Siege of Lightning

by R. J. Pineiro

  He walked outside and headed for his car. He had to find a public phone booth right away. He had to reach Vanderhoff immediately.

  * * *

  Tom Pruett walked to the windows behind his desk and gazed out at the parking lot. He blinked in surprise when he spotted his subordinate. Roland? It was him all right, heading for his car.

  Strange, he decided. Especially after Pruett had left a note with Higgins’s secretary that he needed to see him immediately.

  Pruett narrowed his eyes. Perhaps…He walked to the hall and continued down the long corridor, reached the end, and turned right. Higgins’s office was halfway down the hall. A cleaning lady was vacuuming the carpet about thirty feet from the entrance to the office.

  “Excuse me.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “I’m Tom Pruett, Head of Clandestine Services. Was Mr. Higgins here a few moments ago?”

  “Yes, sir. He was in his office. Crazy man, he yelled at me and began dumping trash on the floor.”

  Pruett inhaled deeply and felt a knot in his stomach, quickly followed by a burning sensation. “Is that it?”

  “Yes, sir. He left a little after that.”

  “Have you cleaned his office?”

  “No, sir. Not yet. I need to—”

  “Leave it alone for now. Don’t touch anything in there!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Pruett walked away. Higgins was indeed covering up

  something, but what?

  He headed back to his office, hoping that Tammy had found the time to stock his refrigerator with a fresh carton of milk.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  OLD FACES

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Feeling both furious and tired. Pruett turned the corner and slowed down as he approached his house, the third on the right side of the tree-lined street. It was one in the morning, and he was getting no answer. The FBI lab report on the burnt paper had come back negative. The first page didn’t even make it to the lab. It collapsed soon after leaving the CIA. The information on the second page could not be retrieved. The technician claimed to have tried every known restoration technique without luck. The thin cheap paper had burned all the way through. In addition, the print on the page had come from a laser printer, which left no hard impressions on the paper, just a surface coating of ink. After that evaporated with heat, nothing remained. If the paper had come out of a dot matrix printer or a typewriter, or had been handwritten, the verdict would have been different, since those three printing methods used impact or pressure to force the ink into the paper, Pruett exhaled as he pulled into his driveway, turned off the engine, and got out.

  He struggled up the steps of his one-story house and unlocked the door. Pruett closed the door behind him, walked across the tiled foyer, past the living room, and into the kitchen. He reached for the light switch, but the overhead came on before he got a chance to flip it.

  “Hello, Tom. It’s been a long time. Perhaps too long.”

  Pruett looked in the kitchen but saw no one. He then remembered that the lights could be turned on from the formal dining room on the other side of the long kitchen. The voice…he knew the voice. He hadn’t heard it for a long time, not since he was Chief Western Hemisphere. It belonged to one of the brightest young agents under his jurisdiction, a young Vietnam vet who had loved his country enough to dedicate his life to serving it. The agency had recruited him out of Ft. Benning, Georgia, much to the relief of the raw young recruits he drilled to exhaustion on a daily basis.

  After a brief probation period, the Career Trainee had been sent to “The Farm,” the establishment near Williamsburg, disguised as a Pentagon research-and-testing facility, where Pruett had first met him. Very young and ambitious, Pruett remembered. The young CT had undergone light-weapons training, explosives and demolition training, and a full course in parachute jumps. Should have excused him, Pruett remembered thinking. He could have taught those courses. From there Pruett had taken his young recruit to a CIA training facility in North Carolina for advanced courses in explosives and both light and heavy weaponry. Pruett had nurtured his CT until he’d become a full operative a year later, completing a four-to-five year training course in less than two. After a brief period in France to acquaint the new operative with Cold War espionage techniques, Pruett had assigned him to Mexico City to spy on the Soviets and the Cubans. His missions had been tough, his results top-notch. One of the hardest things Pruett had experienced after his promotion was the loss of contact with the men and women in the field. Head of Clandestine Services could not be directly involved in operations. He had a full staff of risk-takers like Higgins to do that for him. Yet now he was in contact again. The voice could be no one else’s. Pruett’s thoughts were confirmed when he spotted the tall, slim figure in the doorway to the formal dining room.

