The good news was there had been no mention on the international CNN channel of a high-profile murder spree in Albuquerque. If the Unit wanted to blame the murders on Carl, she was sure they’d make a spectacle of it. They had not done so.
Palmer wondered if Carl had touched any of the people he rescued. He had the contagion. There was no doubt about that. If he was as sick as she was, with deteriorating mobility, then there was no one remaining who even had a chance to do anything about the terrible plan she had uncovered. That thought reinforced just how hopeless their situation was. The adversary had won.
She seriously considered just putting her head down on the table and letting the fatigue take her, just for a short while. She needed rest, but she resisted the desire to just give up and go to sleep. If she closed her eyes she might never wake up again. There had to be a way to salvage the mission. There was always a way. She just had to find it.
The reports identified the viral research facility hidden in the perfect location in plain sight. It was in a normal office building right in the middle of downtown Chihuahua City, maybe two hundred road miles from their municipal airport.
The city of Chihuahua was a modern city, the capitol of the state of Chihuahua, and home to slightly less than a million people. Its airport, while labeled international, featured only flights around Mexico and a few US airports. Those connections gave Chihuahua access to every major city in the world. As a result, its economy was thriving.
A precision strike on the office building where the lab was located was out of the question, even if the virus was contained or fully destroyed in the strike. The collateral damage of even a nighttime hit on that building would be enormous because it was surrounded by high-rise apartment buildings. Casualties would count into the thousands and the destruction would run into tens of billions of dollars.
Contagion, as the Melissa Mallory virus was called privately by the Triad, was harmless if released because it was transmitted only by physical touch. It could not survive floating in the air outside of a human host. But that was not the only deadly bug being developed at the lab. She shuddered at the thought of the other pathogen, the airborne cousin to Contagion, being released into the atmosphere.
According to the report, the office building with the lab had a state-of-the-art security system and a highly trained security staff. A covert assault on the building would likely fail because resistance in the building would be fierce. Such an operation had to be coordinated through political and military channels, so the adversary would see a ground or air assault coming from miles away. He’d get the virus and the antidote out and destroy any remaining evidence long before the lab was breached.
As her eyes began to close, Palmer realized her awareness was floating away, like when you begin to see crazy mental creations indicating you’re just beginning to start dreaming. She snapped her eyes open and shook her head side to side, which only served to exacerbate the intense headache she felt. It seemed as though her brain was literally rattling around, painfully bouncing off the walls of her skull.
Any team sent to destroy the virus had to accomplish the deed from inside the building. They had to be invited in. A heavily armed assault team couldn’t do that. Palmer and her sick mercenaries couldn’t do that. Carl Johnson, the American Terrorist, couldn’t do that, even if not stricken by the virus.
But Alfonso Reyes could.
Chapter 40
0610 hours MST Saturday
Albuquerque, NM
“What the hell do you mean, they all escaped?”
Costas Drake cringed as the anger in Rainman’s electronically altered voice exploded from the satellite cell phone. He had a right to be angry. Drake’s Unit personnel had performed miserably.
Orizaga said, “Clearly, he found your task list among the reports in my safe. Perhaps Mr. Garcia has been in contact with him since then and was able to mobilize a rescue.”
August Spoke’s voice came on the line. “I seriously doubt Mr. Garcia’s network has fast access to the kind of talent deployed at Special Agent Cummings’s house. If he did, Johnson would have used this talent before. Evidence at the scene indicates one man was deployed, and he was no mercenary. He was a pro.”
“It couldn’t have been only one man,” Drake argued. “My men are highly trained. Johnson must have engaged a team of elite ex-Special Forces men.”
“FBI’s crime scene investigators have been all over the house for the last four hours,” Spoke replied. “A single generic nine-millimeter handgun was the only weapon used by the opposing force. All shots were fired from the same weapon. Seventeen hits, zero misses, all head shots. CSI says one of your Unit fired a triple tap upstairs. However, there were no impact holes in the walls anywhere upstairs. Your man hit his target, but this guy still managed to take out the entire six-man squad.”
