by M. Z. Kelly
We took seats, as Logan passed out the refreshments. He said to me, “When he called, Joe told me you work with a canine.”
“Bernie. He’s off duty, holding down the home front with my friends.”
He nodded, his eyes holding on me. “Nice.” After a moment, he broke eye contact and looked at Joe. “You want to tell me about it?”
Joe spent about a half hour going over what we knew about Nathan Caine, how he called himself Phaedrus, his phone calls to Cynthia McFadden and me, and the murder of Noel Sanford. He then went over the nuclear meltdown in the desert, the kidnapping of my sister, and my family history.
Logan listened intently but had remained quiet. When Joe was finished, he looked at me. “This is personal, isn’t it?”
“Yes. That’s my belief, anyway. As Joe mentioned, my bio-dad may have had some dealings with the Rylands at one time and some of this is payback, maybe for me.”
“And you have no idea where your dad is?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know who he is, or if he’s still alive.”
Logan looked at Joe. “Looks like you have your work cut out for you.”
“We,” Joe corrected him. Logan raised a brow, and Joe went on. “You owe me.”
“Barcelona?”
Joe chuckled. “That, and Nome. I could go on, if you want.”
It was obvious they shared a lot of history. “You guys want to let me in?” I said.
Joe looked at me. “Jack got himself locked out of his hotel room in Barcelona. Wouldn’t have been a problem, except he was nude.”
Jack smiled and rubbed his cheek. “I don’t recall most of the details from that night.”
My lips turned up. “And Nome?”
“It seems the sheriff was unhappy about a party I held, and put me in jail.”
“A bachelor party,” Joe said. “And, believe me, you don’t want to know the specifics.”
Jack worked on his beer and told Joe he’d heard enough. After a minute, he looked at me and said, “You ever had one of those feelings?”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“I took a walk on the beach this morning, and, call it intuition or foresight, but I had a feeling that something really bad was about to happen.” He looked at Joe. “Now that you’re here, that feeling just got worse.”
THIRTY-ONE
“You look like hell,” Stan Waters told Jack. “Retirement must not agree with you.”
Logan’s former boss had met us at his house a short time later. Waters was around fifty, with a solid build and intense gray eyes. He was casually dressed, and, if I hadn’t been told, I would have never guessed he was a DEA supervisor.
The ocean was a soft roar as Logan responded. “It’s not so bad, Stan. At least I get to hang with a better crowd. Down here, there’s only snakes and scorpions.”
Waters worked on his beer. “You’re still bitter about the way things turned out.”
“Ancient history.”
“The decision to hang you out to dry came from the president. Foster was worried about the extreme right winning the elections in France if Deschanel appeared weak and indecisive. The administration allowed the French president to score political points by posturing and letting the agency take the fall for not providing intel to prevent the terrorist attack in Nice.”
“You mean let me take the fall.”
“There were others.”
Logan smiled. “If you say so.” He swirled the beer in his bottle. “Guess it’s a good thing I didn’t vote for Foster.”
“A lot of us didn’t.” Waters’ gray eyes held on his ex-employee. “That’s why Robert Tatum will be sworn in as the new president next week.”
“So why didn’t someone with the agency tell me the truth? I could have dealt with what happened a lot better knowing it was out of your hands.”
“The orders came from the top, Jack. We weren’t given a choice. We were told to cut you dead. I’m sorry, if that means anything.”
After finishing his beer, Logan said, “Did I ever mention that I hate politics?”
Waters smiled, glanced at me and Joe, then said to Logan, “We need your help with Caine. I wouldn’t ask if we weren’t talking about the homeland.”
Logan looked at Joe, then back at Waters. “I already heard what happened. The only surprise is that Caine finally got his hands on some plutonium.”
“The agency had been working with operatives with access to the Pyongsan Uranium Facility in North Korea. We had a deep undercover informant named Lee Chong who got on the inside regarding a shipment of reprocessed plutonium that was sold on the black market. We believe the nuclear material made its way to Mexico and then on to the United States. It eventually ended up in the hands of Caine, who suspected Chong was on our side and murdered him.”
“And something went wrong during the assembly process.”
Waters nodded. “We believe Caine was using a scientist named Ted Hollister, who had experience with nuclear materials at both Sandia and Livermore. Hollister and his daughter, Kendra, went missing about a month ago.”
It was the first I’d heard that they’d identified the man working with Caine. It gave me hope that it might help us track down the terrorist.
“Do you think Hollister and his kid are still alive?” Joe asked Waters.
“Since we know Caine survived, it’s possible Hollister also made it out. Not sure about the daughter.”
“She was probably being used to leverage her father,” I said, thinking about my sister.
“That’s likely.” Waters looked back at Logan. “A few months back, the president obtained funding and classified authorization for a nuclear response team called Sentry. It’s a specialized unit of NEST, the Nuclear Emergency Search Team. Our function is to monitor the spread of nuclear materials that might lead to any terrorist threat on American soil.”
“So they gave you a promotion?”
“If you want to call it that. I’d call it a giant headache.”
