“Copy that,” the NAS Fallon controller said. “Do not deviate from your current course.”
“Understood,” I replied. “Will stay on heading one-three-two.”
Dinara entered the cockpit.
“Better strap yourself in,” I said.
She took the co-pilot’s chair and buckled up.
I switched to Fallon Municipal Airport tower frequency. “FLX Fallon, FLX Fallon, this is November Six Three Zero Sierra Tango flying from San Francisco to New York. We’ve encountered an electrical fault and need to land to make repairs.”
“Copy that, November Six Three Zero Sierra Tango,” a man replied. Calm and measured, he lacked the authoritarian tone of the military air traffic controller. “Are you deadstick?” he asked, using the aviation term for an unresponsive aircraft.
“Negative,” I replied. I didn’t want the airport crash tenders being deployed. “We think it’s a blown fuseboard.”
“Copy that,” the Fallon Municipal controller replied. “Stay on approach one-three-two. Runway thirteen is clear.”
“Copy,” I said, making my final preparations. “We’ll be on the ground in ten minutes,” I told Dinara. “I hope Hector’s there, because when they realize our tail number doesn’t match the one I’ve given them, there’s going to be trouble.”
CHAPTER 103
I NEEDN’T HAVE worried. Hector was there waiting in a gray Jeep Grand Cherokee and drove across the airfield to meet us the moment the airstairs touched the asphalt. Hector Lopez had a high forehead, chiseled cheekbones, and narrow eyes that exuded intelligence. He was an approachable man with a strong sense of honor, and I’d warmed to him the instant he’d arrived for his interview. He stepped out of the jeep, wearing a light blue bomber jacket, a navy shirt and black jeans.
“Good to see you, boss,” he said as we hurried over to the SUV. “Wish it was under better circumstances.”
After the freezing cold of Moscow and New York, the sweet, cool breeze of a mild Nevada winter seemed almost tropical. I jumped in the passenger seat, and Dinara climbed in the back. The dashboard clock said 10:51 a.m.
“How did you get on the field?” I asked as he started driving toward the small terminal building.
“I flashed my old Bureau ID,” Hector explained. “I know, I know, it’s a felony to impersonate an FBI agent, but I used to be one, so it’s kind of a gray area. At least in my mind. I told the airport manager that no matter what he heard, this plane was Bureau and it was not to be interfered with.”
I was impressed with Hector’s resourcefulness.
“Hector Lopez, this is Dinara Orlova,” I said. “Hector runs Private Vegas. Dinara is head of Private Moscow.”
“Good to meet you,” Hector said.
“You also,” Dinara replied.
“So where are we going?” Hector asked.
“Naval Air Station Fallon,” I replied. “We need to get inside.”
Hector puffed out his cheeks and exhaled slowly, and a look of disbelief swept across his face. “I don’t think my old Bureau ID will work on those fellas.”
“Leave it to me,” I said. “I’ll get us in.”
Hector didn’t look convinced, but he nodded. He flashed his Bureau ID at the airport gate guard, and moments later we were gathering speed on Rio Vista Drive.
CHAPTER 104
THE MUNICIPAL AIRPORT was located northeast of Fallon, and the Naval Air Station was seven miles directly south, on the other side of town. They traveled through a flat, arid landscape, which was broken only by the occasional single story-home. High mountains wrinkled the distant horizon. No one said anything, and Hector Lopez covered the distance in twelve minutes.
Dinara had felt strange being introduced as the head of Private Moscow. She’d appreciated Jack’s gesture, but it had rung hollow. There wasn’t really anything to be head of. Leonid was gone, which only left Elena Kabova. Dinara wondered if the office administrator had been pulled in for questioning, or whether she was sitting in the Moscow office, puzzling over what had happened.
Dinara had slept on the plane, and her kaleidoscopic dreams had been dominated by Leonid’s death. She kept replaying the awful moment, despairing at her inability to save him. She’d slept but she didn’t feel rested, and the flat, desolate, alien landscape made her experience feel even more surreal. She was traveling with one of the world’s most wanted men, and they were about to attempt to infiltrate a high-security military installation.
