26
Camp David
Maryland
President Donald Kempt sat back in his favorite chair near a roaring fireplace, picked up a hardcover book on the U.S. Civil War and settled in for a few minutes’ peace and quiet. In his early fifties, Kempt had a head of gray hair that he liked to keep short. He was dressed in khaki slacks, with a white shirt underneath a dark-blue, hand-knitted sweater. Away from the capital for a few days, Kempt was enjoying the silence when there was a knock at the door. He placed his book down and said, “Come in.”
A moment later, a tall, African-American man in a dark suit entered the room.
“What’s up, Bill?” Kempt asked Bill Porter, the head of his security detail.
“Sir, Mister Leonard is inbound. ETA seven minutes,” replied Porter, as calm and cool as the ice covering the lake outside of the small cottage.
“That’s odd,” replied the President, wondering why Dan Leonard, his National Security Advisor, would fly up to Camp David instead of talking to him from the Pentagon on a secure line. “Did he say why he was coming?”
“No, sir.”
“Very well; when he arrives, please escort him to the Laurel Lodge.”
“Very good, sir,” replied Porter.
The Laurel Lodge conference room, like the Situation Room at the White House, was built to allow a president the opportunity to hold meetings with his top advisors while at Camp David.
Precisely seven minutes later, a military Blackhawk helicopter came in to land.
President Kempt met his National Security Advisor at the entrance to the lodge with a smile and a fresh cup of coffee in his hand. After exchanging pleasantries, both men took a seat at a long wooden table, which nearly filled the room.
“Dan, it’s a week before Christmas, why aren’t you back home in California with your grandkids?” asked Kempt.
“I’ll get there soon enough,” replied Leonard. A white-haired, former Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Leonard was known as a loyal and honest man who despised partisan politics and had had to be personally convinced by President Kempt to come out of retirement and serve in his administration.
“I’m going to hold you to that,” said President Kempt. Dan Leonard was always the first man in and the last to leave his office at night. Kempt figured that it would take a squad of marines to force his friend onto a plane heading for California, especially if something was troubling him.
“My wife already has our suitcases packed, sir. I may have once commanded the most lethal fighting force in the world, but I know better than to run afoul of Dianne.”
Kempt chuckled. “Okay then, Dan, what you brought you up here?”
“I wanted to speak to you face-to-face, Mister President.”
“You do realize that this conversation could have been conducted via teleconference,” said Kempt, motioning over to the far wall covered with screens. “The taxpayers spent millions of dollars to ensure that their president was kept fully informed, no matter where he was or what he was doing.”
“Sir, I learned long ago when I was just a lowly ensign in the navy that some news needs to be passed on in person,” replied Leonard.
Kempt didn’t like the sound of that. Looking into his advisor’s pale-blue eyes, Kempt said, “Okay, Dan, what’s going on?”
“Sir, a few hours ago the NSA intercepted two messages coming into the United States from abroad. One was an email and the other a cellphone call. Both were to General Jack O’Reilly’s private security organization based up in Albany, New York.”
Kempt sat up. Although he didn’t like it, he knew why the NSA collected data on messages coming in and out of the United States. However, the mention of General O’Reilly instantly made him uncomfortable. Having recently stopped a North Korean plot to cripple the country’s strategic petroleum reserves, Kempt held O’Reilly and his people in high regard.
“Sir, before you say anything, I do not for one moment believe that Jack O’Reilly or his people are up to no good. In fact, I think they may have stumbled into something that they do not fully understand.”
“Go on.”
“Sir, the intercepted email contains information regarding a potentially unknown pathogen which was inadvertently brought back to Earth by the Soviets on board their Luna 15 space probe back in 1969.”
“I’m sorry, Dan, I’ve never been much of a space buff. What was the Luna 15?”
Setting his reading glasses on his nose, Leonard opened up his file folder and began. For the next five minutes, Leonard briefed President Kempt on the official history of the probe and what had been just been discovered by Jen in Russia.
Kempt said, “And the cellphone call?”
“Sir, that came from Venezuela. It was from a former Army Ranger captain, Ryan Mitchell, to General O’Reilly.”
“That man gets around,” observed the president.
“Yes, sir, that he does. It would appear that Mitchell was the man who responsible for the fire on the Bolivar V oil rig.”
“I guess the Venezuelan government’s press release about a faulty pipe isn’t quite accurate.”
“Sir, there’s more. During Mitchell’s escape, a Venezuelan military helicopter was shot down.”
“My God, is he trying to drag us into a war? What on earth was Mitchell doing?”
Leonard looked the president straight in the eyes. “Sir, I know you’re not going to like this, so I’ll get straight to the point. According to the transcripts of the conversation between Mitchell and O’Reilly, they believe that David Houston continued to run the oil rig through a shadow corporation after it was nationalized by the Venezuelans and that he has the Luna 15 probe in his possession.”
“I take it that when you say David Houston, you’re talking about the vice-president’s largest campaign contributor?”
“That is correct, sir.”
“You do realize that later today, David Houston will be hosting the vice-president along with several hundred wealthy and very influential leaders of the business community at his ranch in Texas?”
