The Permit

by William B. Scott

  Those in Metro uniforms didn't last long among the homeless. Rough men and women, who had been abused, beaten, raped, and robbed by the department's brown-shirts, were quick to return the favors.

  * *

  Back at Groom Lake, Metro's confused, indignant top cop was babbling about his rights, spouting threats against "you people," and demanding that the black hood be removed. His handlers ignored him.

  A heavy door thumped. Except for Uriah's labored breathing, the cabin was silent for several minutes. The uniformed prisoner felt movement and, despite the stifling hood cinched around his neck, sensed the aircraft was being towed into sunlight. The sound of an engine turning over, then whining to life, followed seconds later by another, suggested he was aboard a twin-turboprop aircraft.

  Uriah twisted, trying to reach the seatbelt buckle. Contortions and straining only triggered a painful cramp in his abdomen. He yelped and arched his back, willing the transverse gut muscle to relax.

  Muffled laughter confirmed he wasn't alone.

  "Who's there? Who are you?" Uriah demanded.

  Nothing. Only vibrations and a surge of prop noise, as the flight crew increased engine RPM briefly, working through a preflight checklist. The aircraft taxied, accelerated and lifted off. An out-of-round tire shook the airframe unmercifully, as the landing gear retracted.

  Uriah was sweating profusely. Insanely claustrophobic, he hovered near hysteria, because the hood adhered to his lips with each inhalation. He started hyperventilating. The faster he breathed, the tighter that soggy black fabric seemed to stick.

  "Relax," a voice commanded. "Your tough-guy reputation is in serious jeopardy."

  Uriah tilted his head, straining to hear.

  "I know that voice. We've met?"

  Get 'em talking. Find out who they are. I'll track these bastards down and kill every one of them! he fumed to himself.

  The gut muscle contracted again, shooting an agonizing spasm through his midsection. He arched his back and groaned.

  "You fat-assed baby!" the voice taunted. "No, we've never met. But I'm your worst nightmare. And behind closed doors, you've called me some very bad names, Alex."

  The hint of Texas twang, measured pace, and soft, low-pitched tone were definitely familiar.

  "You can't intimidate me! I have rights!" he blustered. "I demand to speak to my attorney. Now!"

  A laugh, echoed by others.

  Christ! How many are on this plane?

  A wave of dizziness and disorientation swept over Uriah. Nothing made sense.

  "No lawyers, dirtbag," a different voice said. It was harder and deeper, almost a growl. "Too late for that. You had a chance to clean up Metro, but you didn't. Instead, you protected those killer-cops, Oswald, Krupa, Akaka and Malovic, to name a choice few.

  "You made the cover-up calls, too. Corruption is your mode of leadership, not integrity."

  The first voice: "'On my honor, I will never betray my badge, my integrity, my character, or the public trust. I will always have the courage to hold myself and others accountable for our actions.'

  "Recognize that, Alex?"

  The black hood hesitated, then nodded curtly.

  "Yeah, I thought you might," Voice One said. "The International Association of Police Chiefs' Oath of Honor. Too bad you failed to live up to it, sheriff.

  "You had an opportunity to help DA Ryns prosecute Lashawn Miles's and Erik Steele's killers. To kick the worst, most abusive cops off the force. To testify against Mikey Greel for manufacturing and corrupting evidence—and for murdering God knows how many innocents. And to tell Antone Galocci and his ilk to pound sand.

  "But, no. You refused to do the right thing. You failed, Uriah."

  The sheriff was breathing heavier. The hood clinging to his nose and mouth was wet, forcing stale-coffee breath back into his nostrils. A once-crisp uniform shirt was soaked and pasted to his flesh.

  Raw fear threatened to relax lower-GI muscles, which would mean soiling his drawers. He'd fallen into a surreal nether world that made no sense. And he was totally terrified.

  Voice One, again: "You've been investigated, tried and found guilty of crimes against the people you had sworn to protect and serve."

  Uriah blurted, "What the hell does that mean? This is America! I'm entitled to due process!"

  He tried to slow his pounding heart and think. He had to reason with these terrorists. It was his only chance.

  "Look," he pleaded, "it's illegal to try a citizen in some secret kangaroo court. Every American has a constitutional right to an attorney and to face his accusers! To have his side of a case heard."

