Extreme Faction

by Trevor Scott

  “We’re not even sure he’s heading there,” Nelsen said. “Can we get the crazy bastard on the radio again?”

  The co-pilot switched frequencies.

  They didn’t have much time for a decision. The Beechcraft was gaining even more altitude and getting closer to the large white dome.

  ●

  “Beechcraft pilot...you seem to be heading toward Hobby airport. That’s great. We’ll get you clearance and you can set her down there. Then we’ll have a little talk.”

  Baskale smiled. “You would like that. Get me alone, perhaps. Say I tried to escape.”

  “This isn’t a game, Baskale.”

  Baskale jerked with the sound of his name. His given name. The Cypriot must have talked. “So, you think you know who I am?”

  “You are a proud Kurd,” Nelsen said over the radio. “I understand that. I even understand the need for a free and autonomous Kurdistan. Now please set your plane down so we can talk about it.”

  Baskale shook his head, as if the man on the radio could see him. “I’m afraid I can’t do that. We all must die sometime.”

  ●

  By now the Beechcraft was at a few hundred feet, leveled off, and nearly slowed to a stall.

  Nelsen shook his head. “That bastard is nuts. He’s not coming down. He’s heading straight for the stadium. Can you patch me through to the public address at the Astrodome?”

  “Too much time,” said the Black Hawk pilot.

  “What about shooting him down over the stadium parking lot?” Garcia asked.

  Nelsen thought about it. “Well?” he asked the pilot.

  The Apache pilot chimed in. “Sir, we could vector and shoot him from the side, but every round that misses would hit houses in the background. Same with using any of our missiles.”

  Well what in the hell good are they, Nelsen thought. “Fucking A...”

  They would be over the parking lot in seconds.

  “Hal, can you take him out?” Nelsen yelled.

  “Affirmative.”

  Nelsen tapped the Black Hawk pilot on the shoulder. “Pull up alongside again.”

  The Black Hawk was parallel to the Beechcraft in seconds.

  The sharpshooter trained his scope on the cockpit. “Sir, he’s not there.”

  “What?” Nelsen strained toward the window for a closer look. “Does that thing have automatic pilot?”

  “Yes, sir,” said the Black Hawk pilot.

  “Can you see him in the back, Hal?”

  “Negative.”

  He had to be there. Lying down.

  They were over the parking lot heading for the dome. They would be over it in seconds.

  Nelsen’s mind reeled. “He’s not going to crash into it. He’s going to drop bomblets. Can we get underneath him?”

  “The bomblets will hit our rotor,” the pilot screamed. “They’ll tear us apart and then burst open anyway.”

  He was right.

  It was too late. The plane was over the dome. Then the first bomblet flew from an opening in the bottom of the Beechcraft. Then another and another. One after the next. The bomblets pierced the Lucite panels like a knife through a sheet. In no time at all they were past the edge of the dome and the bomblets stopped.

  Then the Beechcraft picked up speed and banked hard to the north. The madman was behind the controls again.

  The Black Hawk pilot did his best to stick with the airplane, but it was a shaky ride. The Beechcraft reeled around and around the parking lot. Within minutes, people below were rushing from the Astrodome exits in a mad panic.

  “Take him out! Take him out,” Nelsen screamed.

  The helicopter was shaking violently. The sharpshooter shot once. Missed. Shot again. Missed. A third time. Missed.

  “Goddammit. Hit him.”

  The sharpshooter burst off three more rounds. Then he stopped.

  “You get him?” Nelsen asked.

  “I don’t know. I don’t see him.”

  In a second they all knew why. A body flew from the opposite side of the Beechcraft, and a bright blue and white parachute opened immediately. The man drifted toward the parking lot and the crowd below.

  The Black Hawk was still with the plane.

  “Circle around,” Nelsen yelled. “Let’s get the bastard.”

  “But, sir. The plane.”

  The Beechcraft was losing altitude fast, heading for the outer edge of the parking lot. Within seconds, the plane crashed into a small swampy area.

  “Excellent,” Nelsen yelled. “The water will help hold the gas in place. Now get Baskale.”

