The Scorching

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  Randy Collins was defensive. “This drone can carry a payload, even small incendiary and antipersonnel bombs if you need them.”

  “What the hell?” Norris said. “Azar, who said anything about bombs?”

  “I thought the drone should have that capacity,” Azar said.

  “Then you thought wrong. For what we plan on doing, a bomb is overkill. We want a small drone, a suicide drone, to fly into the camera and smash it up, that’s all. Who the hell came up with the bomb idea?” He glared at Collins and said, “Was that your idea, nerd?”

  “No, I came up with it,” Azar said. “Perhaps you could make it work, Mr. Norris?”

  “I told you, no bombs, not now, not ever,” Norris said. He said to Collins, “Where are the small drones?”

  “I have four heavy-lifting drones that I adapted for bombs ready to fly,” Collins said. He shook his head. “I have no small ones.”

  Azar jumped in before Norris could speak. “An oversight. I assure you. I’ll correct that right away.”

  Norris nodded in the direction of the drone on the bench. “Get rid of those damned bombers, Azar. That’s an order.”

  “An order I will carry out, I assure you.”

  Norris stared hard at the other man. “Sometimes I wonder about you, Azar. Sometimes I don’t understand your motivations.”

  “Mr. Norris, you never at any time stipulated the size of the drones. I misunderstood, that is all.”

  “Just make sure there are no more misunderstandings, or we call the whole thing off,” Norris said. “Now do you understand?”

  “Perfectly.” Azar glanced at his watch. “Now, we must return to my office. There are five young men I want you to meet, men who think as we do.”

  “Why?” Norris said. “I mean I care about the future of my nation’s forests, and you say you care, but why would these young men of yours give a damn?”

  “I met them though a college professor of my acquaintance,” Azar said. “They are members of a wildlife preservation society and very keen on safeguarding the environment for future generations. The recent spate of wildfires troubles them, and they admire our plan to return the watchtowers and human observers.”

  “What do they think about a demonstration burn here in Oregon?” Norris said.

  “They’re very much in favor, so long as no homes are destroyed and no one’s life is endangered.” Azar smiled. “The young men have heard about you, the hero of Indian Wells, and they’ve been looking forward to this meeting.”

  “What are they?” Norris said.

  “They’re all college graduates.”

  “I mean what are they ethnically?”

  “They’re all Americans of Middle Eastern descent, as I am,” Azar said. “That’s why I’ve taken such a keen interest in them. As you know, all young men of their age think about is girls and keg parties. It’s so refreshing to meet such serious youths.”

  “They’re Arabs,” Norris said.

  “Of Arab descent, yes. All of them are American citizens.”

  “Then I’ll talk with them, just don’t expect me to like them,” Norris said.

  * * *

  The five young men were well-dressed in dark business suits and striped ties, and they were clean cut, deferential . . . and, the consequence of many visits with anti-American relatives in the Middle East, thoroughly radicalized. All had been to good colleges, and thanks to lectures from Azar, their knowledge of the nation’s forests was extensive. Their spokesman, or at least the one that talked the most, was a twenty-three-year-old named Dilshad Hakimi who had just returned from an extended visit to Yemen, where he’d been given the great honor of executing a suspected Israeli spy. He’d used a sulthan, the beheading sword of Saudi Arabia, and had been praised for his skill, decapitating the man with a single stroke.

  With the others, Hakimi listened to Norris talk about starting a controlled burn by the use of a drip torch, a handheld canister filled with a mix of gasoline and diesel fuel, which allows a steady stream to be directed to the ground as needed.

  Hakimi raised his hand and Norris said, “Speak.”

  “Do we have any drip torches?” the young man said.

  Nasim Azar answered that question. “Yes, I have several in inventory and some fuel.”

  “Then why don’t we get away from the classroom, take a field trip to the nearest national forest, and try them out?” Hakimi said.

  Azar spoke again. “Mr. Norris, don’t you think that sounds like a good idea while the suicide drones are made ready?”

  Norris thought that through. Why not? It would feel good to get into the woods again.

  “Willamette National Forest is only an hour and a half away,” Azar said. “It’s the ideal place for a field trip.”