  “Cameron?”

  “Hello, Tom. Or should I say Mr. Pruett?” He stepped from the shadows and into the bright kitchen.

  Pruett noticed that Cameron had not aged much. He still had an unlined face. The hair looked darker than Pruett remembered, but it was his alright. Pruett held up both arms, palms facing outward. “Look, Cameron I know what you’ve gone through but—”

  “Do you?” Cameron kept walking slowly in his direction.

  “I don’t think so. I think you have no fucking idea what it’s like to be completely cut off. To be labeled beyond salvage. Beyond salvage! How could you, Tom? After all that we went through together! How could you? Didn’t all those years mean something?”

  Cameron got within two feet of him. His burning eyes and contorted face displayed his intentions. Pruett knew he had to act quickly or risk being killed by an operative he himself had helped train. But he was too late.

  “Beyond Salvage, you bastard!”

  Pruett felt the blow, the powerful palm-strike to his mid-chest area. It sent him crashing against the wall. He slid down and landed on the floor.

  “How could you, Tom? Why?”

  “Ahgg…my chest, stop, Cameron! No!”

  Cameron grabbed Pruett by the lapels, lifted him up, and pressed him against the wall. He let go and Pruett fell to the floor again. Cameron walked to the countertop next to the kitchen sink. A set of steak knives filled a wooden stand. Cameron curled the fingers of his right hand around the handle of one of them and pulled it out of the wooden stand. He turned to Pruett. Emotionless, ice cold.

  “I will give you something you failed to provide me with. I will allow you one minute to try and explain to me why you did what you did.” He checked his watch. “One minute. The clock is ticking.”

  Pruett continued to massage his bruised sternum as his mind raced through his options. How could he explain what he’d done? Part of him wanted simply to apologize. After all, he no longer was sure the evidence against Cameron was valid. He questioned Higgins’s data, but he knew he could not just come out and say that. That would most certainly make Cameron very suspicious. One moment beyond salvage, the next I welcome him with open arms? No way. Pruett knew Cameron would not buy that for a minute. He decided to play it differently.

  “I did what I did for a reason,” he began. “It wasn’t personal. As a matter of fact, whether you believe me or not, it was one of the hardest decisions I’ve ever made. You see, those years did mean something.”

  Pruett noted that Cameron’s intelligent brown eyes displayed neither fear nor affection, but he thought he saw a trace of curiosity in them. Pruett continued.

  “Evidence was presented to me. I acted accordingly. The reports that I read indicated that you’d killed your case officer and three poli—”

  “I was framed! All of that was fabricated to destroy me because of what I know.”

  “Prove it.” Pruett noticed a hint of hope in Cameron’s eyes. “Prove it or kill me. If you can prove that to me, then I’ll change the order, but I will not buc
kle to a corrupt operative. I’d rather die first. It’s your choice.”

  Cameron inhaled and exhaled deeply several times. He then threw the knife into the sink and drove a fist into his palm. He looked at Pruett.

  “Dammit! I have no physical proof! Just my word and these wounds.” He rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. Pruett noticed multiple bruises.

  “You could have gotten those anywhere.”

  “True, but I got them during my meeting with Potter. I spent most of the time rolling and crawling on the ground. Someone put a bullet through his chest and tried to do me as well, but I managed to escape.”

  Pruett frowned and he stared at him. “Why would anyone want to do that?”

  “Because of what I know. Because of what those Athena scientists told me before a group of assassins stormed the warehouse and killed them.”

  Pruett inhaled deeply as he remembered the conflict between George’s computer printout and Higgins’s report of the incident.

  Cameron exhaled. “All right, Tom. Let me start at the beginning.”

