The Omega Covenant

by Richard Holcroft

  Tom nodded and picked up his pace.

  When they’d reached position at the northwest corner of the hangar, they saw a metal entry door a third of the way down the corrugated metal siding.

  Marchetti remained where he was, while Tom crept alongside the hangar toward the entry door.

  When he’d reached it, he slowly turned the handle ninety degrees and tugged several times, but it wouldn’t budge.

  He shook his head and walked back to where Marchetti was kneeling. “It’s locked,” Tom said. “We’ll need to go through the large doors.”

  It was nearly dark by now, with the hangar lights and half-moon providing most of the usable light.

  “What kind of aircraft has he got?” Marchetti asked.

  “Light twin–Cessna 210, maybe–facing east about ten feet from the far door. They’ve gotta be almost finished. I’m guessing a twin that size won’t hold much more and still get off the ground.”

  Marchetti thought for a moment. “If weight’s an issue, they might cut down on gas. He won’t need much if only going to Oahu. If it’s Maui or the Big Island, it’d be different.”

  “No way to tell.”

  “Think we can disable the aircraft somehow while still in the hangar?”

  Tom shook his head. “Don’t see how as long as they’re constantly moving in and out. They’d drop us before we got anywhere close. If they’d spend more time outside–near the SUV, for example–we might have a decent chance.”

  “Battling it out isn’t an option, either. We’re seriously overmatched, in numbers and weapons.”

  Tom studied the aircraft again for a moment. “We’d better do something fast. They’re closing the cargo door.” He took another quick look. “I assume they’ve done a basic weight and balance for takeoff.”

  “Hollinsworth’s a scientist. I don’t see him being sloppy about something like that.”

  “In any event, I doubt getting out of here will be a problem, even with only a couple of thousand feet of runway. It’s a cool night, at sea level, and the wind’s right down the runway.”

  “It might be best then to try to disable the aircraft before he gets anywhere near the takeoff end.” Marchetti tried to think of possible options. “What if we pull your car out behind him on the taxiway once he passes us by and shoot out his tires, or take out one of the engines?”

  Tom thought about it briefly. “That might work. We position the car where he can’t see us with our lights out, then come at him from behind as he taxis for takeoff.”

  Marchetti nodded. “Disable the sucker and hold him until the Kauai police or assault team arrives.”

  “And arrest us all.”

  Marchetti again glanced around the airport. “We’ll have to take our chances with that. With all the agencies involved–police, Secret Service, FBI–they should be able to straighten things out quickly, arrest Hollingsworth, and let us go home.”

  “You’d think,” Tom said. “But don’t count on it. Different agencies don’t usually work together, unless they’re part of a joint task force.”

  “And like Kalani said, this military group may be after us, not Hollingsworth.”

  Satisfied that stopping Hollingsworth before he reached the runway was still their best option, they were about to leave their position near the hangar to walk back to Tom’s vehicle when Marchetti heard the raised voices of two men arguing inside.

  One voice was clearly that of Hollingsworth. The second was oddly familiar, but Marchetti couldn’t place it.

  Then it hit him! He shook his head at the incongruity of what he’d just heard: the raised voice of Commander David Kendall.

  They heard Kendall say, “A friend at the Joint Chiefs says we’re changing details of the Iranian strike. Why wasn’t I told?”

  “A group decision,” Hollingsworth said, matter-of-factly.

  “Damn it, Kent. From the very beginning, a major part of the plan was to cripple Iran’s bomb-making ability–we or the Israelis would do it as soon as the Saudis signed off on the deal, which they’ve done. So what the hell’s happened?”

  “Change of plans, that’s all.”

  After a few moments of silence, Kendall let out a sigh, as if he’d been hit by a Mark 50 torpedo. “Listen, if it wasn’t for me we wouldn’t have even gotten this far,” he snapped, his voice louder and more emotional now. “I did my part for God’s sake, getting the virus aboard the cruise ship and inside the ops room–risking my life and career in the process.”

  Marchetti couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

  Kendall continued, “I didn’t put myself in this position just to get shoved aside for some bullshit reason!”

