a few minutes to meet Hollingsworth at a nearby airport–Port Andrews, he thought they said, which Marchetti didn’t recognize.

  Kale marched Marchetti inside through a back door and directed him to a combination workshop and workout space at the rear of the first floor.

  The sparse furnishings of the workout room consisted of a motorized treadmill, stationary bicycle, weights and bench, and a small-screen TV set on a table in front of the treadmill. The workshop portion had a wooden bench up against the wall, with a vise, tool cabinet on wheels, peg board over the workbench with assorted tools mounted on it, and a Shopvac, broom, and dustpan on the floor off to the side.

  He looked around for something he could possibly use to break free but saw nothing. Even if he got free, running wasn’t an option; he’d be shot or captured within minutes and become a mere note in the police log. I’m guessing my hours here are numbered, without a miracle.