“Sir, I am fully aware of what Vice President Grant is doing.”
Kempt was becoming quite concerned. Masking his emotions, he asked Leonard to go on.
Reading from his notes, Leonard explained how O’Reilly and his people had been hired by Houston to find the probe on Bouvet Island and everything that had happened since.
“I take it that you transcripts of both messages with you?” said the president.
“Naturally,” replied Leonard as he handed over copies of the notes.
Flipping through the pages, Kempt’s mood soured. It was obvious that something involving Houston was going on. What it was wasn’t clear, but Kempt was a politician, and he knew to trust his gut and right now, it was telling him to tread lightly.
“Jesus, Dan, this could all be some big misunderstanding,” said Kempt. “Without hard evidence, of which there is none right now, I’m not ready to send the FBI to arrest David Houston.”
“I agree, sir. However, this information could be correct, and if so we are facing a potential threat to the national security of the United States,” replied Leonard bluntly.
“What are you recommending?”
“Sir, I suggest that we immediately have the Russian authorities detain O’Reilly’s people in Saint Petersburg. We cannot risk the information they have leaking to the press. It would cause worldwide panic.”
“I agree,” replied Kempt. “Send a plane to bring them home to U.S. soil where they can be debriefed and held until we get to the bottom of this thing.”
“As for Ryan Mitchell, I say we leave him alone, sir.”
“Why?”
“Sir, if, as you say, this is all a big misunderstanding, it will be Mitchell and O’Reilly who will have egg on their faces when all is said and done for interfering with one of this nation’s most trusted businessmen. However, if they are on to something, why not let them lead us to it?”
“Okay, after the police in Russia have picked up his people call General O’Reilly on my behalf and let him know that you are interceding on behalf of the U.S. government. Tell him that you intend to send a plane to Russia to bring his folks home. That should allay any fears he has for his people’s welfare. I also want you to continue to monitor all messages between him and his people. Keep a close eye on Mitchell. I want to know wherever he goes to next. And make sure we have a Special Forces team on standby to move at a moment’s notice, in case they’re needed.”
“Yes, sir,” replied Leonard as he jotted down some notes.
Kempt stood. “Dan, what if this turns out to be true and Houston has an unknown pathogen in his possession?”
“Then we initiate the Hellfire protocol and hope to God that we get our hands on it before anyone else does.”
“And if we can’t?”
“Then, Mister President, you may be forced to think the unthinkable and authorize the use of a thermonuclear device to eradicate the pathogen before it can escape out into the world.”
“Good Lord,” muttered Kempt, suddenly feeling sick in the pit of his stomach.
Ten minutes later, Leonard climbed back into the waiting Blackhawk helicopter, buckled himself in, and slipped a headset over his ears.
Outside, the helicopter’s powerful engines came to life. Snow whipped up by the rotors created a white wall all around the front of the craft.
Leonard looked over at the man sitting across from him dressed in U.S. Air Force fatigues and said, “Colonel Harriman, I need to speak with the Secretary of Defense. Have Washington patch him thorough on a secure frequency the instant they have him on the line.”
“Very good, sir,” replied Harriman.
A minute later, the Blackhawk was airborne and speeding back towards the capital.
After the call with the Secretary of Defense ended, Leonard sat back in his seat and watched the snow-covered countryside as it flew underneath the helicopter. He had never regretted coming to work for President; however, he was feeling the stress of knowing that something was going to happen, yet for now, he was unable to do anything about it.
“Sir, is there anyone else you wish to speak to?” asked Harriman.
Leonard shook his head.
Harriman glanced down at his watch and saw that they would be landing in about forty minutes. Anticipation began to build up inside him. He had never once contemplated doing anything that would harm his country; however, he had information vital to his fellow conspirators that he had to pass on the instant they landed. With luck, they could put an end to the meddling from O’Reilly’s people before it compromised their cause. Harriman knew the next forty minutes were going to be the longest in his life.
27
Pulkovo International Airport
Saint Petersburg, Russia
Yuri pulled up in front of the busy main international terminal. He got out of the car he had borrowed from a friend and went in search of a couple of luggage carts while Jen, Sam, and Cardinal retrieved their luggage from the back of the car.
A couple of minutes later, Yuri returned pushing two trolleys that looked like their wheels were about to fall off. With a wink at Jen, he picked up her suitcase.
She smiled back.
He was about to wish them all a safe journey home when from out of nowhere at least a dozen heavily armed policemen ran towards them, screaming at them to place their hands in the air.
“Yuri, what’s going on?” said Jen, looking at the cordon of police surrounding them. It was like a scene out of a movie, only now she was in it.
“I do not know pretty lady, but I suggest that we all raise our hands, nice and slowly,” replied Yuri as he raised his hands.
“Goddamn it Yuri, did you forget to pay a parking ticket last time we were here?” asked Cardinal.
“I’ve heard of being fleeced at the airport when you travel, but this is a little much if you ask me,” added Sam. She turned her head and smiled at a nervous-looking policeman who had his weapon trained on her.
A moment later, a police cruiser pulled up. Two men wearing dark-blue overcoats got out. One wore a fur cap on his head while the other did not. Digging out their identification, the two men flashed them in front of Yuri’s eyes.