  Marchetti pictured Hollingsworth trying to hold his temper while coming up with a different lame explanation about Kendall being cut out of the plans.

  “You don’t have enough skin in the game for one thing,” he said.

  “Enough skin in the game?” Kendall said, followed by a sarcastic laugh. “You mean other than a possible courtmartial for treason?”

  “You opened up your mouth to too many people.”

  “That’s bullshit, if you’re talking about Vaughn. I had to talk to him! He suspected military personnel might be involved in a plan to topple the president and had his facts down tight. But I never said a word that would divulge details or incriminate us in any way.” He paused when a box slammed hard onto the hangar floor. “And all I said to Marchetti and Shannon was to confirm what they’d already learned from Vaughn’s notes... and talking with his girlfriend.” Marchetti could hear the click of heels pacing the hangar floor. “Think about it,” Kendall said. “They knew I’d spoken with Vaughn; I just wanted to make it sound like I’d been cooperating with him before he died, without giving specifics of the plan he’d heard rumors about.”

  “You think about it, Kendall. Best thing for you to do is go back to your cushy navy job, keep your damn mouth shut, and no one will be the wiser. We’ll handle it from here.”

  Marchetti slumped back against the hangar wall, still stunned over what they’d heard. As much as he now despised the commander, he needed him alive. He’d be a critical witness later on in prosecuting Hollingsworth and the others.

  They hustled back to where Tom’s SUV was parked. They assumed Hollingsworth would be piloting the aircraft since they didn’t see anyone else at the hangar besides Kendall and the two guards. Kendall, most likely, wouldn’t be going anywhere based on the sound of their argument.

  As Hollingsworth slowly steered the aircraft down the angled taxiway toward the takeoff end of the runway, Marchetti suddenly saw a dark vehicle high-tailing from the hangar headed their way. “Has to be Pika and Akamu,” he said. “Hollingsworth spotted us.”

  “Get out of the car!” Tom said. “We’re sitting ducks in here.”

  They leapt from the vehicle and took positions behind it.

  Tom checked his weapon to confirm he still had ten rounds remaining. He slapped the magazine back into the grip and braced his wrist on the roof of the car. “How many have you got?” he asked.

  Marchetti said, “Ten rounds in the Ruger, six in the revolver.”

  “Use them wisely. We’re kinda short.”

  “Right,” Marchetti said, clutching the Ruger.

  The dark vehicle, clearly an SUV, headed for Tom’s car at a high enough speed Marchetti thought the driver was going to ram them. As it turned to pass in front of them, Pika, sitting forward in the back seat, stuck a rifle out his open window and fired a volley of rounds at Tom’s 4Runner, hitting the ground short of the driver-side door. Stones and dirt spattered up against the left-side doors and windows.

  Tom let loose with two rounds from his Glock, shattering the SUV’s backseat window. Pika’s second volley tore holes in the Toyota’s left front fender. Marchetti and Tom fired back with two single rounds each, as Hollingsworth’s driver swerved sharply and circled around for what appeared to be another pass.

  As the SUV closed on them aga
in, Marchetti fired a short burst with the Ruger. Glass shattered the guards’ windshield below the rearview mirror. The driver swerved sharply to the left. Marchetti fired another three rounds, as the vehicle skidded through the turn and headed back toward the hangar. He thought he might have hit Pika but couldn’t be sure.

  “You get them,” Marchetti yelled. “I’ve got Hollingsworth.”

  Tom didn’t understand until he heard him call Ryan on his cell.

  “Can you pick me up near where Tom’s car was parked? Hollingsworth’s about to escape.”

  “Be there in a minute.”

  Marchetti counted the number of rounds remaining in his handguns: four in the Ruger, four in the revolver.

  Hollingsworth’s taxi light illuminated the asphalt ahead as he made his way to the runway. Marchetti estimated Hollingsworth was only a few minutes from completing his pre-departure checks before takeoff.

  A minute later he heard the sound of rotor blades and the high-pitched whine of a turbine approaching. When Ryan reached the airport service road, he dropped down to ten or fifteen feet with lights blazing to clear the landing area.

