End Game

by Robert Stanek

  “Understood, sir,” the chief said formally before ending the call. He turned to the Kearsarge’s Operations Commander, who’d been standing a few feet away, and hung his head. Calling the vice admiral was a Hail Mary. The chief knew the chain of command and would never violate it unless asked—and he had been asked, and so he had tried. He tried because the fate of a half million people was at stake.

  Chapter 4

  Mediterranean Sea

  Afternoon, Wednesday, 20 June

  Behind him, as he dialed Captain Parker, the chief heard the Operations Commander shout, “Operation Valletta Sundown is a go. Repeat, Operation Valletta Sundown is a go. Get the word out to our teams.”

  Think, the chief told himself, his confidence shaken. Sundown was less than two hours away, but his sources said they didn’t even have that long before this all turned into an apocalyptic nightmare. Into the phone, he said, “Captain, do you have an update for me?”

  “Leaving the scene now. Response teams have the situation under control and forensics will be called in. Evers and I remain on point,” Captain Parker said, clear tension in her voice. “What’s the status of hazmat and bio containment?”

  “Hazmat duffels are being distributed but are to stay out of sight per Command,” the chief said. “Mobile bio containment units are being prepped for quick response in likely target zones. Some are being set up openly in the guise of Red Cross blood collection sites. In a staging area at the President’s Palace too. Get to one, if it comes to it, promise me.”

  “Will do, chief,” Captain Parker said. “Are they ever going to call this thing and make our job easier?”

  “Full-scale evacuation is out of the question. We still don’t know exactly what we’re dealing with and we don’t want Malta’s only airport to become the target,” the chief said. It wasn’t the truth, but the exact truth wasn’t something he was at liberty to share. He continued, “Prevention and suppression remain the primary objectives and failing that, isolation and quarantine. If what we’re facing is as bad as some of our analysts think it is, the fact that Malta is an island nation may be the only saving grace.”

  When the chief heard Captain Parker take in a deep breath, he knew he’d said enough to make her reassess the situation. He couldn’t speak openly, but he could try to warn those that mattered. Searches of Blake’s residences in the U.S. and abroad hadn’t revealed much, but documents found there, along with ones hidden in his University of Chicago offices had revealed plenty about a man who often stayed in the professor’s downtown apartment.

  Hints of a radicalized, transhuman agenda had emerged; hints that he wasn’t at liberty to share. He himself didn’t truly understand how an intellectual movement with a goal of fundamentally transforming the human condition using technology to enhance the human experience could be radicalized in such a way.

  Talk of singularities and biblical Genesis, the convergence of Omega and the fifth epoch of mankind, all seemed maniacal. How could one save mankind from superintelligences that didn’t yet exist by creating a cataclysm that would wake the universe? How could anyone save the world by destroying it? What did Revelations have to do with anything that was happening?

  While analysts and deep thinkers were working on answers, everyone in Washington was convinced that the man calling himself David Owen Blake was the real deal, with not only the know-how, but the means to cause a catastrophe of biblical proportions. The evidence to back that up was contained in a single vial found in a place no one was ever supposed to look.

  The pathogen in the vial was so deadly and viral, standing orders were for a complete lockdown of Malta’s ports and shipping lanes if the virus were to be released. They were to go as far as shooting down any planes and sinking any ships that sought to leave the island.

  The chief didn’t know how long the total quarantine would last once it began, but he did know that none of the half million people who lived on the island were expected to survive. It was the lives of a half a million weighed against the lives of millions, and perhaps even billions if the virus was as virulent as it seemed. As of a few minutes ago, his operatives and anyone else he deployed to the island were making a one-way trip. He didn’t like his orders, but his Hail Mary pass to bring about change had failed.

  The FBI and Homeland were interviewing neighbors, colleagues and associates of the real David Owen Blake, trying to ascertain the identity of his frequent house guest, but so far there was no progress to speak of.

  Chapter 5

  Mediterranean Sea

  Afternoon, Wednesday, 20 June

  Six heavily armed marines and two AFM soldiers accompanied Scott and Edie on their ride. The marines, part of the increasing tactical response, were all business as Scott expected them to be and though their unit leader was a captain, they took their orders from Edie. To a one, they were angry, itching for a fight and payback. Their brothers and sisters in arms were dying and the ones responsible were still at large.

  Edie was on command private over headset with the chief, so Scott had no one to voice his thoughts to. He was angry too, and he channeled that anger into his work, using the transit time and the Internet connection on his phone to learn what he could about their destination. Valletta, the capital city of Malta, was built in the 16th century during the rule of the Knights of Malta. Originally a gift to the knights, Il-Barrakka ta' Fuq was a public garden set at the highest point of the city walls. With its commanding views of Grand Harbour, old town and other low-lying parts of the capital, the garden was a crown jewel of the historic waterfront, with upper and lower sections separated from each other by several city blocks.

  While getting answers about Valletta was easy, getting answers out of Kathy was anything but. After the attack, she was even less present than before, her face paler, her lips quivering faster than before. Her only response to his queries about everything that had happened was a one word question: “Angel?”