  Norris nodded. “All right, let’s do it. But no big burn, not this trip. I’ll show you how the drip torches work and a few other things, but we don’t start a blaze.”

  “When do we go?” Hakimi said. The faces of the men around him were eager.

  “Tomorrow,” Azar said. “Mr. Norris, does that suit you?”

  Norris shrugged. “I don’t care. Tomorrow is fine. There will be six of us. Do you have a van?”

  “I’ll arrange that,” Azar said. “You’ll enjoy your outing.”

  “It’s not an outing. It’s step in the right direction,” Norris said.

  But for Mike Norris it was a step in the wrong direction. . . a step into madness.

  CHAPTER 20

  There was a message from Jacob Sensor telling Sarah Milano that the smoke jumper named Pete Kennedy had agreed to become a Regulator. After that, the phone fell silent, and it seemed to Cory Cantwell that he and Sarah would cool their heels around Los Angeles for another twenty-four hours.

  Sarah said, “At least another day. I guess Sensor has bigger fish to fry at the moment.”

  “Seems like,” Cantwell said. “I don’t think we’ll have the cabin tonight. Catrina Welsh has to sleep sometime.”

  He and Sarah sat in the National Wildfire Service canteen and drank coffee as they half-watched the TV on the far wall. Firefighters came and went, gobbling their food even faster than doctors and nurses, before dashing out again. From what Cantwell heard, fires were still burning along the coast in the hills. That made sense, because he’d seen no sign of Merinda Barker and her backup crew since he’d talked to her earlier.

  Cantwell said, “I’m willing to bet Sensor’s already forgotten about us. I bet we’re stuck here forever and . . .” He saw Sarah suddenly lean forward in her seat, her eyes fixed on the TV. “What is it?” he said.

  “Shh . . .” Sarah said. “Listen.”

  “ . . . the Croatian-born American billionaire philanthropist often came under attack for his liberal views, especially his vocal support for the Open Borders, Open Arms immigration policy favored by many liberals in Congress. Police say an armed man entered Nikola Kraljevic’s Hyannis Port compound earlier today while the seventy-two-year-old was in his swimming pool along with two young female house guests. The gunman, described by a member of the domestic staff as a Caucasian male wearing tan pants, a blue polo shirt, and mirrored sunglasses, opened fire and killed all three. He later escaped in a dark gray sedan. Police ask anyone who saw this car or the gunman to immediately contact your local law enforcement agency. Now, for a comment on today’s tragedy, we turn to Democratic Congresswoman Jan Cummings . . .”

  Sarah looked at Cantwell. “You don’t think . . .”

  The man shook his head. “Nah. A billionaire like Nikola Kraljevic makes a lot of enemies. It could even be a mafia hit. Didn’t he get his start as a union organizer on the New York docks or something?”

  “Yes, I think he did,” Sarah said. “I remember reading about that when I was working with Homeland Security.”

  “Well, there you go, a Mafia hit. It has to be,” Cantwell said.

  “I don’t think so. Jacob Sensor told me he’d identified the man who bankrolled the attempt on his l
ife,” Sarah said. “And he said to keep watching the news. Too much of a coincidence, don’t you think?”

  Cantwell thought that through and then said, “Kraljevic had the name of being a rabid liberal and very much in favor of OBOA. As I recall, he was known to be anti-Semitic and fought hard to get the United States to drop its support for Israel.”

  “And Sensor is very much against both those policies,” Sarah said. “So did Kraljevic try to knock off Jacob Sensor only to get knocked off in turn? Makes sense, huh?”

  “Maybe too much sense,” Cantwell said. “Sarah, who the hell are you working for?”

  “I’m beginning to have my doubts that I know the man at all,” Sarah said. “There may be more to Jacob Sensor than meets the eye.”

  “If it was Sensor, his hit on Kraljevic was political, and it’s got nothing to do with pyroterrorism or the Regulators,” Cantwell said. “In other words, we’ve no reason to get involved.”

  “How would we get involved?” Sarah said. “Go to the police and say, ‘Hey, we know who killed Nikola Kraljevic’?”

