The Missile Game (The Dr. Scott James Thriller Series Book 1)

by Glenn Shepard

  There was little traffic on the rural road that was a shortcut back to Chapel Hill, so Simpkins was aware of a dark SUV that followed at a distance. Suddenly, he saw the lights of the vehicle approaching rapidly. He accelerated the motorcycle to seventy miles an hour. The SUV was doing ninety.

  Simpkins moved to the far right of his lane to allow it to go by. The SUV slowed as it started to pass the bike. A man in the back seat stuck his head and shoulders out of the truck window and slammed the back of Harold Simpkins’ neck with a baseball bat, just as a second, smaller man in the front seat leaned out his window and grabbed the motorcycle’s handle bars. Simpkins went flying through the air, his body smashing against a tree.

  The SUV braked. Simpkins was retrieved and wrapped in a tarp. The body and the motorcycle were thrown in the back of the SUV.

  It was a professional job.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Jackson City Jail

  Jackson City, North Carolina

  11:00 am

  AT MY ARRAIGNMENT, I was charged with first degree murder of Wilson and Dr. Carey, and the attempted murder of Elizabeth Keyes. My whole body shook. Harris stated, at the proceeding, “There’s no proof that anyone other than Dr. James had been in the office at the time of the two deaths, and he was in the recovery room when the attempt to kill Keyes was made.”

  Bail was set at two million dollars. There was no way I could come up with that much money, especially after Alicia confiscated all of our bank accounts and then took the maximum cash possible out of all our credit cards and then canceled them. Alicia was a survivor and she was always good at taking care of herself.

  Innocent or guilty, it looked like I was going away for a long time.

  I was led to a row of twelve jail cells. Each was designed to hold two inmates. All the men in this area were violent criminals, incarcerated for drug-related killings, rape, and armed robbery. It was a rough-looking group of men. We all wore the same blue prison suits. I was placed with a Hispanic male, Hector Mendez. He was an inch shorter than me, but must have been a hundred pounds heavier, although it was mostly fat. “Morning,” I said, as I tried to sit down on my bed.

  Mendez stood in my way and grunted, “Fuck you, white boy.”

  “And I was thinking we could be friends.” I shrugged and tried to move around him. The other inmates sensed something was up and looked at us.

  Mendez pulled out a homemade shiv. “Now, what the fuck you gonna do?”

  I tried to ignore him and stay calm. “I was hoping to catch up on my sleep.”

  Mendez went berserk. He raised the knife and jumped toward me. I kept my eyes on the knife and as Mendez stabbed at my chest, I grabbed his wrist, twisted it, and threw him against the wall. Mendez dropped the knife and swung his fist wildly.

  I stepped aside and pounded his face with a left and then hit him in the stomach with a right. Mendez turned to face me but his body was swaying, and his eyes did not focus.

  “Racial profiling is not politically correct,” I said.

  With that, Mendez threw a hay maker punch, which missed me by a foot.

  The other inmates were cheering, “Kill him! Kill him!”

  I lifted my fist to finish him off, but saw no need. I led the defenseless Mendez to his bed and pushed him down.

  Two guards were watching. Neither filed an incident report. And after that, nobody bothered me.

  Soon, a black cloud of depression fell on me.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Drone Control Center, “Alpha Charlie”

  Jackson City, North Carolina

  12:05 pm

  CHARLIE SAT IN THE dark room and monitored the computer screens attached to the BAMS/UAS workstation. He wore special glasses that compensated for the low light conditions and which provided magnification, allowing him to view the text messages on the lower part of the screens. The BAMS/UAS portable control module used twenty hard drives, stacked one on top of the other and conveniently bolted to the left side of a flimsy-looking desk. The three monitors were each twenty inches wide and positioned at eye level to the operator. Active monitors came on when images were presented to them; blank monitors had no incoming videos.

  Currently, the active screen pictured aerial views of a mountainous landscape. An hour earlier, Colonel Edwards had launched a Global Hawk RQ-4B, the newest and largest of the drone aircraft, from Kandahar, Afghanistan, and had placed a test target in an empty field a few miles from the base.

