A handful of Gremlin crew members, supervisors and Lawhead's chief test pilot, "Bud" Rusk, ringed a gray-topped, government-issue conference table, their attention focused on Manor. All were surprisingly alert. They obviously were accustomed to working "graveyard," thanks to the Groom Lake norm of flight-testing "black" aircraft only at night.
Not so for the Checkmate director, who was nursing his fifth cup of coffee to stay awake.
"We'll be ready to launch within the hour, sir," replied Julie Tanner, the remotely piloted aircraft's crew chief. "The payload change-out is complete, and we're ground-checking the Holo and Commando TV systems. Then we'll refuel and preflight the bird."
"Any problems?" Manor asked.
"So far, we're good," Tanner said. "Our Gremlin's landed CODE ONE for six straight flights."
She was justifiably proud of her experienced, dedicated maintenance crew, which was keeping their Gremlin in top condition, despite a grueling flight schedule imposed by Operation Gold Shield.
"Great. Tell your people they're doing damned fine work, Julie."
Manor slapped the table top. "Folks, this old Marine's flaming out. I'm going to grab some snooze time, before we initiate the next phase.
"Park the Gremlin over Vader's hacienda and blast it with both Holo and that Commando TV video," he ordered. "Greel's coming unglued, and I want him really spooked, before we hit Metro. He and the whole damned Tower are reeling in total confusion. We'll keep them off balance, then take the entire chicken coop down.
"Stay on Greel as long as you can. At daybreak, move the Gremlin over to Metro headquarters." Manor stifled a yawn. "We'll reconvene at oh-seven-hundred."
He headed for Rusk's office. A couple of hours on a folding Army cot would revive him enough to get through one more day and night. Flawless execution of this terminal phase was absolutely essential. He had to be on top of his game.
* *
LAS VEGAS
Captain Mikey Greel removed his boots, flopped on the king-size bed, and closed his eyes. He was too tired to twitch, but deep, dream-rich sleep wasn't in the cards for Fatal Familial Insomniacs.
His primary care physician had become a depressing annoyance: "There's no cure for FFI." And every doctor he'd consulted for second opinions had been useless. Because FFI was such a rare disease, nobody knew much about it.
Greel had scoured the Internet, hoping an obscure researcher had discovered something, anything to give him hope. But he'd found only discouraging articles spouting dire prognoses, such as one in the New Yorker:
"Victims of fatal familial insomnia lose control of muscular function, existing in a merciless limbo between sleep and wakefulness, until they die of exhaustion. For half a century, prion diseases have baffled scientists… ."
In the final stages of FFI, Greel could scarcely walk, his weight had dropped dramatically, he looked like death itself, and he couldn't string three coherent thoughts together. Deadly prions were eating holes in brain tissue—and he was totally burnt out.
What a hell of a way to go, Greel grumbled. He swept the TV remote off the bedspread and jammed its power button.
"Hey, Mikey! How's it going, killer?"
Greel jerked upright, eyes flicking about. There, by the window.
It was him again!
The Metro captain's heart pounded, as a ghostly, smiling image of the late-Erik Steele drifted through the bedroom, about three feet above the floor. It hovered over the foot of Greel's bed, slowly raised an arm and pointed at the ashen officer.
"Your butchers with badges murdered me, Vader. Then you covered for them. Very unprofessional, Mikey. For manufacturing false 'evidence,' lying and intimidating witnesses, you will be held accountable."
"Leave me alone!" Greel cried. He cowered at the headboard, knees tucked under his chin and one arm extended to fend off the apparition.
"Get out of here! Please!"
A tiny camera and microphone embedded in a bumblebee-size micro-air vehicle relayed imagery and audio of everything Greel did and said. Perched at the base of a ceiling-mounted light fixture, the MAV was communicating in real time with a black-skinned Gremlin orbiting overhead in the wee-hour darkness.
"Sure! I'll leave, Mikey. But you're not going anywhere," said Steele. The ghost's voice seemed to echo inside Greel's head.