Drake added, “Agent Spoke, in the CIA covert ops, we fire ten thousand rounds a month to maintain our shooting skills at their peak. I know you guys in the Secret Service do the same thing. But even I couldn’t have taken out six Unit men by myself in the heat of an assault, certainly not all with head shots.”
Rainman interrupted. “Christ! Are you saying Johnson has found himself a Delta commando or a SEAL?” When the man paused, Drake found himself wondering if Johnson had sent his almost-SEAL, Agent Nancy Palmer, to prevent the task list from being fulfilled.
Spoke said, “No, sir. Professionals at that level don’t shoot Glocks. That’s a rookie gun. I think it was Johnson. He was issued a Glock by one of his mercs last week. I recall reading that in the TER after-action reports. I think he found the task list in Orizaga’s safe and somehow smuggled his way back north of the border to intervene.”
“Johnson?” Drake could hardly believe his ears. “He’s a fucking civilian with no military training!”
“Maybe,” Spoke said. “Or maybe not. Don’t forget, he has been highly effective.”
Rainman let out deep breaths that the electronic scrambling converted to a wheezing sound. “If he’s not the amateur we figured him to be, he is a major risk I had not previously factored into my plans. He can subvert everything I have worked for.”
He paused, and Drake had the feeling Rainman was creating a new path in his plan even before he spoke the details.
“Johnson has minimal assets now, so information will be his most powerful weapon. Gentlemen, I don’t need to remind you that we’re still vulnerable until President Mallory dies. So he still has a forty-eight-hour window to do some damage.”
Rainman was silent for a long while, but Drake knew not to interrupt the man’s thought process. Finally, he continued.
“August, I have a special task for you, which we’ll discuss offline. Have your man wrap up things at the Op Station. I want you to leave immediately for my location. Mr. Orizaga, I want you on the first plane back to Mexico.”
“My flight to Los Angeles is scheduled to depart at nine o’clock, and my connection will get me into Hermosillo at noon.”
“I didn’t ask when your flight is scheduled to depart. I said I want you on the first plane back to Mexico. Am I clear?”
“Be careful, Rainman,” Orizaga said. “Do not confuse me with the rest of your hired help.”
Drake saw a warning look in his liaison’s eyes that he hadn’t seen before. Orizaga was getting pressure from Rainman and, no doubt, from the Triad. It was Johnson-the-amateur against the world and, by some impossible turn of events, Johnson had the upper hand. The man was making everyone feel the heat.
“Mr. Orizaga,” Rainman said. “If we don’t stop Carl Johnson from interfering, there won’t be any difference between you, me, and my hired help. We will all be wanted criminals. Or we’ll be dead. I need you to coordinate with our friends in the Triad. I want to move up my timeline.”
“Before the president dies?”
“If Johnson was able to access the Triad files from your computer, then he knows about the antidote. He’ll try to use Agent Cummings for
her FBI contacts, I’m sure, and Anita Chapman has media contacts around the world. By blaming him for those murders, we would have discredited Johnson so no one would listen. We’ll have to do that a different way now.
“As soon as your plane departs Albuquerque, I will be grounding all US air traffic. And as soon as you cross the border, I’m going to announce the viral outbreak in New Mexico and on the east coast, and I’m going to blame all that on Johnson. I’ll then seal all US borders and the Air Force will turn back all inbound and outbound flights, with force if necessary. So make sure you do not miss your flight.
“Mr. Drake, I’m going to have the Director of the FBI assign you as my personal liaison to the Albuquerque field office. You will have direct command over all FBI assets and operations in the hunt for the terrorist and his accomplices.”
“Understood,” Drake said. “What about Johnson? He could be here in Albuquerque or back in Mexico by now.”