  He set the helicopter down a few feet away from where Marchetti was standing. Marchetti made a dash for the Eco-Star and quickly donned the headset.

  Ryan lifted off, spun the chopper around, and accelerated across the grass infield.

  Marchetti braced his arms against the glareshield. They were within a hundred yards of Hollingsworth’s aircraft when he started his takeoff roll.

  “Tell me I’m not going to prison for this,” Ryan said.

  “Naw, you’re all right,” Marchetti said. “Close up on his left side... twenty, thirty feet away if you can.”

  Ryan swung the helicopter slightly left of the Cessna twin, now rolling down the runway. As they drew closer and accelerated through fifty knots, Marchetti stuck the Ruger through a small, hinged opening in the side window. Ryan couldn’t see the other aircraft from the pilot’s seat but maintained lateral position using Marchetti’s hand gestures and Hollingsworth’s top-mounted, anti-collision light.

  Marchetti motioned for him to slide the chopper a few yards more to the left. As they drew abeam the Cessna, Marchetti let loose with the few rounds he had remaining in the Ruger. One lucky shot is all I need, he thought.

  Marchetti swapped weapons. They were doing maybe seventy knots by now, halfway down the runway. Marchetti’s arm was shaking so badly from airframe vibration he could hardly sight in on the entire aircraft, much less a single engine.

  He again braced his arm on the small window opening and fired off a round with the revolver. A few seconds later, steam began spewing from the cowling of Hollingsworth’s left engine. Oil streaked over the top wing surface, and the aircraft suddenly yawed left of centerline.

  “Got him,” Marchetti said and gave Ryan a thumbs up. Ryan eased back on the cyclic and slowly dropped back away from the Cessna. “Wait for him to abort and set down next to him.”

  Ryan nodded and dropped back further.

  Marchetti’s eyes then widened. “He’s not stopping!”

  They watched Hollingsworth attempt to rotate and lift off. “He’s not going to make it!” Ryan said.

  As Hollingsworth’s aircraft staggered into the air, his right wing came up sharply and the nose veered hard to the left. Seconds later, the left prop and wingtip caught asphalt in a hail of sparks.

  The aircraft cartwheeled off the runway. Hollingsworth plowed across the infield upside down, with grass and dirt flying in all directions. The aircraft spun a full circle inverted and ended up facing the hangars.

  The left main landing gear collapsed; the left prop was bent and nearly torn from its hub.

  “Move in on him,” Marchetti directed.

  Ryan set the chopper down a few yards downwind of the disabled aircraft and shut down the turbine. Marchetti jumped out as Hollingsworth struggled to exit the partially open, pilot-side door.

  Marchetti tackled him as he crawled out from under the wing.

  “It’s over, Hollingsworth!” Marchetti barked. He grabbed Hollingsworth’s wrists and forced his hands behind his back.

  Ryan came running toward them with a four-foot length of rope. Marchetti wrapped it around Hollingsworth’s wrists and tied it off.

  He’d just gotten to his feet when he saw a larger helicopter headed toward the airport from over the water.

  At the same time, two squad cars with lights on and sirens blaring appeared speeding down the hill toward the airport. One skidded through the open gate, headed for Hollingsworth’s hangar. The other passed through the gate, raced down the runway, and pulled to a stop in front of the inverted aircraft.

  Two officers exited the patrol car with guns drawn. They walked up to Marchetti and Ryan and ordered Marchetti to drop his weapon.

  Marchetti said, “This man is responsible for an attempted smallpox attack on the president this morning, and a plan to assassinate him at the Harborview Resort tonight.” Marchetti paused to catch his breath. “He was trying to escape; we had no choice but to stop him any way we could.”

  As the policemen tried to make sense of what’d happened, a black helicopter with a twelve-inch gold seal as its lone exterior marking swooped in low and set down a hundred feet down the runway. Four men dressed in dark flightsuits leaped out and hurried toward Marchetti and the others with guns drawn. Seconds later, an unmarked black SUV squealed through the gate and pulled to a stop behind the police squad car. Three Secret Service agents in white shirts got out and joined the melee.

