Extreme Faction

by Trevor Scott

  “That’s all the English I know,” she said in her native language. “Is Victor expecting you?”

  “No. But I’m sure he’d like to talk with me. I work for Bio-tech Chemical.”

  She raised her brows. Without saying a word, she picked up the phone and called her boss. She repeated the company name at the end, and then smiled and hung up. “He’ll see you, Mr. Adams.” She rose and let him through a door.

  Victor Petrov was a large, thick man in his early sixties. He wore gray slacks and a white shirt with sleeves rolled up. His bright red tie hung loosely over his massive neck. He was grossly out of shape, but it was evident that he had been a magnificent specimen in his earlier years. He met Jake in the middle of the room and they shook hands. Then he offered Jake a chair and returned behind his desk, where he leaned back on an old creaky wooden behemoth of a swivel chair.

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Adams,” Petrov asked in perfect English.

  Jake hadn’t thought about where to begin. MacCarty had given him only limited information on the deal he had been working. “My employer, Maxwell MacCarty, told me you two had been working on setting up a production facility here in the Ukraine.” He paused to see if that would start things off.

  The chair squeaked as the man twisted and put his hands behind his head. “Yes. I’m sorry to hear of his death. He was a good man.”

  “Yes, he was,” Jake agreed. “I was hoping we could still work the plan. Is that possible?”

  Petrov let out a heavy breath that whistled. “I’m not sure you’re in a position to do that, Mr. Adams.”

  Wait a minute. How would this guy know what he was capable of? “Excuse me?”

  “I’m just saying...Mr. MacCarty said you were working security for him.”

  “When did he tell you that?”

  “At the dinner party the first night.”

  “You were there?” Jake asked.

  “Yes.”

  “You saw Yuri Tvchenko’s death?”

  “I’m afraid not,” he explained. “I had stepped out to make a call. When I returned, he was lying at your feet.”

  It was strange that Jake didn’t recognize the man from the party, but there had been a lot of people there. And after Tvchenko collapsed, things became hectic. “I was working security for MacCarty, but I had also planned on helping him set up a production facility.”

  Petrov’s brows rose. “Is that so? He hadn’t mentioned that to me.”

  They stared at each other for a moment.

  Jake wasn’t sure how to proceed now. He didn’t like this smug bastard. If he asked for specifics on the deal, then he’d know Jake knew next to nothing about the plan. Yet, if Jake acted as though he knew everything, then there would have been no reason to ask for more information. Maybe it was time for a little bluff.

  “I looked over the agreement in principle,” Jake started. “In fact, I sent a copy to Max’s son in Portland yesterday. Andy will be taking over the operation, and I’m sure he’ll want to proceed with his father’s plan.”

  Petrov’s complexion seemed to change from ivory to a milky white.

  Actually, Andy was a skinny fourteen-year-old who was worrying more about his acne problem and voice change than an international contract. Bio-tech Chemical was a privately held company, but it would take months in probate to figure out who was in charge. Jake’s early guess would be MacCarty’s wife, who had stayed active in the marketing and human resources departments over the years.

  Petrov was considering what Jake had told him. Finally, he leaned forward on his desk and said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Adams. But I’m afraid we’ll have to proceed in another direction. It’s my understanding of international law that an agreement in principle can be broken by either party any time before a contractual commitment is reached. Our government needs to move forward in a new direction.”

  So that was it, Jake thought. “So, you have another deal?”

  Petrov shifted in his chair. “I’m afraid so.”

  That was awfully quick. MacCarty and Swanson’s bodies had not even been released for shipment back to Oregon. “I see. May I ask which company?”

  The Ukrainian smiled. “I’m afraid that’s confidential.”

  This was going nowhere fast. Jake knew he’d get nothing more out of Petrov. He rose from his chair and reached across the desk to shake hands. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Petrov.”