  Edwards came on Charlie’s headset and suggested a trial of the new chair. He told Charlie to be on the lookout for a fake truck, sitting on the test-firing range.

  Charlie did as Edwards instructed, manipulating his new system to visualize the test area. He was pleased that he could move the aircraft easily. He could see the objective at five miles and elected to shoot at that distance. Each of his index fingers activated an X that moved and centered on the image. Pressing his right thumb on the red firing button, a Hellfire missile shot from the drone. After a delay of a few seconds, it struck the bull’s eye painted on a cardboard replica of a truck and exploded on impact.

  “Bra—vo,” Edwards said.

  REUTERS

  Canberra, AUSTRALIA

  The American Ambassador to Australia, Mr. David Martin, has been summoned back to Washington amid growing anger in the capital, Canberra, over allegations that the target of last week’s foiled terrorist attack was a CIA-sponsored “black site” for the control of military drones in the Middle East. U.S. Officials, citing national security interests, have declined to comment on rumors that the three men and one woman apprehended last week in Sydney were actively searching for a drone control station rumored to be located somewhere in the vicinity of Byron Bay, a small resort town on the east coast of Australia. Members of the Australian Parliament on both the right and the left are calling for a full investigation of all civilian defense contractors doing business with the United States.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Chapel Hill, North Carolina

  7:00 pm

  FOUR YEARS AGO, BILLY WATSON inherited the family peanut farm and a modest bank account. His low crop yield reflected his hatred of farming, and within two years, he was on the verge of bankruptcy. His friends and farm hands left him to a life of solitude. Each evening he went to the Varsity Bar, drank, and hit on women. All of Chapel Hill knew he was a drunkard and a drug addict, so none of the girls showed any interest in him. But he didn’t care.

  Tonight, things were different. A new girl from out of town seemed interested. She was young and pretty. Her eyes were brown and her long blonde hair curled up as it touched her shoulders. Her face was smooth and pear-shaped, with prominent cheekbones. She didn’t seem to mind that his rough beard hadn’t been trimmed in six months, his unkempt hair hadn’t been combed in weeks, and his eyes were so blood shot from inebriation that their color was in question. Billy couldn’t keep his eyes off her large breasts.

  Michelle drank wine as he ordered Vodka, straight up. “I’m from Suthern Jaw-ja,” she said in a made up accent that even the inebriated farmer knew was false.

  “So, tell me, really, are you from New York or is it Jersey?”

  She blushed, “Am I that bad as a southern belle?”

  “Yeah, well no. As the southern belle, you’re prettier’n any girls from the South I’ve ever met, but you talk like a Yankee trying to imitate Scarlett O’Hara. Better stick to ‘Naw-thun’ talk.”

  As they laughed she moved close to him. “You’re cute,” she said as one of her breasts rested on his arm.

  Soon, sex was the only thing on his mind. She was willing and wanted to go back to his farm house. He drove his pickup as she followed in a gold Cadillac Seville.

  At the farm, an excited Billy Watson jumped out of his vehicle and ran to hers. As he helped her from the Cadillac, she rubbed his crotch and pulled hi
s head to her chest. His virility had suffered from the alcohol and coke, but it was back tonight. She undressed in his bedroom, and then he watched as she crawled, naked, onto the bed, and then on top of him.

  Suddenly four men and a tall brunette walked into the room and stood by his bed. He sat up abruptly, “What the ...?”

  Nicole shoved him back down. Each man grabbed an extremity.

  Billy struggled, kicking and screaming. “Michelle! Do you know these people?”

  Michelle reached over and pinched his cheek firmly and leaned her face to within a few inches of his. “Billy, I need your fuckin’ farm and I don’t need you to plant fuckin’ peanuts on it.”

  Billy started to weep. “Please, I’ll do whatever.”

  “You’re fuckin’ pathetic. Where’s my knife, Nicole?” Michelle asked.