“Doesn’t matter. When I close the border, he will be trapped on whichever side he happens to be. We’ll ramp up the hunt by involving international law enforcement. Last week, he was wanted for kidnapping the First Daughter. In about an hour, he’ll be wanted for using a biological weapon to assassinate the president.”
Chapter 41
0845 hours MST Saturday
Albuquerque, NM
Carl, in disguise, made his way back to the south cargo entrance of the Sunport and was allowed access. The colonel already had the engines powered up and was waiting for him at the door.
“Sit up front with me, Johnson,” Reichert said when Carl boarded. “I want it to look like we have two pilots. Safety regs.”
He pulled off his dreadlocks wig and did as the colonel requested. It was a rare treat because he got to hear the chatter pilots exchange with the control tower, and the view of the wide expanse of empty land beyond the runways was spectacular from the cockpit. He also got to see the procession of airplanes snaking from the terminals and along the taxiways on the north side of the tarmac. Five planes lined up on the north side of the west end of the main east-west runway, and Carl’s Gulfstream waited patiently on the south side taxiway not even fifty feet from that group of larger planes.
He scanned the Sunport runway system. There were markers and lights and painted strips on the ground seeming to point in every direction. It was such a jumble that Carl figured only trained pilots and traffic directors could make sense of it.
The morning sun shone brightly out of a crisp and clear, flawless blue sky, and Carl was reminded of why he fell in love with New Mexico so many years ago. The first time he visited, almost thirty years past, he stepped off the plane, walked out the front door of the airport, and noticed the big blue sky that seemed to go on forever. It stretched from the imposing Sandia Mountains in the east all the way to the volcanoes many miles to the west. The blue canopy capped the entire length of the high-desert paradise known as the Rio Grande Valley.
As he reflected on the last twenty-four hours, it occurred to Carl that his adversary was literally nipping at his heals. At the safe house where he took Cummings and the Chapmans, young Mr. Garcia said he’d barely escaped the op center alive. The adversary had traced their heavily encrypted data link and neutralized the op center. McGrath’s had been similarly compromised. A cruise missile had been deployed against his team in a foreign country and killed half his team members. Sooner or later the US intelligence machine would find him, on behalf of the adversary, and then the US military would pound him into dust.
At first, Carl rated his chances of survival at zero. He had a single TER agent and only four of his mercenaries had survived the missile attack. On the other hand, even though the adversary obviously commanded the US military and law enforcement assets, Carl had to acknowledge he wasn’t completely helpless. He had a helicopter and a Gulfstream jet for transportation, along with a couple pilots, and the jet was stocked full of high-tech covert ops weaponry.
At least the task list targets were safe. Special Agent Cummings knew the business of finding fugitives, and she knew the resources the Unit would bring to bear. She could keep them hidden.
“We’re number two for take-off,” Reichert said and nodded ahead of the plane. “But I’m not liking that.”
Carl saw what looked like a black police car driving across the airport grounds. Its red and blue strobes were flashing and it sped toward the midway point of the main runway.
“If it blocks the runway, there’s no way we’ll get off.” Reichert looked to the right. “Here comes another one.”
Carl leaned forward and saw a second airport security car pull up to the taxiway. There was a 737 at the front of the line. It was number one for take-off. Another Gulfstream showing the logo of AeroMéxico sat behind that plane and a second 737 was lined up behind that one. The security cars pulled to a stop in front of the second 737.
Reichert said, “Well, that’s it then. They’re onto to us.”
“They’re definitely onto something,” Carl said. “But I don’t think they’re onto us.”
“Can’t be a coincidence, arriving like this right when we’re in line to take-off.”
“But look at those cars. They’re just sitting there, and each has only a single occupant.”
“Doesn’t take more than two cars to block a runway.”
“This is a military base also, Colonel. If they were onto me, they would have sent a lot more than two cars. They would have sent them all. Tanks and APCs, too. This place would be swarming with Air Force Security Police combat troops, city cops, FBI, and SWAT.”