  Jake left the office, said goodbye to the receptionist, and went out into the stark marble corridor. His steps echoed back from the high ceiling, and he stopped for a moment to gaze at a painting on the wall. It was a bloody scene of Cossacks on horseback stabbing foot soldiers with long swords. He felt a little like those men on the ground. Only he was dodging bullets. He thought about MacCarty and the tentative deal he had reached. It was amazing that the Ukrainians had been able to come up with a new deal so quickly. Maybe more than just a coincidence.

  34

  HOUSTON, TEXAS

  It was a bright, clear morning closing in on noon. Not a cloud in the Texas sky. It was the kind of day that would stagnate quickly and suffocate anyone stepping outside after lunch.

  Yet, it was also a perfect day for flying. Baskale kept the twin engine Beechcraft at three hundred feet, following a quarter mile south of Interstate 10, heading east, just a half hour out of Houston.

  He peered over his shoulder at his best man, the strong one. He was huddled over the metal box and had just removed the cover. Inside, the cluster bomb had been opened, exposing the bomblets for the first time. Baskale had come to trust this man he had met only a few weeks ago. He rarely became familiar with associates. Too many had died for the cause, even though Baskale knew they were all far better off.

  Baskale smiled as he turned and checked the map again. It would be an easy drop. Follow the interstate until it crossed with 610, the ring around Houston, and then swoop in over Memorial Park until he found his target. He had a detailed map of the golf course and knew his target would be on the first five holes. What could go wrong?

  ●

  Steve Nelsen and Ricardo Garcia sat back in the Army Black Hawk helicopter they had been loaned from Fort Hood. They were on the outer edge of a shopping center parking lot, with an Army Apache helicopter sitting on the pavement next to them. They all had headsets on and were listening to central air traffic control out of Houston International. ATC had queried a plane thirty minutes ago, got no answer, and then had lost the blip from their screen. Minutes ago a small plane had magically appeared on radar alongside Interstate 10, heading right for the city.

  “Any flight plan drawn?” Nelsen asked the controller.

  “Negative.”

  Nelsen looked forward at the chopper pilot, who was waiting for directions. “Do you have the target on your screen?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir. I suggest we get airborne.”

  “Let’s do it then.”

  The Black Hawk pilot swiveled around, and he and his co-pilot started clicking switches. The rotors started turning slowly, picking up speed. Across from them, the Apache followed suit.

  Nelsen checked his gun under his arm and tapped his partner. “This is it, Ricardo. It has to be them.”

  Garcia wasn’t sure. In one sense he hoped Nelsen was right, but if he was, he knew it would be difficult, if not impossible, to stop the men from dropping the nerve gas. They could shoot the plane down, but the crash and burn would probably release the gas. They had thought of nearly every scenario, and come up with the only plan with a chance for success. He only hoped everything would go as planned.

  In a few minutes the helicopters were airborne and heading southeast just above the trees.

  The Apache was an impressive aircraft, loaded to the hilt with air-to-air and air-to-ground missiles. The nose gun alone could drop any small plane with one burst. One craft would be overkill, but Nelsen was leaving nothing to chance. There was another Apache taking off from Hobby Airport south of Houston, and a third from the parki
ng lot of a mall in the southwest off of highway 59. Two others were on standby at Houston International. On the ground over a hundred officers were standing by for directions. Houston police, Agency officers, and army chemical and biological weapons units in full Chem Warfare uniforms.

  Behind Nelsen was an Agency sharpshooter in a black jumpsuit, his face streaked with camouflage paint. The shooter cradled his rifle with the large scope like a baby. To him it was.

  “I’ve got ‘em,” the pilot blared over the radio.

  Nelsen made his way forward. “Are you positive?”

  “It’s the same vector H.I. gave us. It seems to be following the interstate in.”

  “Fine. Head straight for it.”

  The pilot responded and the Black Hawk surged forward toward the southeast on an intercept course out and away from most of the major housing units. That had been Nelsen’s main concern. He suspected the terrorists would try for the former president in his home town of Houston, but he had no idea which direction they would come from. And he suspected they would use a plane, since it was the best dispersal method available to them. Besides, the terrorists had already proven they could fly.