  Pruett got up, leaned back against the wall, and continued to message his chest. “Go on, Cameron. I’m listening.”

  Cameron cleared his throat and began relating everything he knew, from the initial meeting with Marie Guilloux to what the Athena scientists had told him at the warehouse, to the incidents at the Botanical Gardens and at the airport. His voice was low and calm, his words measured. By the time he finished. Pruett’s eyes were closed in remorse. His mind screamed in its anger at Higgins; his heart ached with grief for young George. The fire in his belly consumed him.

  PARIS, FRANCE

  Carrying a small bag of groceries she’d purchased at an open market several blocks back, Marie Guilloux approached her hotel wearing blue jeans and a T-shirt underneath a leather jacket. Although she seemed physically calm, her mind was in chaos. It was eight in the morning. Fourteen hours and still no news from Cameron. Where are you, Cameron? Did you make it out of Paris? Did you reach help? Damn!

  Her thoughts were interrupted when she spotted three men wearing overcoats following her. Where did they come from? She quickened her pace and the men did likewise. Marie dropped the grocery bag and raced for her hotel. Two other men, also wearing overcoats, now stood by the entrance to the building. They started walking in her direction. She stopped and glanced back. The three men ran toward her. One of them held an ID up in the air.

  “Mrs. Guilloux?”

  As the men got closer Marie recognized the ID. CIA! They’ve captured Cameron and now they’re coming for me!

  Instinctively, she broke into a run across the street. The CIA men raced after her.

  “Please! Stop! You don’t understand!” she heard one of them scream, but all her mind saw were images of the assassins chasing Cameron by the river.

  The morning’s cool air filled her lungs as she ran over the soft lawn of a narrow stretch of grass on the other side of the street. Her legs ached, but she kept on, taking in deep breaths as the patch of grass turned into a small park. The trees to either side of her melted into a wall of green as she tried to increase the gap, but she was getting weak, light-headed. She didn’t have the conditioning to keep her current pace for much longer. She had to slow down...

  Suddenly, a strong hand gripped her from behind and pulled her down and behind a line of bushes next to the trees. Marie viciously kicked her legs as her left hand unsuccessfully tried to reach behind her and grab her attacker: a clump of hair, an ear, perhaps scratch his face, throat…anything. But her attacker kept one hand tightly fixed around her mouth and another one holding a lock on her right arm.

  In full rage, Marie felt the strong arms turning her around.

  Animals! You’re all a bunch of animals!

  She pulled her right arm loose and tried to scratch him across his throat, but her clumsy move was effectively blocked by a fast forearm. Still light-headed from the short but exhausting run, and ignoring whatever it was the CIA man was saying, Marie continued trying to kick and punch the operative, who easily blocked all of her blows.

  “Mrs. Guilloux, listen to me!” the man screamed while holding her by the shoulders. “It’s all right! Cameron is fine! We’ve come to take you to him. He’s safe in Washington, and soon you’ll join him.”

  Marie’s vision was blurry. She thought her mind was playing tricks on her, making her believe what she so desperately wished would be true. She fought against believing her ears, but then she heard it again.

  “Please, listen to me! Cameron is safe, and so are you now! Calm down and let us take care of you. Please, Mrs. Guilloux.”

  Marie couldn’t fight it anymore. The CIA man had won.

  As her tense body relaxed, the man’s face slowly came into focus—the face of a stranger, but the eyes showed compassion and warmth, and Marie needed that to take her away from this insanity.

  “Everything is going to be all right, Mrs. Guilloux.”

  She rested her head on his shoulder and silently wept.

  THE WHITE HOUSE

  Although it was his third time inside the Oval Office, Pruett felt a knot in his stomach as he faced a sleepy President and a very irritable Defense Secretary, the Secretary of State, and the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. The Director of the CIA, currently on leave hunting in the mountains, could not be reached in time for the meeting. Cameron sat on a sofa next to the Defense Secretary. Pruett knew his title alone didn’t give him enough pull to get these government officials together in a room on such short notice. It was the respect Pruett had earned for his performance during previous crises that had gotten the President out of bed. Pruett knew the President had a high regard for his opinion.