Dinara studied Jack for any clue to his plan, but he was stony-faced. Did he even have a plan? Or was this simply the last gamble of a desperate man?
“Here goes,” Hector said as he made a left off Pasture Road onto a private driveway that led to a guardhouse. A wedge barrier blocked the road ahead of the guardhouse; then there were a couple of chicanes and finally a gate. Signs either side of the driveway warned trespassers they would be prosecuted.
“Want to tell me what you’ve got in mind, boss?” Hector asked.
“Show your ID,” Jack replied as the SUV rolled toward the wedge barrier.
A uniformed Marine emerged from the guardhouse. He held an assault rifle in the ready position. Dinara could see him looking at Hector’s ID from a distance.
“Just get us to the guardhouse,” Jack muttered.
“Then what?” Hector asked, but the question went unanswered.
Dinara’s entire body bristled with nervous energy, and her heart felt as though it might burst from her chest. But she sat perfectly still and pretended to be calm.
Up ahead, the Marine finally nodded at someone inside the guardhouse, and the wedge barrier descended into the road.
“Boss?” Hector asked.
“Drive on,” Jack replied.
Hector steered around the chicanes slowly, and stopped beside the Marine.
Dinara took a deep breath and held it as Hector lowered his window.
“State your business,” the Marine said.
Dinara gasped when Jack Morgan produced Hudson’s pistol and pointed it at Hector’s head.
“I want to see Colonel Steve Fuller, the base XO. If he’s not here in three minutes, I will execute these hostages.”
The Marine stepped back and raised his rifle. “Put the gun down!” he yelled.
A klaxon sounded, and more Marines ran from the guardhouse and surrounded the vehicle, their weapons trained on Jack.
“Boss,” Hector said anxiously.
Dinara was trembling, but when she looked at Jack, she saw nothing but ice in his eyes.
“Two minutes thirty,” Jack said.
“Drop it!” another Marine commanded.
“Put the gun down!” the first Marine shouted. “Or I will open fire.”
“Jack,” Hector said nervously.
Dinara jumped when there was sudden movement, and Jack’s passenger door was yanked open and he was pulled roughly from the car. A huge Marine pushed Jack to the ground, and ripped the pistol from his grasp.
Two other Marines pointed their assault rifles at Jack’s head.
“Don’t move!” one of them commanded.
The look on Jack’s face made it clear to Dinara that she’d just witnessed the last gamble of a desperate man.
CHAPTER 105
“YOU’VE GOT TO listen to me, corporal,” I said. “I need to see Colonel Steve Fuller right now.”
I was in the back of a Marine Corps Police vehicle. The large white Dodge Durango SUV was flashed with the red and blue livery of the Corps, and a gold Marine Police badge dominated both front doors. I’d thought my days of being subject to military justice were long gone, but I was in the charge of a corporal, who sat in the front passenger seat, and a private who was driving. The corporal was in his mid-thirties; he had a weather-beaten face and the calm demeanor of someone with a great deal of experience. He was too old for advancement and too young for retirement. The private couldn’t have had more than a couple of years under his belt. Unlike his partner, he’d looked anxious when
the fire-watch team at the guardhouse had handed me over.
“The national security of the United States is at stake, corporal,” I said, focusing my attention on the older man, hoping his experience would enable him to recognize I was telling the truth.
I saw a flicker of interest, but the private shot the corporal a skeptical glance.
After my arrest, my wrists had been cable-tied and I’d been frogmarched to the Durango. If I couldn’t convince the corporal and his sidekick, I had no doubt I was headed for the brig, where I’d be held until they could figure out which particular branch of law enforcement got me first. News of my capture would travel fast, and the vultures would already be circling.
“Come on, corporal. I was a winger, a Corps pilot, in Afghanistan with MAG Forty. I’m a patriot, corporal. I served with honor, and I swear by God and country that I’m telling the truth.”