“And now you want to share the pain with me.”
Waters smiled. “I guess you could say that.” He swept a hand through his thinning hair. “There’s something else you need to know. A few days ago, a reporter named Maggie Fenwick, with the Washington Post, contacted us. She’s an investigative reporter who has a lot of sources, not to mention a tenacious ability to ferret out facts. She told us Caine had been working with a guy named Adam Taylor, who he served time with in Holon Prison, for supplying arms to mercenaries. We’re not sure if Taylor is still alive, but, if he is, he’s as bad news as Caine. He has a son named Joshua, who’s also a rotten apple. Not sure if he’s working with Caine, but Fenwick thinks it’s possible.”
“And the reporter? What’s her role in this?”
“Fenwick claims she has more information on what happened. She’s been allowed on the inside, under the condition that she keeps everything confidential until Caine is either apprehended or dead.”
Joe spoke up. “How do we fit into this picture?”
Waters looked at me. “We believe Caine and Taylor had insiders that were responsible for Harlee Ryland’s death. Caine is now the operational head of the Swarm. He’s calling the shots with someone else.”
My anxiety spiked as I said, “Who is that?”
“Your father.”
THIRTY-TWO
Joe saw my obvious distress and spoke up. “We think just the opposite is the case. Kate’s dad had a falling out with the Rylands years ago. He and Kate have been spared only because he agreed to disappear and stay out of the way.”
Waters shrugged. “This is still a work in progress. Fenwick might have it wrong.”
“And my sister?” I said. “How does she fit into this?”
“If things went the way you think, she might be looped in just to keep you on the beach, out of the way. If the reporter is right, it could be that your dad has some issues with her or your shared mom. Time will tell.”
“If that’s t
he case, why am I here?”
“We have no idea how all this will play out. We’re keeping our options open. That includes having you with us in case we need your help.”
Joe had moved closer to me. I felt his hand brushing mine. “What happens now?” he asked Waters.
Waters looked at Logan. “It’s your call.”
“Give me a day or two.” He looked at his snoozing bulldog. “I also need to find someone to take care of Fred.”
“We need to move now. I’ll send someone to doggy-sit. Let’s go.”
***
We took a helicopter from Mar de Cortes Airport to Phoenix, where we boarded the flying command post for Sentry. We were told the flying fortress was similar in design to the military’s AWACS aircraft, allowing for high- and low-level surveillance. The plane was filled with computer terminals, along with, what we’d been told, was some of the most sophisticated radiation detection equipment on earth.
“Any idea where we’re headed?” I asked Joe, after we settled in on the plane.
“I have no idea. All I know is that Logan and Waters have been huddled since we left Mexico, so something must be up.” When I didn’t respond, he said, “You okay?”
I looked at him, brushing my unruly hair off my forehead. “Do you think my bio-dad could have been working with the Rylands, and now Caine, all these years?”
“No.”
My eyes held on him. “Are you just saying that to make me feel better?”
He reached over and squeezed my hand. “Pearl was in-country and met with those who were close to the Rylands. We’ll see how things go, but I trust what he told us.”
I sighed. “Thanks. I hope you’re right.”
Joe released my hand as Waters came over and asked us to join him and Logan at the oval conference table. The interior of the aircraft was dim, except for the glowing computer terminals. As we settled in, we were joined by a half-dozen others aboard the plane, including members of the DEA and a couple military personnel.
Waters introduced Captain Rita Johansen, who was in command of the aircraft. Johansen looked to be in her forties, with a solid, powerful build. She gave us a brief overview of the plane and its mission.
“This aircraft was designed specifically for Sentry’s mission. Our computers track every known quantity, type, and location of nuclear materials in the world. That includes materials used in weapons systems and reactors, as well as fissile materials that could lead to weapons production.”
Logan, who, I’d quickly learned, had his issues with authority, took exception to what Johansen said. “It looks like Nathan Caine slipped through the cracks. How do you explain that?”
Johansen, who had black, blunt-cut hair, leaned forward in her chair. “There are over 70,000 known locations of nuclear material in the world. Our intel is only as good as what is known, or can be surmised, based upon all available data sources. Caine was using operatives in a dark state, off the grid. The terminal event in Southern California couldn’t have been prevented.”
“‘Terminal event’. Interesting code name.”
“Sentry refers to the detonation of any nuclear device as a ‘terminal event’ because, once a detonation is in progress, it is unstoppable and terminal for life in the immediate area.”
“What’s the latest on the radiation fallout in Southern California?” Waters asked, probably sensing the tension between Logan and the captain.
Johansen turned to a nearby officer manning a computer terminal. “Tom, can you give us a ten-day projection, with associated maps?”
After several keystrokes, the officer brought up a map on his screen and moved to the side so that we could all see the monitor. Johansen told us what we were seeing. “This shows the radioactive dispersal pattern in real time. Our monitoring equipment is indicating large quantities of 239PU were released during the meltdown, as well as cesium, strontium-90, and high energy alpha particles.”
