“Has there been any email or telephone traffic from Houston or his people tying him to the Russian space probe or our missing plane?” asked the president. He knew
that Leonard would have told the NSA the instant he left Camp David to monitor anything coming to and from David Houston and his people.
“Not a peep, sir.”
“We’re going to have to tell O’Reilly that his people have gone missing on board one of our planes,” said the president, wearily.
“We served together, sir. I’ll call him and tell him what has happened.”
Kempt looked down at his watch; it was getting late. “Where is the vice president right now?”
“He’s at home on his ranch in Texas, sir,”
“Do you have any news about Mitchell?”
“Yes, sir, we intercepted a telephone call between him and O’Reilly in the afternoon. He’s on his way to Bogota. He should be on a flight for New York in the morning.”
“Very good, please continue to track Mitchell’s movements and monitor the search and rescue mission for me. Don’t hesitate to call me in the middle of the night if anything develops.”
“Yes, sir,” replied Leonard.
Kempt ended the call and looked over at the picture on the wall of his inauguration. Standing just off to one side was David Grant, his handpicked vice president. Taking a deep breath, Kempt called in his military aide and asked him to get Grant on the line.
“Jesus, Dave, you don’t want to be messed up in this or there’ll be hell to pay,” remarked Kempt to himself.
A couple of seconds later, the colonel walked back into the room and handed Kempt a phone. “Sorry for calling so late. I hope I didn’t get you out of bed,” said Kempt to Grant.
“Nah, I was just watching a Disney movie I’ve seen a dozen times before with the grandkids,” replied Grant. “What’s up, sir?”
“I’d like you come to Camp David.”
“With the family?”
“No, just you.”
The line went silent for a moment. “Sir, is there something going on that I should be aware of?”
“I’ll explain when you get here.”
“Okay, sir, I can be there for breakfast,” replied Grant, trying to sound chipper.
“I look forward to seeing you in the morning.” With that, Kempt hung up. A whole generation of Americans had grown up cynical about politics. It didn’t seem that a single administration in the past forty years had gone without some kind of crisis. The last thing he needed was to give his opponents a scandal they could use against him. Kempt sat down and for the thousandth time in the past couple of years began to wonder why he got into politics in the first place.
31
Private Airstrip
Dinaric Alps, Albania
David Houston stood in the cool shade of the tall, snow-capped mountain behind him. He watched as the four sleeping bodies of Jen, Sam, Yuri, and Cardinal were brought out of the Learjet and transferred onto waiting stretchers. A moment later, an electric cart pulling a trailer arrived to move the people inside the open hangar doors.
A broad-chested man with a baldhead dressed in combat fatigues walked over to Houston. “What about the plane? What would you like us to do with it?” The man had a strong Slavic accent.
“Have it moved inside and parked in one of the side tunnels before someone sees it,” replied Houston.
“Yes, sir,” replied the man. He turned around and barked out orders to some men, who quickly ran off to ensure that the plane was moved right away.
“What’s the pilot’s name?” asked Houston.
“Thurman, sir, Major Thurman,”
“I hear he was on fumes when he landed.”
“That’s correct, sir.”
“He’s to be commended for his skill and his loyalty. Was he caught on radar coming into Albania?”
“Sir, as far as I can tell, he was not.”
“Please escort him inside and have him placed in one of the spare rooms for now,” ordered Houston. “I’ll decide later how to reward him for his devotion to our cause.”
The baldheaded man nodded his head and called the pilot over to him.
Dug into the side of a mountain, the Hoxa Airfield was named for the Cold War dictator who had ruled Albania with an iron fist for forty years. Capable of holding over one hundred combat-ready aircraft inside the cavernous hangar, the airfield was a state secret until the fall of the communist regime in 1992. Unable to support the aged fighters held inside the mountain base, the planes rusted away until one of Houston’s many shadow corporations bought the base and land around it. Named after the Greek God of healing, the base was now home to Asclepius Pharmaceuticals, a major European company that took its privacy seriously. By special arrangement with the Albanian government, the land was declared out-of-bounds and was guarded on the outside by a detachment of Albanian soldiers and on the inside by a small army of private security guards.
Houston glanced down at his watch; his fellow conspirators were due to arrive in the next couple of hours. He smiled to himself, thinking about the fortune he was going to make when they all signed over half of their respective companies to him. He had no doubt that after the shock of over two billion dead worldwide, his colleagues’ companies would be devastated and vulnerable to hostile takeovers. He intended to swoop down like a vulture on the remains of those corporations making them entirely his. Within months, he would be the richest man on the planet.
The mountain installation, once crumbling and filled with decrepit fighter aircraft, had been completely refurbished with state-of-the-art laboratories, workshops and living quarters. A German company that had once built bombproof shelters for many middle-eastern despots had secretly rebuilt the structure to be resistant to attack by conventional weapons. To ensure security was maintained, no one from the local area was allowed to work at the base. All of the workers, security personnel, and scientists flew in and out on a monthly basis. They were all committed to the cause of restoring balance to the world. The men and women who worked there knew only a small portion of what was going on around them. Most thought their work was to enhance genetically modified crops to help feed the people of the third world. Only Houston and a handful of highly dedicated people knew the truth.