  Cantwell smiled. “‘It was Jacob Sensor. You know him, lives in Washington, DC, is a government power broker and a personal friend of the President. He’s the one what done it.’”

  “Would they believe us?” Sarah said.

  “Not a chance,” Cantwell said.

  “So in the meantime . . .”

  “He’s still our boss.”

  “The Russian mafia,” Sarah said.

  “Huh?” Cantwell said.

  Sarah had been looking at the TV. Now she turned and said, “Congresswoman Jan Cummings says without doubt it was a Russian mafia hit.”

  “Why does she say that?”

  “Apparently Kraljevic accused the Russians of attempting to influence the last presidential election.”

  “Makes sense,” Cantwell said.

  “But we know better,” Sarah said.

  “Yeah,” Cantwell said. “We certainly do know better.”

  * * *

  “Mr. Cantwell, I’ve decided to take you up on your offer,” Merinda Barker said. “I want to be a Regulator.”

  The woman’s face was smudged with smoke, and soot had gathered in the corner of her eyes. Her crew, exhausted, lay on the grass beside the dirt road, but a couple of them followed Merinda’s lead and had made their way to the canteen.

  Cantwell smiled. “Glad to hear it. What made you make up your mind?”

  “I spoke to my grandfather. I didn’t tell him what the job was, but he told me I must follow my heart,” the woman said. “My heart tells me to accept your offer.”

  “Then leave it with me, Miss Barker,” Cantwell said. “First of all, I’ll see about getting you the jump training you need and we’ll take it from there.”

  “Don’t I get sworn in or something?” Merinda said.

  “I don’t think so,” Cantwell said. “I’ve hired you and that’s it. We don’t stand on ceremony in the Regulators.”

  Sarah Milano smiled. “All two of you.”

  “Well, there’s Pete Kennedy and a few more,” Cantwell said. “Our numbers are growing, albeit slowly.”

  “Pete Kennedy,” Merinda said. “I heard some of the firefighters talking about him. He made quite a hero of himself up Washington state way.”

  “And that’s why he’s now a Regulator,” Cantwell said. “You’re in exalted company, Miss Barker.”

  “Aren’t you proud?” Sarah said, smiling.

  Merinda said, “I’m excited. I really want to do this. Most, if not all, of the fires we’ve battled for the past week were started by humans.”

  “Terrorists most likely,” Cantwell said. “And it will get worse before it gets better.”

  “Can we stop it, Mr. Cantwell,” Merinda said. “I mean can the Regulators stop it?”

  “It will stop when enough terrorists die,” Cantwell said. “That’s the bottom line.”

  “I’ll do my part,” Merinda said. “My grandfather has spoken of terrorists. He says they are cowards who hide behind fire and explosives and never come out to fight in the light of day.”

  “You grandfather is a wise man,” Cantwell said.

  “He is a warrior,” Merinda said.

  “And right now that’s what the National Wildfire Service needs . . . warriors,” Cantwell said.

  “Like me,” Merinda said.

  CHAPTER 21

  Jacob Sensor poured brandy into a couple of crystal snifters, handed one to British MI5 director Sir Anthony Bickford-Scott, and said, “You did well.”

  As good manners dictated, Bickford-Scott accepted the compliment with no show of emotion. “Thank you,” he said. “The Ukrainian is expensive, but he’s always reliable and discreet.”

  “All the same, it’s a pity about the two girls,” Sensor said. “I was distressed to hear that they’d been eliminated.”

  The Englishman waved a dismissive hand. “High-class prostitutes. Casualties of war. Put them out of your mind.”

  “Your prime minister?”

  “He knows it happened, but nothing else. He’s a blabbermouth and none too bright.”

  “He was a personal friend of Nikola Kraljevic, or so I’m told,” Sensor said.

  “They had much in common, both rich men and liberal leftists. A combination I’ll never understand.”

  “And both had an eye for the ladies.”

  “Russian women, and the younger the better,” Bickford-Scott said. “The two dead girls were Russians.”

  Sensor said, “Initially, there was a great deal of Slavic angst about that, but it was smoothed over. I promised that we’d look the other way when the next Russian assassination on US soil comes along.”