  He fought an urge to break down in tears.

  This can't be happening! he wailed silently.

  A long silence ensued, broken only by the background drone of engines set to cruise power. The quiet accentuated Uriah's trepidation.

  "You honestly believe that's how it's supposed to be done… in America?" the first voice asked. Soft, scarcely audible.

  Uriah wagged his head in the affirmative. He was making progress with these beasts.

  "Then why didn't you grant Erik Steele the same right?"

  Uriah licked dry lips, then squeaked, "I had nothing to do with the coroner's inquest! That entire process was out of my hands."

  Another protracted silence, backdropped by the drone of synchronized propellers.

  "You and your predecessors, in collusion with the Clark County coroner, district attorney, public administrator, police union and who knows how many crooked judges, established that travesty of justice for one purpose: To exonerate guilty police officers," the measured Voice One said. "Even thugs who killed repeatedly were never held responsible for their heinous crimes.

  "Let's just say that your case was handled with the same level of fairness and respect."

  Uriah coughed, unable to respond.

  Shit, I'm screwed. What are they going to do to me?

  "Sir, coming up on the zone," a voice called from the cockpit.

  That prompted a flurry of commotion. Seatbelts snapped and somebody brushed past Uriah, trailing an odor of sweat mixed with men's cologne. The sheriff strained to decipher foreign sounds.

  Suddenly, a firm whomp was followed by a change in air pressure and the roar of wind. His ears popped.

  "Alright, pig. Get up!" the gruff voice ordered.

  Uriah stood and stumbled, as the aircraft was tossed by light turbulence. He vaguely noted a distinct reduction of engine noise. The aircraft was slowing.

  A hand gripping his bicep towed him down a narrow aisle. Thighs and elbows bumped armrests and backrests, as he was maneuvered to the rear.

  If only I could see! Uriah cried.

  At once, both hands were freed. A terrorist behind him had clipped the plastic tie. Uriah rubbed his wrists and reached for the hood.

  Strong hands grabbed his arms and thrust them through straps. Something heavy slapped him on the back.

  "Spread your legs," Gruff Guy ordered. Uriah complied. Straps were pulled between his legs and buckles snapped near his groin. Dual leg straps were yanked tight, eliciting a yelp of pain.

  "Catch a cojone?" Gruff laughed. "Hell, I didn't think you had any!"

  A chorus of laughter erupted. Another strap was buckled across the officer's chest and snugged tightly. To avoid aggravating the severe ache in his groin, Uriah was forced to stoop, hunched over awkwardly. He fumbled with the leg straps until his testicles were free.

  The Metro chief's brain was in a time-warped fog, as if events were unfolding in slow motion and observed from outside the body. His brain refused to accept what he knew was happening.

  A parachute had been strapped to his back, its leg and chest straps tightened to just shy of torture.

  Someone fumbled with the shoulder straps, and a new load was clipped across his chest. Heavy, about the size of a football.

  "Squat!" a voice commanded. "Now, duck-walk downhill. I'll hold ya."

  The prisoner complied. Then the na
sty black hood was ripped off. Uriah squinted and raised his hands, fending off blinding glare. He faced a gaping, rectangular hole in the airplane's left-side fuselage, aft of the wing.

  As his eyes adjusted, he could make out a rolling, dark-green landscape that stretched to the horizon. Wind tore at his uniform and mustache. Horrified, the sheriff of Clark County, the most powerful elected official in southern Nevada, wet his pants. The second time in twenty-four hours.

  "Jesus, man! You're disgusting!" yelled a bearded, barrel-chested man kneeling on the floor, to Uriah's right. He had a firm grip on the officer's right arm.

  "Listen up, dude," he ordered. "This little doofer is your rip cord. You pull that, a big nylon cloud forms over your head. This here," he said, slapping the bundle on Uriah's chest, "is your survival kit. Everything else, you'll figure out."

  Alex Uriah tried to retreat from the wind-blasted doorway, but powerful hands and knees behind him precluded movement. His faux-spit-shined, low-quarter shoes slipped on the metal floor, eliciting another yelp of fright.

  "Hey! Uriah!" The sheriff's head whipped around, and his eyes flared in alarm. Winfield Steele was glaring down at him.