A young woman with short blonde hair and dressed in a blue jumpsuit walked over to Houston. In her hand was a cellphone. “It’s McMasters for you, sir,” said the woman with a slight French accent.
Houston thanked her and took the phone. Without saying hello, he said, “Is the fire out on the oil rig?”
“Yes, sir,” replied McMasters wearily. “Five men died fighting the blaze, and another fourteen had to be evacuated to a hospital on the mainland.”
“Are you sure that it was Mitchell who caused all this damage?”
“Positive; he nearly killed me.”
Houston shook his head. Mitchell may have been a major pain in the ass, but he had to admit that he admired his tenacity. “All right, you’ve done all you can for me out there. Make your way here. There’s plenty of work that still needs to be tidied up in the next thirty-six hours.”
“What about Mitchell? He got away.”
“Don’t you worry about him, I have something he wants. He’ll willingly come to me,” explained Houston. With that, he ended the call.
Thirty-six hours. Houston couldn’t believe that a dream over forty years in the making was going to come to fruition in only a day and a half. Although tired from jetting back and forth across the Atlantic, Houston knew that sleep was out of the question. Accompanied by his blonde assistant, he walked over to an elevator guarded by two men holding small, but futuristic-looking, FN F2000 assault rifles.
Even though the guards knew Houston, they both waited while he, followed by his assistant, swiped their cards to open the elevator doors before stepping aside.
Houston pressed the button for the bottom floor. There were five floors built beneath the main hangar floor.
Most were for workshops, labs, dining facilities, a recreation room and living quarters. The fifth floor, however, was restricted.
A couple of moments later, the elevator stopped and the doors slid open. Houston and his assistant walked into a room identical to the one on the oil rig and waited to be decontaminated by ultraviolet light before the doors on the other side of the small room slid open.
They walked down a long, brightly lit corridor until they came to another closed door. As before, they swiped their cards. The airtight door slid open. They stepped inside the sterile room. Houston strode over to a large glass window and looked inside. On one side of the room, inside a chamber, was the baby mammoth taken from the dig site in Russia. Its chest was open and several of its organs were being studied by a couple of scientists in hazmat suits. On the other side of the room were four more men in suits, working to improve upon the lethality of the pathogen found in the rock sample brought back to Earth by Luna 15.
Houston pressed a button on the wall. “Doctor Longford, how long until we have enough anthrax to commence with phase one of the operation?”
Hearing Houston’s voice, one of the scientists turned around, walked over to the glass, and pressed a button to speak. “We’re almost there,” replied the man with a strong English accent. “However, I need just a little more time to ensure that everything is ready to go.”
“How much more time?”
“Eight more hours. If you give me that, you have my word that you will have more than enough aerosolized agent to start on schedule.”
“After that?”
“We’ll be able to produce it in any quantity you want now that we have been able to successfully synthesize and augment the agent,” answered the man confidently.
“That’s great news,” replied Houston, smiling from ear to ear. “What’s another eight hours? The world will thank you. I know that you’ve got a lot of work to do, so I won’t bother you again.”
Houston looked over at his assistant. “Sophie, send word back home. I’d like my ladies to meet me in Rome the day after tomorrow.”
“All of them?” asked Sophie.
Houston nodded his head. “Yes, all of them. Put them up at the Grand Hôtel de la Minerve. I want you to rent a whole floor. I don’t want anyone to disturb them before they head home for the holidays.”
“Yes, sir,” replied Sophie.
Houston smiled. There was no stopping him, now. Within days, people all across the globe would begin to fall sick. The purging of the planet would commence. Still, he knew that there was only one last loose end to tie up.
“Come, Sophie,” said Houston, “we’ve got some calls to make.”
Houston couldn’t remember a time in his life when he felt more alive. He had never dirtied his hands removing people whom he perceived to be a threat to him or his company; however, with Mitchell, he saw a man that would stop at nothing. McMasters’ inability to kill Mitchell and all of his people on Bouvet Island had set off a chain of events that Houston had not anticipated. Still, like a chess master, Houston was already thinking several moves ahead. If Mitchell couldn’t be convinced of the genius in Houston’s plan, then he would be dealt with and removed forever.
32
Safe House
Bogota, Colombia
The image of the briefing room back at Polaris headquarters filled the small laptop screen. General O’Reilly, Mike Donaldson, and Fahimah Nazaria all sat there with incredulous looks on their faces.
“Ryan, I can’t believe you’re taking this so well,” said O’Reilly.
Mitchell shook his head. “If they were on a commercial flight that disappeared, trust me, I’d be devastated. But the instant you told me that they were on an Air Force jet, I knew that it hadn’t crashed.”
“How can you be sure?” asked Donaldson.
“If Houston could infiltrate our organization, then it stands to reason that he has already infiltrated the U.S. military and who knows what else,” explained Mitchell.
“So you think they were kidnapped?” said Fahimah.