  The President sat against the edge of his oak desk across from the sofas. He was dressed casually, a pair of light gray slacks and a white polo shirt. Pruett stood on the side in front of a small corkboard supported by a tripod.

  “Gentleman,” the President began. “I want to apologize for getting you out of bed at this hour, Tom called me an hour ago with some very disturbing information concerning the future NASA. With that, I leave it with you, Tom.”

  Pruett exhaled. It never got any easier. Twice in his life he had stood before the leaders of the nation, and twice his ulcer had numbed his entire chest and nearly clouded his senses. He felt the heartburn intensifying and clenched his teeth, but quickly managed to force a relaxed face as all the eyes in the room shifted in his direction.

  “Thank you, Mr. President. Gentleman, all of you are aware by now of the problem NASA’s Lightning is facing in space. First, one of the main engines failed during the lift-off stage, and then—”

  “We can read, Tom,” Carlton Stice, the Defense Secretary, suddenly said. He waved the confidential memo that Pruett had hand-delivered to the President. It detailed the current condition of the orbiter.

  “Please bear with me, sir.”

  “Go on, Tom,” said the President.

  In spite of his digestive problem, Pruett smiled inwardly. Coming from this President, that meant don’t fucking interrupt him again until he’s finished!

  “Thank you, sir. Less than an hour later the OMS engines, the Orbital Maneuvering System engines, failed during a maneuver that was meant to put Lightning in a higher, safer orbit. Fortunately, the engines didn’t fail until after Lightning had achieved enough speed to reach an orbit somewhere between its previous orbit and the desired orbit. The cause of the malfunctions cannot be truly determined until Lightning gets back down and NASA scientists get a chance to take the engines apart and inspect them. Gentleman, I stand here before you with the statement that Lightning’s problems were not due to a malfunction, but to sabotage.” There was an immediate reaction from those listening. The Secretary of Defense talked briefly to the Chairman of the Joint Chief’s while the Secretary of State closed his eyes and rubbed his large forehe
ad.

  Stice then addressed Pruett. “Tom, how do you know this?”

  “From one of my operatives, Mr. Secretary. Cameron Stone.”

  Pruett looked at Cameron and then at each of the others in the room. They all stared at him, the President included. Pruett cleared his throat and started speaking, telling the story right from the beginning: Claude Guilloux’s mysterious auto accident, Marie Guilloux’s revelation about the destruction of the Soviet spacecraft, the shooting at the hotel, the information conveyed to Cameron by the Athena scientists, the shooting at the warehouse, and the subsequent incidents involving the CIA directly. Pruett told it all as best he could. He finished with a brief description of Athena’s launching facility in French Guiana.

  The room was quiet.

  “How, Tom? How can you buy into such an idea without concrete proof?” asked Stice.

  Pruett didn’t finch, but stared the Defense Secretary in the eye. Although the heartburn was nearly numbing his senses, he managed to put it behind him, cleared his throat, and addressed the group. “Gentlemen, I have provided you with evidence that tends to corroborate Mr. Stone’s testimony. I’ll admit that I can’t give you incontrovertible proof, but the reality of things in the intelligence field is that oftentimes we don’t get such proof. We generally start with a series of facts. From there we must build theories and test them against the facts until we find the one theory that matches best. We then adopt it and hope the future facts continue to fit it. In this case, I have to admit that I was hesitant at first, but after our people at NASA informed me of the problems Lightning was facing…well, gentlemen, it became apparent that something was seriously wrong. At this point we can do one of two things. We could close our eyes and ignore it, and hope that NASA will be able to handle it, or we can accept the situation for what it is and do something about it. That is your choice, gentleman. I’m merely presenting the information to you.”