  The Black Hawk pilot immediately dove and banked to the right.

  But below the parachute and pilot had already reached the ground. It was a chaotic mess in the parking lot. The Black Hawk hovered over one side, and the three Apaches searched for the man throughout the large parking complex. But none of them even knew what the man had been wearing or what he looked like. From up there they all appeared as desperate crazy people. People whose eyes were burning, guts wrenching, heads swirling. Some had fallen to the pavement clutching themselves. Some were throwing up. The blue and white parachute swirled around covering people. But the pilot, Baskale, was surely gone.

  Nelsen covered his face with his hands. He had lost. Had failed. It was the worst possible outcome. Far worse than an assassination. He glared toward the ground sternly. Somehow, somewhere, he’d get that bastard. No matter what it took.

  35

  ODESSA, UKRAINE

  Three hours had passed since Jake had talked with Victor Petrov, the Ukrainian Agricultural Minister. Time enough to form a theory about what was going on.

  Jake called Tully’s office and was given his location by a reluctant associate, only after saying who he was and that it was urgent.

  Standing back behind some bushes, Jake watched Tully O’Neill and Quinn Armstrong sitting in wrought iron chairs at an outdoor cafe near the Privoz Market. The two men had just been brought their dinner, and were about to dig in.

  Walking quickly to the table, Jake startled the two men as he swiftly pulled up a chair to join them.

  “Jesus Christ,” Tully said. “Where in the hell have you been?”

  Jake tried to smile, but other than his early morning encounter with Chavva, he had found nothing amusing about the past few days.

  “I’ve been around.” He glared at Quinn for a moment, still uncertain if he had somehow given up Jake’s position while watching Petra and Helena.

  There was an uncomfortable lull as Tully and Quinn watched their cooling food. Quinn looked somber, picking at his food like a child who wanted to prove a point to his parents.

  “Go ahead and eat,” Jake said. “I’ve already eaten.” That was a lie. Jake had eaten nothing since a scant lunch on the street and the fruit Chavva had fed him for breakfast. Yet, he was so tense that food was the last thing on his mind right now.

  Each of the men had a meat and potatoes platter in front of him, and Tully started eating as though he had never tasted food. Quinn slowly picked away at his.

  “We were afraid you were taken last night,” Tully said, while chewing a piece of meat. “What in the hell happened at the apartment?”

  Jake leaned back in his chair and looked around. There was an older couple a few tables away, and a table with three younger women even farther away. No one who could hear.

  “I was almost killed,” he said, shifting his eyes from Tully to Quinn. “As you probably know, I got one of them. But he’s not talking. There must have been at least two more. A shooter and a driver. What I want to know is how in the hell they found us? I selected the place. The only people who knew where we were are sitting at this table.”

  “What in the fuck’s that supposed to mean?” Quinn screeched.

  “Quiet,” Tully ordered. “Christ almighty. Would you two quit your petty arguing? Remember, there were two other people in that apartment. What about Petra? She could have called someone. Or Helena.”

>   Jake had already thought about that. Why would Petra set herself up? Or her best friend, Helena?

  “He’s right,” Quinn said. “And what about the Brit?”

  “Fuck you! Tuck would never sell out. And there was no phone in the apartment,” Jake added.

  Quinn raised his brows, as if he had just remembered that fact himself. “There was one outside the room,” he said slowly. “At the end of the hall. I called Tully from there myself.”

  Tully stuffed another piece of meat into his cheek. “That’s right.”

  “But I was with them,” Jake reminded Quinn. Then he thought hard. “Shit...except for when I went down to the kiosk for a newspaper.”

  “That’s right. And I was in the bathroom.”

  Tully chimed in. “So one of them makes a phone call, says where they are, and the shooters show up. It’s possible.”

  “That’s assuming a lot,” Jake said sarcastically. He was still in no mood for conciliation. “That’s saying, perhaps, that Petra had more to do with Tvchenko’s research than she was saying. And I don’t think that’s true. Not after talking with her.”