“Perhaps,” replied Mitchell. “Did Jen find out anything interesting about the probe in Russia?”
“She sure did,” said Donaldson, who quickly told Mitchell about the discovery of a pathogen inside the probe’s soil sample.
Mitchell ran his hand over his stubble-covered chin. “What about the tracking devices in their clothes? Are you getting a signal?” Each field operative had chips placed in their clothing, allowing them to be tracked anywhere in the world. Mitchell’s and Jackson’s had been lost during their swim ashore in Venezuela.
“Sorry, we lost them about the time they boarded the plane,” said O’Reilly.
“The plane must have had some kind of dampening device that blocked the signal,” explained Fahimah.
“I doubt that it’s standard Air Force practice to have a jammer on a Learjet,” said Mitchell. “There can only be one answer. Houston must have them.”
“Yeah, that, unfortunately, makes sense,” added Donaldson.
“General, do you buy the government’s story about why they sent a jet to pick up our people?” asked Mitchell.
“I don’t see why they would lie,” answered O’Reilly. “Oh, by the way, before I forget, please pass on to Nate that his wife called and said that his daughter made the high school basketball team.”
Mitchell chuckled. “He’s snoozing. When he wakes up, I’ll let him know.”
“Okay then, I think that nearly wraps things up from this end,” said O’Reilly. “We’ll talk more when you get back here later today.”
“Sounds good; our flight leaves in a few hours,” replied Mitchell.
“One last thing before you go. Ryan, please tell your family to quit using me as their personal assistant. Your Scottish cousin from Las Vegas called a few hours ago, and she wants you to call her right away.”
“Will do,” responded Mitchell. With that, he closed the screen on the laptop.
Sitting up, Jackson said, “Well, that was one hell of a lot of gobbledygook. He knows I don’t have a daughter.”
“That was to throw off anyone listening and to let us know that he doesn’t believe their story,” replied Mitchell.
“You mean the government?”
“Who else?”
“Why would they be spying on us?”
“The probe, I guess.”
“Why doesn’t the general just play ball with the feds?”
“They’re the ones who are doing things in the shadows, not us. Besides, look what happened when they decided to help. Jen, Sam, Gordon, and Yuri are now missing.”
“What was that bit about a cousin?”
“I guess that either Grace reached out to them or vice versa, but either way I need to call her right away,” said Mitchell.
Jackson stood up. “Well, I feel like stretching my legs so why don’t I nip across the street to the nearest convenience store, pick you up a disposable phone, and get us some snacks?”
“Ah, the truth comes out. You’re hungry!”
“I cannot lie, I am famished.” Jackson gave a slight bow. “By the way, you do realize that if Houston managed to get his hands on Jen and the rest of our folks, he can do the same with us?”
“I know. In fact, I’m counting on it. Only this time it’ll only be me,” said Mitchell with a slight grin on his face.
“Why only you?”
“Because I have to go, I need to know that they are all right. Besides, I have this feeling that you and Grace are going to have to bust me out of wherever I end up next.”
Far to the north, General O’Reilly looked over at Donaldson and Fahimah. “Do you think he got the messages?”
“He may be ex-army,” said Donaldson, “but he’s not dumb. He knows precisely what you were getting at.”
Letting out a weary sigh, O’Reilly brought up a hand and rubbed his bloodshot eyes.
“When was the last time you got some sleep, sir?” asked Fahimah.
Donaldson said, “Sir, my contact in the NSA will be sending me an update on what he knows in about five minutes. If you don’t need me, I’m going to head downstairs and wait for his call on my neighbor’s borrowed laptop.”
“If he hadn’t reached out to you, you know we’d still be in the dark,” observed O’Reilly. “It’s amazing, we have probably a couple of million dollars in computers and phones in this building, and we can’t use a single one without being monitored.”
“Yeah, it just goes to show you that technology isn’t always the answer,” replied Donaldson.
“When the dust settles, have your friend come for a visit. I think I can entice him into joining our team. I have a feeling that we’re going to need a major upgrade in our IT department.”
Donaldson and Fahimah left the room together.
O’Reilly took a long swig of lukewarm coffee before standing up and stretching out his aching back.
“Okay, Ryan, the ball’s in your court now,” said O’Reilly to himself. “Get my people back before the government does something stupid.”
Two hours later, in Bogota, at Eldorado international Airport, Mitchell was standing in line to check in his one small piece of luggage when two men stepped out of the crowd and approached him. One was tall and slender, with dirty-blond hair, while the other had curly black hair and the solid build of a man who looked like he worked out several hours a day.
“Ryan Mitchell?” asked the blond man. His accent reminded Mitchell of someone from the Deep South.
“Yeah, who wants to know?” replied Mitchell, eyeing up the man standing in front of him. From their loose-fitting clothes to their demeanor, Mitchell knew that they were either ex-military or ex-police; either way, they probably knew how to handle themselves.
“Who we are is none of your damn business. Where’s Jackson?” asked the curly-haired man as he looked around, trying to see him in the crowd.
Hellfire Page 22