“FSB, you’re all to come with me,” announced the policeman with the fur cap.
“What did he say?” Jen asked Yuri.
“Men are from the Federal Security Service,” replied Yuri.
“Think of the FBI, just less sophisticated,” explained Sam.
“What are we going to do?” asked Jen.
“You’re all coming with us,” replied the other policeman in fluent English. “That is, unless you are thinking of shooting your way out of here.”
“No, I think we’ll do as you say,” said Cardinal.
Ten minutes later, the small convoy of police cars came to halt outside of a dark-green military hangar. They followed their escorts inside the empty building and walked in silence to a room in the back of the building. After handing over all of their cellphones, wallets, and passports, the room door closed, trapping them in the room.
Jen shook her head and took a seat at the small table in the middle of the room. She looked over at Yuri and said, “Yuri, do you think that we’re in trouble for that incident with those people who tried to kill us?”
“No, pretty lady, this has nothing to do with that,” responded Yuri. “The authorities here don’t care if criminals kill one another. It’s less work for them to do. This…this is something else.”
“Like what?” asked Sam.
“I do not know. The FSB know who I am and what I do. Until today, they have left me alone,” said Yuri as he ran his hand over the dark stubble on his face.
The door to the room opened, and a man in a dark-gray suit walked in. “Good afternoon everyone, my name is Roger Michaels. I’m with the U.S. Consulate in Saint Petersburg.” Michaels showed everyone his consular ID.
“Mister Michaels, what’s going on?” asked Jen.
“Charges have been brought against the four of you by the Russian government,” explained Michaels.
“What kind of charges?” asked Cardinal.
“Espionage.”
“That’s crazy,” said Jen. “We haven’t spied on anyone.”
“Be that as it may, these charges are very serious. If convicted, you could all spend the rest of your lives in prison.”
“They took our phones and all of our ID,” said Cardinal. “I’d like mine back so I can call the Canadian Consulate. No offense, sir, but I’d feel a lot better if my government was also made aware of what was going on.”
Michaels smiled. “No offense taken. Just to put your mind at ease, I’m also here on behalf of your consulate. As for your possessions, I’ll see what I can do.”
Yuri, like a kid at school on his first day trying to get his teacher’s attention, slowly raised his hand. “Mister, I am not American or Canadian. It is nice that you are helping your people…what about me?”
Michaels shrugged his shoulders. “I’ll speak to the man in charge of this case and see if he can get you a court-appointed lawyer."
“Da, thank you,” replied Yuri.
“Okay, folks, I have to get back to the consulate and brief my boss,” said Michaels. “I’ll hopefully be back in a couple of hours. Until then, I suggest you all get as comfortable as you can.”
“Thanks,” replied Jen with a warm smile.
After the door closed behind Michaels, Sam stood up, quietly made her way to the door, and placed her ear against the door. Silently cursing to herself, Sam turned around, walked back to the table, and took a seat with a heavy sigh.
“How many?” Cardinal asked Sam.
“There are at least four different voices out there. Could be more.”
“You can’t be thinking of trying to escape,” said Jen. “You heard Michaels; it’s all just some big misunderstanding. I bet when he returns we’ll all be free
to go on our way.”
“I don’t know,” said Sam. “I don’t trust the man.”
“Neither do I,” added Cardinal.
Jen shook her head. “My God, you two are paranoid.”
“Jen, a little paranoia is good for you in this business,” replied Sam.
“Whatever,” muttered Jen. “Yuri, what do you think?”
“I think we will know what is going on when man from the consulate returns. Until then, I’m going to make some coffee,” said Yuri as he got up and walked over to an empty coffee pot.
Jen couldn’t believe how her friends were taking the news. She was ready to jump for joy, and they were pessimistically settling for a long stay. She sat back in her chair and for the first time in a few days, she began to wonder how Mitchell was doing. She was sure that he wasn’t sitting in some dingy room in an old military hangar. In fact, she was certain that he and Jackson were probably sitting at a bar somewhere in the sun having a good laugh.
28
Jungle road
Venezuelan – Colombian border
“I can’t see a thing,” grumbled Jackson as he looked out the cracked window of the ancient truck he was driving. It was as black as pitch outside.
Rain had been coming down for hours, turning the narrow trail into a soupy morass. A jagged flash of lightning lit up the path.
“According to the GPS, we’re less than a klick from the border,” said Mitchell as he studied the map in his lap.
After swimming ashore, Grace, true to her word, gave Mitchell and Jackson a lift to Caracas and then dropped them off near a convenience store where Mitchell was able to buy a cheap disposable cellphone. After filling in General O’Reilly with everything that had happened, they rented a room in a roach-infested hotel and waited for O’Reilly to get back to them. A couple of hours later, an old friend of O’Reilly’s knocked on their door. He introduced himself as a former Venezuelan special forces officer who was loyal to his country but had no love for the current regime. Smuggled out of the city in the back of a truck filled with produce, Mitchell and Jackson were handed the keys to a vehicle that had been built in the early fifties. A tattered map that was at least that old sat on the dash along with a GPS stolen from the Venezuelan army.
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