The first 737 was given permission to take-off. With a roar, the big plane sped down the runway and lifted into the air. Moments later, Carl heard the tower direct Reichert to taxi into position. Thirty seconds later, they raced down the runway.
A few minutes into the flight, the colonel said, “That was close. That other Gulfstream was the last plane allowed off the ground. The Sunport is now closed, and I just heard every airport in the country is closed. All planes in the air will be allowed to continue to their destinations. All inbound international flights are being redirected to airports outside the US.”
Carl said, “A nationwide shutdown.” He looked over at the pilot. “That’s unexpected. So, somehow the game has changed again, and now our adversary is reacting. We need to be prepared to do the same.” He thought for a moment. “You know, I’ve never seen an AeroMéxico plane at the Sunport before. In fact, I’ve never seen any international planes here before. I once heard there are no direct international flights to or from Albuquerque, but I don’t know if it’s true.”
Reichert said, “I’m not following you.”
“Just before Agent Peoples went off-line yesterday, he said Vicente Orizaga would be returning from Albuquerque this morning. Bet you a dollar that was his plane.”
“I’ll see your dollar and raise you one. You’re presuming a connection between his take-off and the airports getting shut down.” Carl nodded, then Reichert continued. “I don’t buy it. If he’s working for the adversary, he would be allowed to fly out anytime.”
“Not if they wanted to keep his involvement secret. Make his plane the last one up, then close the borders. His is just another plane in the sky.”
“In that case,” Reichert said, easing the throttles forward a bit more. “We’d better get across the border before he does or we might find ourselves getting turned back.”
“Agreed.”
An hour and a half later, shortly after beginning his approach to the airport at Chihuahua City, the colonel again radioed an emergency. This time he called in a starboard engine fault and requested to be diverted to the much closer Nuevo Casas Grandes municipal airport.
Carl recalled that the municipal airport had relatively little traffic, maybe only a dozen flights a day, and mostly to the other regional airports around Mexico. In fact, it catered primarily to town jumpers, which were mostly propeller planes and private helicopters. Colonel Reichert had
previously related to Carl that the airport superintendent did not take bribes, so Carl’s gracious offering of cash was considered a retainer for services to be rendered at some point in the near future. The superintendent had the two-person control tower direct the Gulfstream into the same hangar as yesterday.
The hangar doors closed behind the plane as the engines spooled down. Carl grabbed the door’s locking lever and rotated it a quarter turn clockwise. The door unlatched and he waited while it unfolded slowly on its near silent electrical motor, then he stepped down onto the door’s built-in steps and found himself alone on the concrete hangar floor. He was mildly surprised that none of his team was present to greet him. Perhaps they were busy or had moved on to other mission business.
The colonel came down the stairs after him and began his after-flight inspection of the airplane. Carl left him to that and strode toward the office door at the north end of the hangar. He pulled the office door open, and the metal from an improperly aligned doorframe grated loudly. He froze.
Before his brain truly recognized what he was seeing, his body reacted to the smell of sickness and death. He gagged and sucked in a breath through his mouth to avoid the smell. Then his brain digested what his eyes saw.
They’re sick. They’re all sick!
Against that backdrop of misery, though, he nearly jumped with joy at the sight of Julia Reyes. Luisa Reyes sat on the floor in the left corner of the office with her head hanging chin to chest. Julia was sprawled across her lap and her eyes were open. Her face brightened for a second at the sight of Carl, but her attempt to rise produced only a twitch in one of her arms.
Some primal instinct deep in the back of Carl’s brain told him not to enter the room, but a swelling of love and sorrow at the pitiful sight of his girl made him enter, nonetheless. Besides, he rationalized, if whatever afflicted everyone was airborne, then I’ve already taken in a lungful as soon as I opened the door.
American Terrorist Trilogy Page 53