"God has big plans for you, dude! You think you're dying of FFI, but there are things worse than death. What if you can't die? What if you're doomed to hang on for years, steadily losing control of all your muscles? No longer able to move or speak or think? Trapped in a frail, useless body that's confined to a bed twenty-four-seven? Wearing a diaper and enduring the humiliation of having some pretty young nurse wipe your butt and feed you through a drip-tube?"
"No! No! I can't live that way! I won't!" Greel blubbered, tears streaming across gaunt, yellow cheeks.
Not hearing a retort, he shot a hopeful peek at the foot of his bed. The semi-transparent phantom had vanished.
"Over here, Vader!"
Greel spun to his right and screamed. The translucent specter was in a reclining position, hovering above the bed sheets, two feet away.
"Oh, knock it off!" the wraith commanded, disgustedly.
"What do you say we catch the news. I hear there's a breaking story that's one hell of a lot more interesting than discussing your sorry-assed future. Two bits says you'll forget all about little ol' me!"
The grinning phantom pointed at a big-screen TV on the far wall.
Greel recoiled in shock. A closeup of him, Mikey Greel, was on-screen, turning to his right! The image was tinted green, with sparkles of light dancing across the display.
Infrared or night-vision, he flashed.
The camera panned, revealing a stocky figure walking away. Greel raised a semiautomatic pistol and fired into the man's head. The guy collapsed, pitching forward. Zooming in, the TV was filled with dark blood and brain gore. A firearm appeared in the frame, aimed at the disintegrated cranium on the ground. It hesitated, then disappeared.
An in-the-flesh Mikey Greel was incapacitated, watching his greenish avatar shove Loring Malovic's body into a pit's black abyss. The final image was a full-face view of Vader looking up, directly into the overhead camera.
Greel stared openmouthed, while a Channel 7 reporter recapped what millions of Las Vegas viewers had witnessed—a senior Metropolitan Police Department officer killing another cop and disposing of the body. A banner declared, "Captain Michael Greel–LVMPD Chief, Homicide & Robbery."
"Wow, Mikey! Academy award-winning performance!"
The wavering, ghostly image beside Greel was grinning broadly. Maybe laughing. Mikey couldn't tell. The pounding of blood in the officer's ears had blanked out other sounds—even Erik Steele's voice.
In a trance, Greel slowly swung his feet off the bed and opened a nightstand drawer. He withdrew an H&K USP Tactical .45-caliber semiautomatic handgun from a metal box of cash, jacked the slide, and verified the hammer was cocked.
His tormented mind vaguely marveled that he was holding the second sidearm stolen from Erik Steele's condominium, shortly after Steele was gunned down.
Greel turned the pistol 180 degrees, gripped it two-handed and stuck the barrel in his mouth. With a thumb, he pushed the trigger, blowing a massive crater in his skull. Bedsheets, headboard and off-white walls were instantly sprayed with bright red, oxygenated blood, bone and gray matter.
* *
GROOM LAKE/GREMLIN CONTROL ROOM
"Shit! The fool shot himself!" yelled Tron.
Via the remotely piloted vehicle flying over "Vader's" home, the sensor operator had been remotely controlling the Holo system, inserting DNA-tailored imagery into Greel's mind and providing the real-time "voice" for Erik Steele's apparition.
Tron also had manipulated the Commando TV system, taking control of Greel's big-screen television and inserting a previously captured video of the Metro captain shooting Malovic.
"What in the hell… ?" asked the Gremlin
pilot, gawking at his own flat-panel screen. Seated to Tron's right, the pilot had looked away momentarily, double-checking fuel projections.
"Greel just pulled a gun from the nightstand and shoved it in his mouth! Shit! I think I pushed him over the edge, man," Tron yelped.
He was freaked out and losing it, the pilot decided.
"Hey, Tron! Go get Manor! He'll have to see this," the pilot directed.
The sensor operator stared at the horrific suicide scene, frozen.
"Come on, dude! Snap out of it! Go!"
Tron leaped up and bolted from the room. His face was drained of color.
* *
Gray Manor slid into the operator's well-padded crew chair and studied the flat-panel's image.
"Good Lord," he whispered.
The bumblebee-like MAV's minuscule camera lens distorted the scene, giving objects a warped, fish-eye appearance, but there was no mistaking the carnage in Mikey Greel's bedroom.