  “Don’t hurt me.”

  Nicole handed her a hunting knife with an eight inch blade.

  Michelle ran it down his neck. “Nobody screws me without paying.” She laid the blade of the knife against his windpipe. She pressed the knife until blood oozed from a shallow cut. Billy pulled against the men restraining him.

  “You’re what’s wrong with America,” she screamed. “The free ride is over!”

  She grabbed his penis. With a single swipe of the blade, she cut it off. Billy screamed in agony. She shoved the organ down his throat, choking him.

  He mustered all his strength to pull away, but the four men held him down firmly. Michelle pressed a pillow over his face until his struggling ceased.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Kandahar, Afghanistan

  9:30 am

  MAJOR GENERAL AHMAD KAHN of the Afghanistan National Air Force flew by helicopter from his headquarters in Kabul to the airfield adjoining the American drone hangars on the outskirts of the city. The hangars were isolated on the perimeter of the Afghani Air Force facility, which was home base for Russian-made Mi-15 and Mi-24 helicopters, as well as Russian Antonov cargo transports.

  One of Kahn’s spies had told him the drones were being moved to a base in Iraq. After the copter landed, a waiting jeep took Kahn to the American commanding the drone operation, Colonel Edwards. Without a word of greeting, the two men shook hands coldly.

  Kahn was abrupt in stating the purpose of his visit. “I forbid you from moving your drones without my permission!”

  “The first time I reported to your fuckin’ office about bringing two of our drones, the Predators, to Kandahar, the Taliban put a fuckin’ IED in the hangar we were assigned to,” Edwards said. “It killed two of my men.”

  “I don’t care. I order you to keep the drones here!”

  “Well, old buddy, the rules have changed,” Edwards said, putting his hands on his hips. “I’m not moving them back.”

  “But the leaks have been sealed. There are no more spies in my office.”

  “Bullshit!” Edwards snapped. He then turned on his heel and walked away.

  On his way back to the helicopter, Kahn sent a text message to Kahlil in Damascus.

  Damascus, Syria

  3:05 pm

  For 150 years, Ambuda Kahlil’s family had been making and selling oriental rugs near the Bab Tuma (St. Thomas’s Gate) in the old, walled city of Damascus. Kahlil had followed in his father’s footsteps. With his good eye for selecting and weaving the highest quality rugs, his business had expanded, as had his bank account. Recently his friends in ISIS had convinced him to become an important financial contributor, and along with sending a cash donation, he’d also begun using his business to secretly relay messages between ISIS allies.

  Kahlil felt the Blackberry in his pocket vibrate. The incoming text read: AMERICAN DRONE BASE LEAVING KANDAHAR. MY CONTACT SAYS MOVING TO IRAQ

  Upon receipt of the message in Damascus, Kahlil forwarded it to a courier for delivery to Jorad Hormand.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Jackson City Hospital

  1:15 pm

  THE BATTERY OF NEW tests ordered for Elizabeth Keyes was extensive. Her Valium level dropped precipitously, but her deep sleep continued. By the next day, she was somnolent but responsive. Detective Harris paid a visit to her bedside.

  “Missus Keyes,” he asked, “do ya have any old boyfriends, a husband in your past, or any people that threatened or wanted to hurt ya?”

  “No. All my relationships have ended cordially.”

  “Do ya have anything ya want ta tell me? Like about you and Dr. James?”

  “What about us?”

  “The Chronicle says you two were lovers.”

  She lifted her head and gave a weak laugh. “That’s a crock. Some reporter with a vivid imagination must have written that. Dr. James is a straight arrow. That guy only has eyes for his beauty queen wife. Everybody knows that.”

  Jackson City Police Station

  Jackson City, North Carolina

  2:30 pm

  Harris had taken a half a dozen calls from the Mayor and City Council members, all asking about the murders. He was taking a swig of coffee when the phone rang yet again. It was Herb Waters, the top dog at Jackson City Hospital.

  “James is guilty as hell. Do not let him out of jail!” Waters barked.