  “Gone,” was his response. “Gone and lost to us.”

  A quick search of the body of Peyton Jones had turned up nothing of use. She didn’t have a cellphone or anything on her person other than a slip of paper with some numbers written on it. The bathing suit though had caught Scott’s eye. It was unusual, local and, Scott was sure, something that might help retrace her steps before the attack. He’d asked Edie to have local authorities check swim and surf shops.

  Peyton Jones had worn the suit and tied her hair back to blend in and it had worked, but what was she doing there at that particular time? How had she known they were coming? Had someone tipped her off?

  He and Edie exchanged looks that said everything and nothing at all. She smiled, well it was almost a smile or as much of a smile as she could manage given the circumstances, then she reached over and fixed the tie on his button down shirt. They’d cleaned themselves up in transit using wet towels. The clothes they were wearing were originally intended for the afternoon black tie event at the President’s Palace.

  A marine sergeant had run the clothes out to the chopper after a quick stop at Malta International for fuel. They’d also picked up some additional team members and some new gear, including tactical headsets that could be set to voice activation or passive keying-required mode. Edie’s headset also seemed to have options for reaching command privately.

  Protective attire capable of stopping most bullets and bomb shrapnel was high-end specialty wear that few companies manufactured. The Tagliente jacket over his soft, white silk shirt seemed to fit a little too snugly with the bulletproof gear underneath, but it also could have been the shoulder holster, which he was unused to. Edie for her part seemed regal in her flowing, black Versace gown. By the look of it, no one could ever tell that it too was chic ballistics wear designed with lightweight protective panels that zipped seamlessly into the lining.

  “That’s some dress,” Scott said, his eyes giving her lithe figure the onceover.

  “Back at you,” Edie said, running one of her long, slender fingers
along the inside of his thigh. “Always wanted to know what you’d look like clean shaven in a tuxedo.”

  “Now you know,” he replied.

  “I do,” she said, a hint of mirth at the edges of her lips. “Always knew you were a fixer-upper.”

  The levity in her expression was fleeting, lasting only moments to be replaced by a scowl he feared she’d wear until the end of days. She didn’t want to part with her machine gun, even when presented with a Springfield XDS 9mm and accompanying black carry purse, but she had once she strapped on a leg holster with a Ruger LC9 as a backup.

  Scott gazed blankly out the window, his thoughts continuing to swirl, as the helicopter sped across Grand Harbour and then made its way along the Valletta waterfront. The director told him Peyton had been brought in to clean up, but she seemed to be doing more than clean up. She seemed to be part of the conspiracy. Or was he missing something?

  According to the director, whatever was going to happen would commence in less than ninety minutes. Peyton Jones was the only accomplice whose whereabouts were known and she wouldn’t be talking to anyone again—ever. Alive she might have been coerced into answering some of these questions, but now any answers would have to come from forensics.

  As Edie ended the connection with the chief, another command communication came in. One that Scott saw agitated Edie instantly.

  Moments later, the chopper landed on the manicured green lawns of The Saluting Battery, where cannons stood vigil over the harbor as they had in the bygone days of the tall ships. Scott took in the beauty of the place as he exited the chopper. Across the water, he saw Fort Saint Angelo and on the tip of the next peninsula, the seaward bastion known as the Spur.

  Ceremonial guards stood vigil along the paths, having blocked off the lower grounds prior to the chopper’s arrival. The two AFM soldiers led the way toward the stairs, with the guards saluting as they passed. Scott spun around and stared into the upper gallery as the chopper lifted off. Beyond the viewing area and its railed balcony, he saw stone arches that lead to and from the gardens. If there were answers to be had, they’d be found along the pathways of the gardens.

  Edie waved her team on, shouting, “Go, go, go! Sweep the area and report.” Then she waved Scott over and the two broke away from the others. “You were right,” she said excitedly. “The suit was important. Surveillance video from the swim shop where she got the suit is coming over now.”

  She played the video on her phone and Scott watched the gruesome events as she did. Mostly the video was of the front showroom, but there were views into the back areas. Edie let Scott take the controls and he fast-forwarded through parts, including the brutal murder of the clerk. He was more interested in Peyton’s entrance, which had been from the rear of the shop, and the bag she carried than with what happened. Then he saw it, the money shot, between the opening into the backroom where minutes earlier the clerk’s legs had been twitching and shaking as she was being strangled.

  “There,” he said, pausing the video at the point where Peyton unzipped the bag and checked its contents. “That proves she’s responsible for everything that happened at the rendezvous.”

  “It does,” Edie said, her eyes focused on the bomb in the backpack, “and it proves we’re on the right trail.”

  “I know we are,” Scott said, “but I think we need to go back and talk to Kathy. One of us at least. We need answers only she can give us.”

  “I agree,” Edie said. “If she isn’t talking yet, we may be the only ones capable of getting through to her. I’ll check on her status when I talk to Command.”

  Scott went back to the video. He paused and zoomed in, pointed. “Do you see? The watch.” He went back 15 seconds and then started the video again. “See there… She programmed the watch somehow to be the trigger.”