  ●

  At the Memorial Park Golf Course, special agents from the Agency’s internal security department, which had taken over the responsibilities normally associated with the secret service, were monitoring the radio traffic as they watched former president George Bush tee up on the fourth hole.

  Bush had refused to change his plans for the golf outing. His foursome included the Houston mayor, a state senator, and a Texas congressman. Bush’s son, the Texas governor, couldn’t make it, and was home in Austin. Bush wasn’t afraid of some splinter terrorists trying to make a name for themselves. Besides, he had survived World War II, unpublished assassination attempts while he was president, and the botched attempt on his life while on his trip to the middle east years ago. What could four men do?

  The Agency officer in charge, Lee Burns, was on the ground fifty yards from the fourth tee. He was nervous. He had enough gas masks handy in case the terrorists got through, but in the wide open spaces of a golf course on such a quiet day with no wind, anything could go wrong. And if anything could go wrong, it probably would. Besides, there wasn’t a lot they could do against an airborne nerve gas attack, except wait for the wind to disperse and dilute it. They did have the newest truck-mounted carbon units that would blow carbon gas into the nerve gas cloud absorbing much of its deadly effects. But he had been with Nelsen in Mexico, seen what the men were capable of. Burns knew that these men would die for their cause if needed. Happily die.

  Burns had heard that a plane was on its way. He had tried to whisk the former president to his limo and back to his apartment, but he wasn’t buying it. Bush was determined to play a full eighteen holes. Nothing would stop him.

  Stationed discreetly behind trees in the woods, were four Agency sharpshooters in full combat dress and chemical warfare shells. They even had the newest helmets with masks that allowed the best shooting profile available anywhere in the world. They were ready.

  Burns trained his eyes toward the west, and hoped his men would not be needed.

  ●

  Baskale first saw the helicopters as flashes against the green trees along a small creek. They were ahead of him some three miles on a direct course to intercept. He smiled at their ignorance. He had expected just that. He had expected even more than that. The Americans had to be smarter than this, he was sure.

  He had two minutes before they were on him.

  He yelled back to his man to stand by for what they had discussed. The man nodded.

  Banking to the left until he was over Interstate 10, he then turned back to the right, flying just over the eastbound lane. Traffic below was light. It was between the morning rush hour and the noon rush. A steady stream of vans and trucks and cars.

  The plane swooped lower until it was right over the top of an old Ford pickup truck.

  Behind Baskale, the large man pulled out a bomblet, gave it a quick kiss, and then dropped it into the back of the truck below.

  Down on the freeway there was a puff of smoke as the bomblet burst open, dispersing the deadly gas into the air.

  The large man screamed with pleasure.

  On the freeway, the car behind the truck swerved and crashed into the guard rail. The driver was already dead. Two other cars swerved around the crash and stopped to help. As the drivers stepped out, they dropped immediately to the ground.

  The plane continued on. The helicopters were now vectoring toward them.

  ●

  “What the hell was that?” Nelsen yelled over the radio.

  The Black Hawk pilot had banked around and was now just behind the airplane. The Apache was off to its right.

  “Shit,” Garcia said. “I think they dropped one of the bomblets onto that truck below.”

  “Radio one of the chem units to get here pronto,” Nelsen yelled.

  “Yes, sir,” the co-pilot answered.

  Nelsen knew it was a waste of time. By the time the decontamination units reached the site, the gas would be gone into nowhere.

  The truck below continued on. The driver was swerving, uncertain what to do, and what it was in the bed behind him.

  “What do we do?” the Black Hawk pilot asked.

  Nelsen was thinking. If they fire on him, drop the little plane out of the sky, the bomblets would go off, killing far too many people to think about. And in seconds they would be in the thick of the western suburbs. What could they do? “Let me talk with them?” Nelsen said.