After another keystroke, another screen shot appeared, and the captain continued. “This is the current dispersal pattern. As you can see, the contamination has been mainly to the west, so it’s not affecting the Los Angeles area. In the next few days we’ll be sealing the meltdown perimeter in a special cement casing.”
“How long will the radioactive effects last?” I asked.
The captain looked at me and blinked. “It’s a little difficult to say. 239PU has a half-life of 24,000 years.”
The room was silent, the impact of what we’d learned settling in. Stan Waters then spoke up, addressing the gathering. “I’ve asked Mr. Logan to join us because he was instrumental in the capture of Nathan Caine after the train derailment in Ohio in 2010.” He looked at Logan. “Would you fill us in on what you know about our subject?”
Logan ran a hand over his unshaven cheek. “Caine has been involved in terrorist activities for at least the past two decades, but his dissatisfaction with our government goes back to the late 1970s. He was responsible for the Ben Lei Massacre in Vietnam just before the war ended. At the time, he was just a twenty-year-old kid but had managed to get himself placed in charge of a platoon. His actions led to the death of nearly two hundred civilians. He was arrested and was facing court martial when he escaped from a military brig. There’s been speculation that Adam Taylor was involved in the massacre and helped him escape.”
“And they stayed in touch all these years?” Joe asked.
“We know that he and Caine supplied arms to mercenaries in Kazakhstan and spent time together in prison there. It’s no surprise that Taylor was assisting Caine in his latest cause.”
“What can you tell us about his personality?” one of the military officers asked.
“I can tell you he’s a stone-cold killer, with no remorse for his actions. I interviewed him after his arrest for the derailment in Ohio. When I told him about the casualties, he laughed and said he wished there were more.”
Logan took a sip of water and went on. “Caine also has the ability to change his appearance, go underground, or disappear into thin air. He’s a master of disguise and has been known to alter subtle aspects of his personality to elude capture.”
“What do you think is currently motivating him?” I asked.
Logan’s blue eyes fixed on me for a long moment. “It’s my opinion that Caine came to hate the United States after his arrest in the Ben Lei Massacre. Over the years, he’s been motivated by greed and money, all to the violent overthrow of our government. His alliance with the Swarm is probably just the latest incarnation of his hatred.”
The aircraft was quiet, except for the steady drone of the engines. Stan Waters then asked the question I assumed was on everyone’s mind. “If you were Nathan Caine, what would you be doing now, given everything that’s happened?”
Logan took his time answering, his gaze moving around the interior of the plane, taking in the banks of monitors and equipment. He finally looked at his former boss. “If I were Caine, I’d be doing one of two things. If I had more plutonium, I’d be building another bomb. If I didn’t have plutonium, I’d find a way to get some.”
THIRTY-THREE
Nathan Caine walked past the rows of white crosses. The air was cold, and he wheezed, puffs of condensation drifting into the frosty night air. He had darkened his hair and was wearing heavy black framed glasses. Makeup concealed the scar that ran above his right eye and disappeared into his hairline. He carried himself differently, and a slight change in his tonality when he spoke made the transformation complete.
Caine stopped and squinted at the hundreds of grave markers of soldiers, many who had died in Vietnam. His entire being was suffused with anger, and he began to shake uncontrollably. He wanted to scream. His anger was tempered only by the certain knowledge that the death of the brave men would soon be avenged.
Except for the figure who appeared on the road above where Caine walked, Arlington National Cemetery was deserted. The man moved quickly before disappearing into a crypt on the ellipse of the cemetery. On
cue, Caine moved across the road and stood beneath the iron-covered window that vented air into the marble building the man had entered.
“Is everything in place?” Caine asked, scanning the forest of white crosses that disappeared into the horizon.
The voice of the unseen man resonated with a deep trusting quality. “Delivery of the remainder of the shipment will occur tomorrow at 0600 at the location we discussed.”
“Excellent. I will have my chef ready to make the necessary preparations. This time, there will be no mistakes.”
“I’m assuming he’s still sufficiently motivated.”
“As long as the girl is alive, he’ll do what is expected. How are our guests?”
“All is quiet. Our new visitor is asking lots of questions. She could be difficult.”
“I’ll talk to her after the delivery is complete.”
“The timing is critical. Everyone in the line of succession will be at the inauguration.”
Caine drew in a frosty breath. “Who is the designated survivor?”
“Your guess is as good as mine. It’s on a need-to-know basis.”
Caine folded his arms, pushing down his anger. “Keep working on it. We need a complete purge of the government.”
“Understood.” After a hesitation, the deep voice went on. “There is something else you should know.”
Caine watched as a car entered the cemetery, its headlights illuminating the rows of white crosses. “I’m listening.”
“Sexton is on a plane, headed here. I’m told it’s some kind of secret government operation. They might be onto us.”
There was a sudden gust of wind as Caine considered the development. He knew Sexton had connections to the FBI. Her sister had been taken for insurance purposes. A chill moved down his spine. “Let’s proceed as planned. If there’s any change, I’ll be in touch.”