  Tully glanced up from his meal. “What did she say?”

  He had their attention now, their eyes focused on him. “She was working for Tvchenko still. Tvchenko was dealing with some other men. From Petra’s description I’d say the Kurds. Tvchenko had come up with a breakthrough in his research. All Petra knew is that it would be very important to the agriculture industry. She knew somewhat how the compound worked, and even suspected there could be other uses for it. But she thought that Tvchenko was serious about its commercial potential. That’s all. She did hear Tvchenko arguing with the men, and that was out of character for Yuri.”

  “So why would anyone want Petra dead?” Tully asked, as he put the last piece of food into his mouth.

  Quinn looked at Jake.

  “She knew how to mix the compound,” Jake said. “Maybe someone wanted exclusive rights.”

  Tully dropped his fork and knife, and then lit a cigarette. “That’s possible. Kill off anyone who knows anything about the new agent, or who might be able to link Tvchenko’s work to a certain group.”

  “Exactly.” Jake pointed a finger at Tully. “Let’s say a terrorist group uses the new agent. Authorities would likely find a trace of the compound and eventually link it back to Tvchenko’s research. That is, if Tvchenko is still alive. Or Petra. But now the link is broken. Shit.” Jake slammed his fist on the table. He thought about his conversations with Petrov and Chavva earlier.

  Jake started to leave, but Tully pulled him back by the arm. “Wait, Jake. I haven’t told you everything. Some things have happened that might be related. The cluster bomb that was stolen from Johnston Atoll. It was used just hours ago in Houston.”

  Jake settled down into his chair slowly. “How?”

  Tully glanced sideways at Quinn and then back at Jake. “There was an assassination attempt on former president Bush while he was golfing. Our guys cut the terrorists off, but they apparently turned their airplane toward the Astrodome and dropped a number of bomblets through the roof onto the playing field. A few hit the stands.”

  Quinn added, “The Astros were playing the Mets at the time.”

  “God. How many dead?”

  “Twenty-five so far,” Tully said. “But that’ll rise into the hundreds possibly. Some were trampled while trying to escape. One of the Mets outfielders died within seconds. It could have been much worse, but a technician turned off the fans, giving people a chance to escape. Also, we had a few decon units in the area. The carbon units.”

  “What about the plane?”

  “It crashed in a little pond a short distance from the parking lot.”

  “That was lucky,” Jake said. “Probably helped dilute the nerve gas.”

  “Right,” Tully said, exhaling a puff of smoke. “You do know your chemical agents.”

  “So the pilot was killed?”

  Tully shook his head. “No. He bailed out and drifted into the panicking crowd.”

  “Damn. I hope the Agency is hot on the trail.”

  “Yeah, from what I hear the officer in charge, Steve Nelsen, is blaming himself. He’s totally pissed. A man obsessed.”

  “Nelsen?”

  “You know him?”

  “We had a run in a few years back,” Jake said. That was putting it lightly. Words had actually turned to full-fist blows. When they were finished, each had lost enough blood for a transfusion. “He’s a very determined individual. He likes doing things his way, or not at all.”

  “That’s what happened in Houston,” Quinn added. “It was his plan. Right or wrong. Some want to hang his ass out to dry, from what I’ve heard.”

  “The MEO wouldn’t have it, though,” Tully said. “In fact, Nelsen is on his way to this region. Turkey actually. Which brings us full circle back to you, Jake.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You understand these nerve gas agents better than any one of us,” Tully said. “Hell, you even smelled the chemicals at Tvchenko’s apartment, just before we were almost blown to bits. You’ve also spent a great deal of time in Turkey, and Kurdistan in particular.”

  “But—”

  “Let me finish. That friend of yours. The Brit. Sinclair Tucker. He was sent to Kurdistan by his government this morning, after the death of MI-6 director, Sir Geoffrey Baines.”

  “Baines is dead? How?”

  “Murdered in his home last night. Along with his housekeeper.”

  “I was wondering why Sinclair wasn’t around today,” Jake said. “That’s good. Tuck knows the area as well as anyone. In fact we used to work there together on the verification team.”