"What the hell set him off?"
Tron recounted the mission's events, concluding, "I had Erik say, 'Wow, Mikey! Academy award-winning performance!' Then the cop grabbed a gun and ate it! God, I overdid it… !"
Manor glanced at the sensor operator. "You followed the script, as we briefed. There was no way to predict how that dipshit would react."
He squirmed from the seat and accepted a fresh cup of coffee. "We had other plans for Captain Cover-Up, but he saved us the trouble. I'm not wasting worry-energy on Mikey's demise. You shouldn't, either.
"Greel chose his own crooked path, and it was bound to end ugly. Forget it. Secure the Holo and Commando TV systems, and reconfigure the bird for real-time surveillance."
The Checkmate chief glanced at his pilot. "You boys have done a superb job—and you're wiped out. Move the Gremlin over to Metro headquarters, establish an autopilot orbit and activate the visual-camouflage system. Then grab some rest. We're not done yet."
Manor left the Gremlin control room, eyeballing a wristwatch. His boss, Todd Bright, was probably in the air by now, but would have to be informed ASAP, about Greel hosing himself.
Manor had bet Vader was too chicken to take his own life, and would die of FFI. At least Checkmate now had one less brown-shirt terrorist to deal with.
News of Greel's spectacular exit would trigger another shock wave of fear, doubt and disruption among the enemy. To fully capitalize on it, though, Manor had to act quickly.
CHAPTER 33
TAKEDOWN
"The last thing I want to do is hurt you.
But it's still on the list."
Unknown
COLORADO SPRINGS
Win Steele glanced at a digital clock above the flight operations desk, tapped the screen of his crypto-secure "Bat Phone," and reread a curt text message: Be at Colorado Jet Center by 0500 tomorrow. Air Force C-21 will pick you up. Uniform of the day: Flight suit and boots. Will brief inflight.
He had no idea who had sent the directive, and a quick call to Doc Black had not been enlightening. However, the retired sheriff had assured, "If it arrived on that iPhone, it's legitimate. I'd recommend showing up on time."
Win had arrived twenty minutes early, wearing his cobalt-blue Nomex flight suit. Since retiring from Aerospace International, he'd rarely worn the one-piece "blue bag." Its shoulders were faded, and the butt was worn to a sheen, but it felt good, a tangible reminder of exhilarating test and evaluation flights.
"Mr. Steele," a woman behind the ops counter called. "Your airplane is on final. Should be here in about five minutes."
Win waved a thanks, as the iPhone dinged, signaling the arrival of a new e-mail. He waited, while an image painted the screen. Then another appeared, and a third.
All were grisly, close-up images of corpses. He could identify several: Olek Krupa and the two assistant district attorneys, who had orchestrated the sham of Erik's coroner's inquest. The others were unrecognizable.
One was burned and grossly deformed. A grainy, low-light image depicted a tall man being shot in the head at close range. Next was a distorted close-up of a lifeless Captain Mikey Greel sprawled across a bed soaked in blood and gore. Another high-angle photo showed an unidentified gunman sprawled alongside a sports car. Two Metro cops were aiming sidearms at the body.
The last was distinctly different, possibly a fused image from infrared and low-light-TV sensors. It was a dramatic, frozen-in-time depiction of a concrete abutment slicing a black sedan, as the car exploded.
Astounded, Win scrolled through the photos, searching for clues to their source and the identities of several horribly disfigured bodies. Every man he could ID had been associated with his son's death and subsequent cover-up.
The shriek of twin Garrett TFE-731 turbofans prompted him to stow the iPhone, shoulder his overnight bag and head for double doors leading to the ramp. A sleek Air Force C-21, the military version of a Learjet 35A business jet, was shutting down. A line boy ducked under the swept wing and jammed a set of chocks around the left main landing gear's tire.
The jet's integral air-stair door lowered, and a master sergeant dressed in a light-blue uniform shirt and dark slacks stepped out.
"Mr. Steele?"
"That's right, sarge."
"Sergeant Rod Callister," the noncommissioned officer said, extending a hand. "Ready to go, sir?"
"Yep. Who am I flying with, and where are we headed?"