  "You bastards killed my son, then discredited his memory! Welcome to justice!" Win shouted. He popped a half-salute.

  Somebody kicked Uriah out the door. Loosing a blood-congealing scream, the officer flailed frantically, tumbling end over end. Blue sky, a flash of airplane, Earth, trees, and sky again. Wind pounded his ears and eyes, its intensity increasing rapidly, as he accelerated in free fall.

  Uriah clawed at the upper-left chute strap, until his fingers found the fist-sized D-ring. He jerked, yanking a thin cable free, and felt the parachute ripple behind him. The straps between his legs jerked violently, imparting the most severe nut-pain imaginable.

  He screamed and desperately dug at the straps, trying to save his manhood. Nothing would budge. Vaguely conscious of flapping, Uriah looked down to see uniform slacks fluttering around his knees. Between his toes, drifting toward him, was a sea of feathery evergreen trees. All were pointed directly at him, it seemed.

  Heart pounding furiously, he was breathing at warp speed. Terror gripped his entire being. He was going to die!

  High above, a heavily modified Beechcraft King Air 250 orbited slowly, its twin PT6A turboprops throttled back to near-idle. The aircraft descended, circling a figure suspended beneath a round, olive-green parachute canopy, until the chute disappeared into the trees.

  "He's down," growled Army Sergeant First Class "Bull" Ferris. "Hope the crybaby got a snag up his ass."

  Standing dead trees or "snags" were the bane of airborne Special Forces and pilots flying low-level routes. Hard to see, they tended to be sharp and unforgiving.

  Ferris turned to Steele, who was kneeling in a nearby passenger seat, watching Uriah disappear among slender firs.

  "Hey, Win!" he shouted.

  Steele looked along his left shoulder. Gold-rimmed aviator sunglasses hid his eyes.

  "Wanna bet on how long he'll last?"

  "If he didn't break a leg? Maybe a week. A few days, if he did."

  "Yep," Bull yelled. "Wussies don't last long up here. Especially those with soaked Jockeys!"

  Win cracked a faint grin. "In Vegas, Uriah was King Rat, lying, manipulating and getting away with murder. Here in the wilderness, he's just dinner."

  * *

  CANADA'S NORTH WOODS

  Alex Uriah's canopy had snagged on a broken branch, leaving him suspended in the parachute harness. He unbuckled, lowered himself, then hobbled to a downed tree, grimacing. He gingerly pulled up his pant leg and examined a bloody right ankle.

  Having plummeted through dense timber, his legs, arms and face were scratched and bleeding. Evidently, his foot had struck a thick branch, which rolled the ankle. He'd heard it snap. The ankle, not the branch. A jagged end of shattered bone now poked through red-smeared ivory skin.

  Gritting his teeth against the ankle's dull throbbing, he surveyed his surroundings. He was on the edge of a clearing ringed by soaring firs and lodgepole pines. The Sun hovered above a steepled green horizon, but was sinking rapidly, painting the forest in muted gold.

  Uriah had no idea where he was.

  Maybe I can hobble to a road and find a phone.

  Right.

  He shivered, chilled by the onset of shock and a cool breeze whispering downslope. Night was coming fast. He was dressed in lightweight summer-tans, and had no shelter.

  Hopefully, food and matches were in that kit strapped to the chute harness.

  He struggled to his feet, balanced on one leg, and estimated the distance back to that harness and its survival pouch. Then he froze, paralyzed by soul-deep foreboding.

  The mournful howl of a timber wolf rolled across the clearing. It was close.

  CHAPTER 34

  APOCALYPSE

  "Where vice is

  vengeance follows."

  Scottish Proverb

  GROOM LAKE AIR BASE, NEVADA

  "Tower, Bandit Two Three. Ready for takeoff."

  "Bandit Two Three, taxi into position and hold. Gotta Gremlin clearing at the center turnoff."

  "You ready?" Lawhead Corporation test pilot T.J. Byrne asked his “guy in back,” a Lawhead flight test engineer.

  Byrne nudged twin throttles with a gloved palm and boot-pressed the left rudder. The coal-black A-17 Shadow's powerful turbofans spooled up, swinging the stealthy, two-seat attack jet's nose onto an expansive concrete runway.