  “Jolly good show,” Bickford-Scott said.

  The two men sat in the library of Sensor’s palatial home in McLean, outside of Washington, DC, a power center of woodsy parks and quiet, leafy streets where neighbors rooted for one another’s kids at Little League games and carpooled to the nearby schools.

  “Three shots, three kills,” Sensor said.

  The Englishman nodded. “It’s the Ukrainian’s way.”

  “The police are investigating the incident as a Russian mafia hit.”

  “Then let them think that.”

  “Their investigation will go nowhere, and the case will be quietly dropped,” Sensor said. “How did it play in London? Or is it too early to know?”

  “As far as I can tell, nobody gives a damn. Kraljevic was a naturalized American citizen whose sharp business practices once helped devalue the British pound. He was hardly popular in Whitehall.”

  “So it’s a case of good riddance?” Sensor said.

  “Hardly even that. It’s a case of, ‘Don’t bother us with trivia when we’re facing another general election.’”

  Sensor said, “Now, to change the subject, what is your impression so far of my Regulators plan?”

  “My dear chap, it’s excellent. Our own force is now in the field, some eighty strong.”

  “Recruited from firefighters?”

  Bickford-Scott shook his elegant, silver-gray head. “That is where we differ. Our operatives are mostly snake-eaters, drawn from the ranks of the Special Air Service and the Royal Navy’s Special Boat Service, plus a few intelligence types.” The Englishman smiled. “We don’t expect them to put out fires, but we do ask them to extinguish those who light them.”

  “And the Ukrainian?” Sensor said. “Do you use him in that capacity?”

  “From time to time, but only to terminate known pyroterrorist leaders. He’s too expensive to use for small fry.”

  “How many Islamic terrorists have you eliminated so far?”

  “My dear, Jacob, that number is classified, but I can tell you that in Scotland alone we have erased seven in the past eighteen months.”

  “I didn’t realize that there are that many forests in Scotland,” Sensor said.

  “Twenty-six that can be called major woodlands,” Bickford-Sco
tt said.

  Sensor offered the Englishman a cigar, waited until it was lit, and then said, “So, how many operatives can you lend me?”

  From behind a cloud of blue smoke, Bickford-Scott said, “This must be kept very hush-hush, Jacob. Remember, the prime minister and parliament have no knowledge of our operations. The British government is made up of wheels within wheels, and it would not do to upset their balance and have the whole setup come to a grinding halt.”

  “I understand perfectly,” Sensor said. His own cigar glowed crimson in the muted lamplight. The curtains were drawn against the darkness outside.

  “Three for starters,” the Englishman said. “All SAS and all tiptop chaps, or so I’m told.”

  “When can you send them?”

  “As soon as you need them. As far as I’m aware, they’re packed and ready to go.”

  “I need them now,” Sensor said.

  “Then I’ll arrange it as soon as I return to the embassy.”

  “They’ll fly into LAX, and I’ll take it from there. Let me know their time of arrival.”

  “They’re traveling incognito, so if you plan to use them on operations, they’ll need to be armed.”

  Sensor nodded. “It’s unlikely they’ll go out on operations. I want only their expertise, Bickford-Scott. Your snake-eaters will be in the classroom under the command of Superintendent Cory Cantwell, who’s currently here in Los Angeles. I’ll let him know they’re on their way.”

  “Does Cantwell have any experience?”

  “Yes, he’s already deleted terrorists in the field.”

  “Jolly good,” the Englishman said. “That makes a difference.”

  Then, as his mind came back to the events of earlier in the day, Sensor said, “I can never thank you enough for recommending the Ukrainian.”

  “No thanks needed, dear chap.” He waved a dismissive hand, and the cigar in his fingers trailed blue smoke. “I was only too glad to help.”

  “Kraljevic needed killing,” Sensor said.

  Bickford-Scott smiled. “Jacob, do you really need my reassurance?”

  “I’m not usually this sensitive, but yeah, I guess I do.”

  “Then you have it. Kraljevic did his best to have you assassinated, for God’s sake.”