Callister grinned and jerked a thumb at the C-21. "I'll leave that to our VIP."
He reached for Steele's overnight bag. "Let me stow that, sir."
Win ducked into the jet's doorway and turned to his right, hunched over in the compact, oval cabin. A familiar figure with wild gray hair and a broad grin was in a forward-facing leather seat. He raised a coffee cup in salute.
"Welcome aboard, Win! Grab a stool. We're behind schedule."
"Todd Bright!" Steele declared, astonished. He slipped into a luxurious seat facing his host. "Never dreamed you were behind this excursion!"
"Hell, son! Who do you think's been providing those tips for your smokin' blogs? And all the nasty pictures?"
"The corpses? That was you?"
"Damn tootin'! Well… not exactly me. My guys fired 'em out to you."
Bright took a sip and changed the subject. "How're you and Layna holding up, son?"
Steele's jaw tightened. "Not bad. Time helps, but not an hour goes by that we don't think of Erik. Thank God we still have Kyler and his family."
Bright's soft brown eyes misted. "I can't imagine… . Toni sends her condolences. We're still prayin' for your family."
"Thanks, Todd. Prayers are the wings that keep us airborne, until ours heal."
Win cleared his throat. "How are Pam and the grandkids?"
"Doin' just fine, thanks. Pam was devastated by the news about Erik, too.
"Ya know, she still refers to you as her no-shit hero."
Steele nodded and returned an embarrassed grin. In the 1990s, his fellow passengers on a Western Pacific Airlines flight that swerved off the runway in a snowstorm had been Todd Bright's daughter, Pam, and her children. Win had helped them escape the passenger jet, before it caught fire and burned.
According to Pam, if Win had not jumped in and helped, she and Todd's grandkids would have been trapped in their seats, frozen and confused, when flames engulfed the aircraft.
Naturally, Bright had been extremely grateful. Throughout the intervening years, he had become Win's go-to "unnamed official" for defense-related news stories, validating or discounting information for Aerospace International's Rocky Mountain bureau chief. Their relationship was professional, but Todd rarely missed a chance to thank Win for "saving my kin."
Consequently, Todd Bright was the powerful Washington official Win had called, while driving across Utah two days after Erik's murder. Bright—via Doc Black—was the source of tips and intelligence that now fueled Win's hard-hitting exposures of Las Vegas corruption.
The steward appeared at Win's shoulder. "Excuse me, sir," he
interjected. "The regs say I have to give you an emergency-procedures briefing." He quickly ran through the passenger safety litany, including how to latch and unlatch the seatbelt, open the entry door and over-wing hatch, and don a drop-down oxygen mask.
Win listened patiently, noting the flight crew was cranking up the jet's fuselage-mounted turbofans.
"Can I get you something to drink, sir?" Callister concluded.
"Orange juice would be great," Win said. Todd extended his coffee cup for a refill.
Once the sergeant sidestepped to the galley, Todd muttered, "Ya know, any sumbitch who doesn't know how to operate a seat belt shouldn't be allowed on a dadburned airplane!"
Sergeant Callister delivered the drinks and strapped into a pull-down crew seat for takeoff. Conversation yielded to shrieking jet engines, until the C-21 was airborne and established in a cruise-climb.
Win eyed Bright over his juice. "So… what's this about, Todd? Why am I here?"
"Aw, I 'spect you've figured it out by now. A couple of days after Erik was shot, you called and asked if I could help, right?"
Win nodded.
"Couldn't tell you then, 'cause you weren't cleared, but Erik's murder kicked off a major… . Let's call it a critical campaign, see?"
"You're running some kind of off-the-books domestic counterterrorism operation," Steele said. It was an educated guess, based on Todd's history.
Bright shrugged, but the grin was confirmation enough. "I'll fill you in later. Point is, Erik's tragic murder was the catalyst that turned words into action. And you're sittin' there wondering why."
"I assume you already had something in the works."
"And… ?" Bright said, slurping his coffee.
Win hesitated, before answering softly, "My son was on your team. Those dumbass cops killed one of your guys."
Again, pure speculation. However, trusting his gut instinct had served him well as a reporter.
"Excellent deduction, Sherlock," Bright grinned.
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