  Harris said he was busy and hung up the phone.

  Harris fiddled with the cords of his string tie while he sifted through one of the filing cabinets confiscated from James’ office. As he’d expected, he was coming up empty—just folder after folder filled with charts and photos of happy patients hugging Dr. James.

  Harris drank his coffee and paced around the office before returning to the files that James kept. He was intrigued by a file labeled “Jackson City Hospital.” Inside was a newspaper obituary of Cabot Barnes, a Jackson City Hospital board member from 1997 until his death in July 1999. Harris read the obit, as well as a news clipping that pictured the forty-year-old computer programmer/entrepreneur, and reported his death by drowning at sea, 35 miles off the Oregon Inlet. Barnes had been with six buddies at the time, aboard his fifty-five foot, Viking sport-fishing boat.

  Barnes was a local hero. He’d been the captain of the high school swim team. He’d led Jackson City to a championship his senior year, then received a full scholarship to a state college. Barnes married his high school sweetheart, was a father of two children, and became the favorite coach of the local youth soccer teams.

  Harris suddenly stopped reading. A champion swimmer drowns near a boat with six other men aboard and a stock of life preservers and throwing buoys?

  Another folder contained brief notes about another Jackson City Hospital board member, Quinton Jolly, who’d died a few days after Barnes. Jolly was found in a hospital call room with a plastic bag wrapped over his face. The coroner had ruled it a suicide.

  Harris shivered.

  Most of the documents in the file related to a lengthy article Dr. James had written and sent to the Daily Chronicle, where it was published in the “Letters to the Editor” section. The article referred to the alleged pending sale of the non-profit Jackson City Hospital to AHS, a large conglomerate of for-profit hospitals. James pointed out that hospital costs would increase even higher than they already had, resulting in the reduction or elimination of charitable care. Of even more significance, Jackson City Hospital had in escrow over $200 million dollars from its profitable ventures. James raised the question of where all that money would go if the hospital were to be sold.

  James had done his research and even quoted sections of the hospital’s original charter. James contended that selling a hospital with a longstanding charter as a nonprofit facility to a for-profit group would be a violation of its charter. James emphatically stated that the city could rightfully claim ownership of the hospital. The money used to start up the hospital in 1931, and to build the new hospital in 1975, had come from fundraisers and city appropriations. This bound the hos
pital to ownership by the community.

  Harris went through the minutes of the hospital board’s actions, starting in 1995. James had circled sections of the minutes in red ink and had made extensive notations. Over a fifteen-year period, the original charter of the hospital was amended several times. On November 10, 1999, the hospital bylaws were amended to specify that the hospital’s chief executive officer was solely responsible for appointing the hospital’s Board of Directors. James had made a note on the margin: “The Board appoints the hospital’s Chief Executive? A Board appointed by that same Chief Executive?”

  Scratching his chin, Harris wondered how many people knew of this flip-flop in the appointments of the directors and the chief administrator. His question was answered, at least in part, when he read the minutes of a 1999 hospital board meeting, minutes that James had circled in red: “Cabot Barnes and Quinton Jolly questioned the circular appointments of the board members and administrators.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Near the Iraqi-Kurdistan Border

  12:08 pm

  TWO OBSERVERS HID IN a mountain ridge a quarter mile from the drone hangar, where six American drones had been delivered in covered trucks a week before. Although the observers wore military boots, they were dressed in traditional Arab garb.

  Over the previous days, from their hide-out, the two Iraqis had caught glimpses of men in American Air Force uniforms assembling drones—four MQ-9 Reapers and two RQ-4A Global Hawks. These were the largest drones employed by the U.S. government, much larger than the MQ-1 Predator. The Reaper weighed nearly two tons and the Global Hawk twelve tons. They carried payloads of 3,800 pounds, more than triple that of the Predator.

  Now, inside the hangar, American crews loaded Hellfire and Sidewinder missiles onto all the drone aircraft, while on the ridge one of the observers sent a message.