  “No watch or a phone when we checked her body,” Edie said.

  “Exactly, but that doesn’t mean she didn’t ditch it after triggering the bomb.” Scott closed his eyes and tried to picture the earlier events in his mind. “The black band of the smartwatch is distinctive, not that many people wear smart devices. Can you get forensics to look for the watch specifically so we can confirm she was the one on the trigger and that there aren’t any accomplices? Bystanders, the works. See if anyone saw that watch.”

  Edie nodded, and started up the steps to the main viewing gallery and gardens. “Scott, there’s something else I have to tell you.” she said, reaching out to him as he walked beside her, “from the chief.” She paused, a serious look on her face. “The situation is more serious that we know. I know they’ve uncovered something they’re aren’t sharing.”

  “How bad is it?” Scott said.

  “They’re talking isolation and quarantine if we fail. That means it’s as bad as it gets.”

  Scott paused in his climb, and reached out to Edie. She was tough as nails, but human. He saw the tears building behind her eyes and pulled her to him. “Damn it, Edie, you’re not carbon steel,” he whispered. “Lian and Angel were some of the few good ones. Let it out, there’s no one to see but me, and I won’t tell a soul.”

  He leaned in and kissed the tears beneath her eyes. She gripped his hands and squeezed.

  Chapter 6

  Mediterranean Sea

  Afternoon, Wednesday, 20 June

  Wordlessly, Edie continued with Scott up to the main viewing gallery. The path at the top of the stairs took them along a painted railing, where tourists and regulars were taking in the spectacular views of the harbor. They passed couples holding hands and staring out into the distance; moms, dads and kids posing for photos; a lone man with a pair of binoculars. But she didn’t really see anything beyond faces, demeanor and body posture. Knowing their targets were out there and things could go horribly wrong in an instant, everything and everyone she passed was suspect.

  Passing through the stone arches, she walked the stone paths toward the central fountain. Her team’s job was to sweep the area, while looking for possible threats and assessing. The teams went out two by two because there were many paths and connected structures, including vendor stalls, to investigate. She and Scott, dressed formally, didn’t really fit in with the uniforms and so they lagged behind, which gave them an opportunity to observe things the soldiers rushing through might not see, including bystander reactions after the fact. Her trained eye watched for any suspicious behavior and anything out of the normal.

  Bringing the chopper in for a direct landing had been a risk, but a risk she accepted to save time—and time was something more valuable than the bullets in her handgun. They didn’t know what they were looking for or who might be at this location. They might find nothing or they might find everything they needed to finally bring this ugly business to a close.

  Scott was right about needing to get the facts of the situation from Kathy. She was an eyewitness to everything that happened after the attack on Sea Shepherd. Only Kathy knew what happened on the fishing boat, and only Kathy knew how Angel ended up with a bomb strapped to her chest.

  Scott was about to turn down a side path when she stopped in front of him. “About Kathy,” she said, “I—”

  “There’s something I need to tell you first,” Scott said.

  She breathed in. She’d had her moment of weakness. “What is it?”

  “It’s about Kathy and what happened before.” Scott pinched his brows together and Edie could tell he was having difficulty finding the right words to tell her something. “I need to—”

  She put a hand out to silence him as her headset tweaked. “Go for lead,” she said.

  “Captain, we’re working our way to the outer paths and vendor stalls. Buildings next.”

  “Copy that,” she said. “Agent Evers and I are nearing the fountain.” She started walking. Turning to Scott, she said, “If it’s about you and her, I already—”

  “That’s something for another time—and you’re wrong. Dead wrong,” Scott said. “This is something I should have told you ea
rlier. It’s about the first time I saw Blake.”

  He paused and into the silence, she said, “Go on.” She couldn’t believe he was lying to her face about Kathy. Kathy had told her all about her night with Scott long ago and she was okay with it.

  “I was drunk, falling down drunk, and it was dark. I got mixed up about what berth the Shepherd was in and that’s how I ended up on the Bardot.”

  The drunk part was something Edie understood, knowing it was the way he spent his shore leave before she’d cured him of it. She leaned toward him, her expression empathetic but raw too. “That’s not news.”

  “I don’t know what you think,” he said, reaching out and gripping her hand. “I followed Kathy onto the Bardot that night, and not for the reasons you’re thinking. I thought she was going to Sea Shepherd and it was easier than asking for help.”

  The not wanting to ask for help part was something Edie understood too. His ex-wife had done a number on him, left him in a state of mind where he really thought he deserved a bullet.

  Edie looked away from him to clear her thoughts, knowing it was the wrong time for all the emotions she was feeling to come to a boil. But how could she not feel? How could she keep it all bottled up inside even for another day, another hour, another minute, when there might not be another hour or even a tomorrow?

  Breathe, just breathe, she told herself.

  “Look,” Scott said, “Kathy was on the boat that night. I don’t know why. I don’t remember seeing her with Jones or Blake. Those two were alone in the ship’s galley when I stumbled into it.”

  The fountain was right in front of her, down the path, and she walked quickly toward it, turning her eyes everywhere but at him.