I saw him waver, but the change was momentary, and was quickly replaced by stern detachment.
I hadn’t seen what had happened to Dinara and Hector, but they would be safe. I hadn’t shared my plan for fear they’d try to talk me out of it. There had been a good chance of me getting shot, but I’d bet my life on the training and discipline of the Marine Corps, and I hadn’t been disappointed. I had been about to surrender my weapon when I’d been hauled out of Hector’s car. It had always been my plan to get taken into custody; I just hadn’t expected to get winded in the process. Becoming a military prisoner seemed the surest way for a wanted fugitive to get on base.
“Come on, corporal,” I said. “You’re smart. Just give me five minutes with Colonel Fuller and if he doesn’t believe me, you can lock me up and throw away the key.”
The Durango came to a halt, and the corporal and the private jumped out. I saw a concrete building directly ahead of us. A blue sign hung above a security door and white letters declared this was the “Transient Personnel Unit Pre-Trial Confinement Facility Fallon.” The brig. If I was taken inside, all was lost.
“Corporal, what time is it?” I asked as they opened the Durango’s back door.
He checked his watch. “Eleven twenty-five.”
“We’ve got thirty-five minutes,” I told him. “You have to listen to me.”
He considered my pleas. “I will contact Colonel Fuller once you’ve been processed.”
“That will be too late,” I protested. “We don’t have time.”
“Bring him out,” the corporal ordered.
The private pulled my arm, and I got to my feet. When I stepped onto the lip of the footwell, I lashed out and kicked the private in the face. He fell onto the corporal, who fumbled for his sidearm as he and the private collapsed in a heap.
I jumped from the Durango and raised my hands high behind me, until it felt as though my shoulders might slip from their sockets. As I hit the asphalt, I brought my wrists down against the small of my back and snapped the cable tie. I rushed the private, who was trying to pick himself up, but before he could react, I punched him, reached down to his waist, flipped his holster open and stole his sidearm. I aimed it at the corporal, who had managed to get hold of his own weapon.
“Drop it,” I commanded.
He hesitated.
“Do it now!” I yelled.
The corporal glared at me, but complied and tossed his gun.
“Corporal, if I take you hostage, there’s a good chance you and the private here will face disciplinary charges,” I said. “And I wouldn’t want that.”
He backed away as I stepped toward him.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” I assured him. “All I ask is that you trust me the way I’m going to trust you.”
I took a deep breath and played the biggest gamble of my life.
“Semper fidelis,” I said as I flipped the pistol and offered it to him. “Always loyal.”
CHAPTER 106
“I DON’T KNOW about this, Ryan,” the private said to the corporal as we drove across the base.
“Stow it, private,” the corporal replied. “It won’t cost anything but time to let the man have his say.”
Time was my enemy. After I’d surrendered the pistol, the corporal ordered us back into the Durango, and we set out for the command block.
“We’re here,” the private announced, and the Durango shuddered to a halt.
“Come on,” the corporal said, and the three of us jumped out of the vehicle and double-timed into the command building. We ran into the lobby and the corporal swiped us through a security door that led to the administration block.
“This way,” he said, and I followed him at a run, with the private trailing behind me.
We raced up the stairs and came to the senior officers’ wing. Someone yelled something down the corridor, but we ignored it and ran on.
We came to the executive officer’s suite, and a private sat at a desk outside a door marked “Colonel Steven Fuller.”
“Hey!” the man at the desk exclaimed as the corporal ran past and burst into Fuller’s office.
I followed him inside, and found Steve Fuller seated at his desk. He was in his late thirties, and had close-cut blond hair and bright, intelligent eyes. He exuded the kind of authority no rank could imbue. He reminded me of a hardened frontiersman, whose power to conquer mountains came from deep within.
“Corporal, there had better be one heck of an explanation for this,” Fuller said as he got to his feet.
“Colonel Fuller, my name is Jack Morgan,” I said. “Somewhere on this base a ceremony is taking place to mark the activation of the FORCE System. We have to stop it.”