  Tully lit another cigarette from the first, took in a long drag, and then let out a deep breath of smoke.

  “What’s wrong?”

  The station chief hesitated, searching for words. “Tucker’s helicopter was shot down by Kurdish guerrillas.”

  Blood rushed to Jake’s head. “Tucker? Is he—”

  “The Brits aren’t sure,” Tully answered. “The pilot was left at the scene dead. But the co-pilot and Tucker are listed as missing. That’s all they know.”

  Jake knew Tucker was a survivor. If there was a way, any way for him to be alive, then he was. “I think you were setting me up for a Turkish vacation before Tucker came up. What exactly did you have in mind for me?”

  “Well—”

  “And remember. I’m a private citizen now. I do have a business, however precarious, to get back to in Portland.”

  Quinn was watching his boss with great interest, as if studying how he would someday maneuver as a station chief.

  Tully drew a letter from inside his jacket. It was folded in thirds. He handed it to Jake.

  The letter was actually a plain paper fax from the Agency headquarters in Langley, Virginia, on Director of Operations letterhead. It was a formal request that Jake Adams be reinstated as an Agency officer. Signed by Kurt Jenkins himself.

  When he was done reading, Jake folded the letter and handed it back to Tully. “How can I be reinstated to something I had never been part of? Remember, I worked for the old Agency.”

  “A technicality.”

  “What does Jenkins want me to do?” Jake was skeptical, and probably for good reason. He didn’t want to be hung out to dry in Turkey. He’d end up in some Draconian prison as a play toy for sadists.

  “You’d be fully sanctioned.”

  “That’s not what I asked, but it’s nice to know. What will I do there?”

  Tully hesitated again. “Meet up with Nelsen. That’s all they’ve told me. It’s need to know only.”

  “Great.” Jake leaned back contemplating his options as if he really had any. Another unofficial jaunt into the frontiers. “And if I’m picked up by anyone who gives a shit?”

  “Like I said. Fully sanctioned.”

  Jake was a little concerned. He had no diplomatic passport, no official pap
ers saying he worked for the U.S. government. Perhaps that was their intention. If things got harry, which they usually did, then the government could deny any involvement. He had to admit he was beyond pissed off. Somewhere closer to a hit below the belt. He was sick of being shot at, but that seemed to follow him wherever he went. And there was the point of Sinclair Tucker. He hoped that Tucker would come looking for him if his chopper went down in a guerrilla enclave. He’d like to think he would.

  “What’s in it for me?”

  “The satisfaction of a job well done.” Tully smiled.

  “Right. I don’t put my life on the line for nothing. Not anymore.” Jake knew he was bullshitting himself. He had already done that watching Petra. But he justified that by knowing he was still under the retainer MacCarty had given him. It was a loose association, but something to ease an already tainted conscience.

  Tully brought the tip of his cigarette to a bright red. His left eye was closed, keeping the smoke away. “The owners of the New York Mets and the Houston Astrodome have put up a hundred thousand bucks as a reward for the capture of the terrorist who dropped the nerve gas.”

  “A hundred thousand?”

  Tully grinned. “Government agents can’t collect on that.”

  “What about pseudo government agents?”

  “That’s different, I’m sure.”

  Well, the incentive was there. Besides, he had run out of ideas in Odessa. Tvchenko was dead. Petra was dead. Petrov had closed any possible deal with MacCarty’s company. And, strangely enough, the GRU and Ukrainian intelligence had been non-existent. He had a feeling that the Kurds had only stuck around in Odessa long enough to tie up loose ends, and were probably long gone. That’s what he would have done. The money would be nice, but it wasn’t really needed. Jake would have gone to Turkey after his old friend anyway, or even to vindicate his former boss’s death. There was also the issue of some undesirable elements with a deadly nerve gas formula that could easily be put together now by a half-assed chemist. He had nothing against the Kurds. In fact, he thought they should have a free and independent Kurdistan, but not at the expense of innocent people.

  “All right,” Jake said. He started to leave.

  “One more thing,” Tully said.