  "Rog. Seat's armed. Harness locked. Let's get 'er done," answered Chris Pence, faking a deep-south drawl.

  Byrne ignored his GIB's weak Larry-the-Cable-Guy impersonation. It was Pence's way of dealing with pre-mission tension, a characteristic the pilot had witnessed many times in Iraq and Afghanistan.

  The lean, fifty-four-year-old test pilot and his sixty-something flight test engineer had logged hundreds of hours together, flying both test sorties and super-classified electronic-attack strikes against terrorists across the globe.

  Able to anticipate the other's actions to an uncanny degree, the two were the epitome of an effective air crew. In fact, Byrne and Pence had been nicknamed Alloy by Gray Manor, the director of Checkmate, who claimed the two men must have undergone a "mind meld."

  It was a silly moniker, an unheard of joint call sign, but probably appropriate. Besides, that Department of Homeland Security executive had signed eye-popping bonus checks for the two airmen. For those, he could call them Alloy or whatever he pleased. Even after Lawhead Corporation, as prime contractor to DHS, took its cut, the Shadow crew was being very well compensated for tonight's mission.

  Byrne aligned the A-17's nose with a segmented runway centerline and braked to a halt. With the efficient movements of a professional at home in familiar surroundings, the test pilot double-tapped one of three oversized, flat-screen color displays that spanned the cockpit's instrument panel, bringing up an icon of a flashlight.

  With each successive tap on the touch-sensitive symbol, a fused image created by overlaying infrared and light-amplified data projected on his helmet's visor grew incrementally brighter. Outside, beyond the jet's windscreen, the runway centerline seemed to sharpen, then lengthen with each tap, until its white segments stretched into the night.

  "Bandit Two Three, cleared for takeoff. Good hunting, Solo," the tower operator radioed, using Byrne's call sign.

  "Two Three, rolling in two. Thanks, tower."

  Byrne glanced to his right, confirming a Gremlin was well clear of the runway, slowly taxiing toward the remotely piloted aircraft hangar. The highly classified drone was being controlled from a fixed-base cockpit in that window-free hangar, where one of Byrne's fellow test pilots sat in air-conditioned comfort.

  Byrne also flew Gremlins, an advanced-technology unmanned aircraft, which had rapidly become the aerial weapon of choice for America's covert, off-the-books "black" operations across the globe.

  Yeah, the damned things were compa
ratively cheap, could carry an astonishing array of sophisticated surveillance gear, high-tech electronic-attack systems, and diminutive precision weapons. The stealthy little buggers also could stay airborne for days, orbiting unseen over bad-guy territory. But they weren't as much fun to fly as a real airplane—especially a cosmic bird like the Shadow.

  Satisfied that the night-vision system was optimized for desert dry air conditions, Byrne eased twin throttles forward, listening closely to the familiar whine of powerful turbines spooling up. His eyes scanned myriad engine displays.

  Everything in the green. Good to go.

  The pilot released the A-17's brakes and shoved the throttles forward, past a high-friction detent. An immediate roar and kick in the butt assured that both engines' afterburners had torched off. The sleek, swept-wing Shadow accelerated rapidly, gobbling runway-centerline segments.

  Byrne never looked inside again. Ghostly figures projected on his helmet-mounted display provided continuously updated airspeed information, even when he turned his head.

  Little heavy. Few knots extra. Hold her down a tad longer.

  The aircraft carried a full fuel load, and a canoe-like bulge hugging the aircraft's underbelly increased drag a few percent, necessitating slightly more airspeed to compensate. A bit of back pressure on the side-stick controller in his right hand raised the nose several degrees, enticing the aircraft to leave the ground.

  Airspeed climbing. Two hundred knots. Nail the pitch angle. Positive rate-of-climb. Gear up.

  Byrne's left hand flicked a translucent handle up, retracting the bird's landing gear. When a light in the handle stopped flashing, the pilot tugged dual throttles aft, out of afterburner, dousing twin twenty-foot torches of blue flame. The sudden loss of thrust momentarily threw Byrne and Pence forward against taut shoulder straps.

  The dark outline of low hills south of Nevada's ultrasecret Groom Lake air base slipped beneath the jet's nose. Byrne eased the stick forward, leveling the A-17 at 10,000 feet.

  No need to climb higher. They'd be descending shortly.