  Tom pulled up in his damaged 4Runner a few minutes later,

  Marchetti said, “They also held Tom here captive all night and planned to kill him, as well.”

  The senior police officer busily jotted down notes, shaking his head. The assault team leader listened briefly and then interrupted. “You need to come with us. Some people need to talk to you.”

  “Who are these guys?” Marchetti asked the police sergeant. “If we go anywhere, it’ll be with you.”

  “Where’s Sergeant Kalani?” Tom asked.

  “On his way.”

  “Then we’ll wait. He’s aware of what we had on Hollingsworth from the git-go. He wouldn’t let this group take us away without authority or explanation.”

  The military officer shook his head. “Local police are not in charge here.”

  This is insane, Marchetti thought. If we go with these guys, whoever they are, we may never be heard from again. He then turned to the military officer with bars on his collar who appeared to be in charge. “You still haven’t answered my question: Upon whose authority are you acting?”

  The officer paused a few moments and said, “National Security Operations Command, on orders of the defense department.” He pulled a .45 from his holster and pointed it at Marchetti. “Now if you’ll come with us–”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Kunia Naval Base.”

  It was obvious now, the Kauai police had ceded authority to the military assault team without saying a word.

  As Marchetti and Tom reluctantly started toward the unmarked helicopter, they glanced to their left at another patrol car racing toward the airport.

  The black-and-white skidded to a stop close beside the military chopper. A young Kauai police corporal stepped from the driver’s seat; Sergeant Kalani exited the front passenger side, casually brushing aside one of the assault team members.

  “What’s going on?” Kalani asked.

  The officer drew an ID wallet from the breast pocket of his flightsuit and flipped it open for Kalani to examine. “Navy Lieutenant Fellows with the National Security Operations Command at Kunia Naval Base. I have orders to take these two men in for questioning,” he said, nodding toward Marchetti and Tom.

  Kalani studied the officer’s identification for a few moments and then handed it back to him. “You have no authority on Kauai,” he said, with no hint of stress in his voice. “They’re coming with me; you can talk to th
em when we’re finished.”

  The lieutenant paused a few minutes, then holstered his weapon and walked a few yards away from the group to call his superior officer. Kalani made arrangements with the other policemen to transport Marchetti and Tom to the station in Lihue. The remaining two officers would take Hollingsworth in a second car to be interrogated.

  Marchetti reminded them that Hollingsworth might have the smallpox pathogen on him, or in the aircraft. Kalani assigned the corporal to search Hollingsworth and the aircraft. He advised him to secure the objects if found, while he called the infectious disease control office in Lihue. Once they were certain the smallpox vials had been secured, they’d have a couple of detectives go through the aircraft and make arrangements to transport it back to the hangar.

  “This is now a crime scene,” Kalani said. “We’ll get your car back to the rental agency when we’re finished, Mr. Shannon.” He then looked at Keith Ryan, “I’ll have an officer stay while you secure your chopper, but you need to come downtown tonight, too. We’ll make sure you get home afterward.”

  Ryan nodded.

  During the short drive to Lihue, Sergeant Kalani advised Marchetti that he’d spoken with FBI Special Agent Henley in Dallas. And while the Kauai police and Secret Service still wanted to interview them, he and Tom were not considered suspects in a federal crime and to his knowledge would not be charged. FBI agents on temporary duty on Kauai would question them in the morning before heading back to Washington or Honolulu a few days later.

  Dog-tired, both Marchetti and Shannon lay back in the patrol car’s cushy back seat and caught catnaps during the short ride back to Lihue.

  48

  Harper’s Ferry, WV

  Located an hour’s drive from the Capitol, the roomy fishing lodge on the west bank of the Potomac suited the small gathering perfectly for both convenience and security.

  The log-built, three-bedroom structure had been used for years as a getaway second home by Leland Morehead, founder and CEO of Spectrum Research, a low-profile consulting firm that catered to major defense and electronic manufacturers. Morehead often loaned it to friends and favored customers, however, for personal trysts and corporate seminars. Senator Nathan Roberts from Montana, Republican vice-chair of the Senate Intelligence Committee, was one such friend.