  The pilot switched frequencies.

  “Pilot of Beechcraft 3975. Do you hear me?”

  No response.

  “We will shoot you down if you do not respond.”

  “Fuck you,” came a garbled response.

  “We know who you are and where you’re heading,” Nelsen said. “Turn your plane to heading One...Five...Zero and proceed five miles to a small landing strip.”

  “And then you will kill us?” The man’s accent was in broken English. “It’s a beautiful day to die.”

  That’s not what Nelsen wanted to hear. Think. Think. “It’s a fine day. I’m not arguing that. It’s the location I’m concerned about. Tell us what you want. Innocent people shouldn’t have to die here today.”

  Baskale laughed. “There are no innocent people.”

  It was too late. By now they were over the suburbs. Nelsen clicked off the mic and slammed his hand against the bulkhead. “Goddammit.” He gazed off to the Apache. It would be easy to simply give the fire order. But where would the plane crash? His luck it would hit a school yard.

  “Now what?” Garcia asked.

  Of course. “I’ve got it.” He told the pilot to maneuver alongside the plane. In a second, they were just off to the right of the plane and the Apache had moved in behind it. “Hal, scope ‘em and see how many, other than the pilot, in that Beechcraft.”

  The sharpshooter zoomed the scope onto the plane, fore and aft, and then settled on the large man in the rear of the aircraft. “Looks like just one.”

  “Take him out,” Nelsen ordered.

  Two seconds after he said it, the sharpshooter fired and the window in the back of the plane exploded. “One down. Pilot to go.”

  ●

  In the Beechcraft Baskale heard only a slight cracking sound from behind. When he turned to see what it was, his best man lay across the bomb case with a hole where his nose used to be.

  He screamed a shrill call, his chest heaving. Then he quickly calmed down and prayed for a moment for his lost man. He was going to a better place. Was already there.

  Now the plan would have to shift into the second phase. It was their fault. Baskale had anticipated this. It could still work. He powered up to the max, pulled back on the stick, and then banked toward the south over the houses. There were rows and rows of colorful houses along white, cement streets and swirling cul-de-sacs. They all had beautifu
l aqua-marine swimming pools. The grass seemed so green in the yards. He had never seen such tranquility.

  His mind flashed back to the airplane’s dials. He would remain just over the top of the houses, for even the Americans would not be stupid enough to shoot him down there.

  ●

  “Now what?” came a voice over the radio. It was the Black Hawk pilot.

  “What do you think,” Nelsen screamed. “Keep after them. And switch frequencies to our secure line.”

  The other helicopters were airborne flying slowly toward their position.

  “Helos five and six lift off and secure objective one,” Nelsen said. “Helos three and four, get your asses in gear to our location. Fan out to one mile on either side of us.”

  There were four affirmatives over the radio.

  “Where the hell is he heading?” Nelsen said to no one in particular.

  Garcia had his eyes on the Beechcraft. “He’s gaining altitude, Steve.”

  Nelsen moved forward for a better look. “Anything down that way?” As he said it, his eyes answered his own question. Off in the distance, some five or six miles, was the Houston Astrodome.

  “He’s not crazy enough to crash into that...” The Black Hawk pilot turned to Nelsen.

  He was afraid so, and said it with his grave stare. “God help us,” Nelsen said. “Get on the horn and find out if anything’s going on there today.”

  “I can answer that,” Garcia said. “The Astros play New York in a double header.”

  “How many in the stands?”

  “The place holds almost sixty thousand. But since they’re playing the Mets, there’s probably twenty thousand in attendance.”

  “Just fucking great.” Nelsen thought fast. If they had let the plane through, perhaps one old, former president would have died. But now... “Twenty thousand. Jesus Christ. Is there any place ahead we can take him out?”

  Garcia checked over a detailed map of Houston and the surrounding area. “I don’t see one. But even the suburbs would be better than the Astrodome.”