“Your face is on every news bulletin. I know who you are, Mr. Morgan,” Fuller replied, stepping out from behind his desk. “And I know what people are saying about you.”
“None of it is true, sir,” I responded. “I have evidence that Ann Kavanagh, the woman who will be responsible for running the FORCE System, is a deep-cover Russian operative.”
“I assume this man was headed for the brig?” Fuller asked. “Who took the decision to bring him here?”
The private looked sheepish.
“It was my call, sir,” Corporal Ryan replied.
“Colonel Fuller, you have to listen to me. We have less than fifteen minutes. If I’m right, the moment the system comes online, the Russians will have access to America’s most sensitive security information,” I said. “They can start downloading everything and even if we shut it down later, we’ll never know what they’ve seen or taken. Our entire military and intelligence infrastructure will be compromised.”
During the flight from Moscow, I’d spent some time researching the officers posted to Naval Air Station Fallon and had chosen to target Fuller for a reason. It was time to play my hand. “Sir, you served with Lieutenant Colonel Edward Frost and Master Gunnery Sergeant Marlon West in Iraq. Lieutenant Colonel Frost is an old friend. He can vouch for me. And Master Gunnery Sergeant West has been involved in breaking this case. Call him. He can confirm what I’m saying.”
Fuller studied me intently.
“Corporal,” he said. I felt my chest tighten and I held a breath. “Take this man, and wait outside.”
“Yes, sir,” Corporal Ryan replied.
I gave a silent prayer of thanks and followed the corporal and the private out of Fuller’s office.
The corporal closed the door behind us, and we stood by the XO’s administrator’s desk and waited. Seconds seemed to last hours, and impatience and frustration swelled within me, but it couldn’t have been more than two minutes later when Fuller emerged from his office, alive with a sense of urgency.
“Let’s move,” he said.
He didn’t wait for us, but started jogging along the corridor. The private was incredulous, and Corporal Ryan gave me a respectful nod.
“Come on, Mr. Morgan,” Fuller shouted back at me, and I started after him. “Master Gunnery Sergeant West vouched for you in the strongest possible terms. It seems the flight crew assigned to bring you home were abducted by
the Russians. He was extremely surprised to hear you’d made it back safely.”
“I’m glad to hear he’s OK,” I said. “Last time I saw West, he was in a tight spot.”
“He told me,” Fuller replied. “Said it was hours before the Russians ‘found’ his diplomatic credentials and released him.”
“Sir, I came on base with two colleagues,” I said. “We may need their help.”
“Corporal Ryan, I want you and the private to bring Mr. Morgan’s team to the FORCE Command Center ASAP,” Fuller ordered.
“Yes, sir,” Corporal Ryan replied.
“We’ll meet you there,” Fuller said. “I hope you’re ready for this. You’re about to goat-rope a lot of brass.”
CHAPTER 107
FULLER’S STATEMENT ABOUT upsetting a lot of senior commanders made more sense when I saw the FORCE Command Center, which was a huge, hardened bunker to the east of the air traffic control building. About the size of four football fields, the bunker was constructed in matt black, and the flat roof was covered in sensor arrays, communication equipment and a massive cooling system.
As we approached the building in Fuller’s open-topped Humvee, I saw a convoy of more than forty vehicles parked outside the main entrance, and, in addition to Marine guards, there were a number of men and women in suits, wearing the distinctive lapel pins of the US Secret Service.
“What kind of brass are we talking?” I asked as Fuller pulled up outside the building.
“Secretary of Defense, most of the chiefs of staff, Pentagon types,” Fuller replied. “This is the Defense Department’s show-piece tech for the twenty-first century. It’s supposed to redefine warfare.”
We jumped out of the Humvee and I swallowed hard as we ran up the steps toward the smoked-glass doors.
Two Secret Service agents moved to intercept us; a tall, muscular woman who looked as though she knew her way around a chokehold, and a short, sinewy man who moved with the graceful elegance of a predator.
Private Moscow Page 26
