Aftershock: A Donovan Nash Novel (A Donovan Nash Thriller)

by Philip Donlay

  “So, conceivably, he could have been involved in all these crimes.”

  “In theory, though some of them go back to when Robert was CEO of Huntington Oil, before Meredith was killed. So, Donovan could also be complicit in these crimes. Speaking of Meredith, I wonder why her file wasn’t included?”

  “You said it earlier—no land, leases, or drilling rights were involved.”

  “I guess that makes sense, though the oil industry had to have taken a collective sigh of relief when she was gone.”

  “Another reason they didn’t send that file is that it’s listed as a solved case.”

  “We both know that’s bullshit,” Lauren snapped, surprised at how quickly she came to Meredith’s defense. “The authorities botched the whole thing from beginning to end. They no doubt buried the file to try and stave off further embarrassment.”

  “You’re pretty close to the truth,” Montero replied.

  “That’s too bad; I’d have liked to have a look.”

  “I just got an e-mail from Curtis Nelson.” Montero pulled her laptop closer and opened the message. She quickly scanned the attachments. “They’re all here. He sent every case that the task force handled.”

  “That leaves us with a stack of reports that, if you squint hard enough, makes William look like some sort of master criminal. I don’t believe it, and I don’t think you do either. We need more data.”

  “We need different data. Files are only going to tell us what someone wanted the after-action report to say. Trust me, field reports can be slanted to a certain bias without too much problem. I saw a name on some of the files. I think he’s the guy we want to talk with, a former FBI agent by the name of Gordon Butterfield.”

  “Why him?” Lauren asked.

  “Butterfield was in and out of Central America for most of his career. He might be able to shed some light on these kidnappings as well as some of the other players. Hector Vargas is in his sixties, which means he could have been around when Butterfield was down there as well. Butterfield is worth tracking down, if he’s still alive. But it might take a while to find him.” Montero fished under the pile of papers on the table for her phone. “Oh, and about what we talked about a little while ago, about Meredith’s file? You called it earlier. I’ve been interested in her life and subsequent death since I met her in college. I’ve had the file for years. Let me know if you want to read the thing.”

  “Has Donovan?”

  “He has his own copy,” Montero replied, then dialed her phone. “I need to report to Deputy Director Graham, he needs to know that Nelson sent the files.”

  Lauren grabbed both their coffee cups and went back into the kitchen for one more refill. Abigail would be waking up any minute. She poured the last of the coffee, rinsed out the carafe, and carried both cups back to the study.

  “Graham did us a favor,” Montero announced as she took the fresh cup from Lauren’s hand. “He gave us Butterfield.”

  “Where is he?” Lauren asked, as she sat down her cup and reached for her phone.

  “He’s retired. He lives in Johnson City, Tennessee. Graham says the man lives and breathes golf. Who are you calling?”

  “We have an airplane on twenty-four hour standby and we need them to fly us to Johnson City. I’ll see if Aimee can come over and watch Abigail. Grab what you need for the day, I want to be out of here inside thirty minutes.”

  “You know, you’re just like him,” Montero said as she began gathering the reports.

  “Who?”

  “Donovan.”

  “Hardly,” Lauren said dismissively.

  “Really? In the last twenty-four hours, you’ve collaborated with me, lied to the FBI, and now we’re chartering a jet to interrogate a former FBI agent. Oh, yeah, you also carry a gun and aren’t afraid to use the thing. And right this moment, heaven save anyone who gets in your way.”

  Lauren started to argue and then clenched her jaw shut at the realization that Montero was more than a little right.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Seated in the back of the Galileo, Donovan leaned forward to take in the view. Outside, flying just off the right wing was the Scimitar. Donovan was at one of the empty science stations away from the activity near the front of the cabin. Professor Murakami, as well as Malcolm and Lillian Lane, were hovering over the large console installed specifically for Scimitar. Wearing a headset, his hands firmly on the controls, was John Dorsey. John was with the USGS and was the program pilot of the Scimitar team. Tall and lanky with an easygoing smile and a crew cut, John had explained he’d been in the Air Force and had flown the military version of the Scimitar. Introduced earlier, Donovan had immediately liked the young man.

  Donovan watched as John moved a small control stick, not much different from the type used for video games, and saw outside that the Scimitar responded immediately. There were two primary computer screens positioned in front of John. One was the real-time view using the nose-mounted camera; the other was used for either the synthetic aperture radar, or the infrared imaging system, or split to observe both at the same time. As they flew westward, John switched back and forth, checking out the various systems of the Scimitar.

  William and Buck had stayed behind at the hotel. The Guatemalan police were trying to identify the gunman who’d been killed in the bar, and Buck had been concerned with the delicate task of trying to balance what they knew with what they could expect from a corrupt police force. In the end, they’d decided that they wouldn’t share any of their findings with the local authorities.

  “Mr. Nash,” Professor Murakami called back to Donovan. “You might want to come take a look at this. It’s rather breathtaking.”

  Donovan stepped behind Lillian and studied the images on Scimitar’s flight display screens.

  “We can see the volcano from here,” Malcolm said excitedly. “There looks to be more ash being expelled than yesterday. Once we get closer, we’ll set up a grid and get as many baseline measurements as we can. Then we’ll fly the Scimitar through the ash cloud itself and, using the mass spectrometer, sample the gases. Primarily, we expect to find carbon dioxide, sulfur dioxide, and hydrogen sulfide. It’s amazing to think we used to go up on the side of a volcano and manually test for the chemical compounds by hand. If this goes as planned, we could be seeing a new era of volcano research.”

  Donovan nodded. He could hear John talking to Michael through the headset, advising him to begin his on-station orbit. The Gulfstream would fly a large holding pattern that would keep them safely out of reach of the ash, while John guided Scimitar on its first circuit around the volcano. Seated at a station next to John, Professor Murakami controlled the sensors that would collect the much-needed data from the volcano.

  Donovan glanced toward the cockpit as Craig emerged and motioned for him to come forward. Then he worked his way past John and the others and negotiated the narrow aisle that led to the flight deck. “What’s up?”

  “Michael wanted me to go back and take a look at the Scimitar operation,” Craig said. “He said something about if you wanted to come up where the real pilots sit, he wouldn’t mind the company.”

  “Thanks.” Donovan nodded and grinned at Craig. The young man had been with Eco-Watch a little over a year now and had blended in nicely with the tight-knit group. Craig was a good, solid pilot, and Michael, as always, had played a big part in smoothing Craig’s transition.

  “Coming up.” With practiced ease, Donovan slid himself into the right seat of the Gulfstream. In one smooth motion he brought the seat forward, buckled himself in, and quickly scanned the instruments before taking in the view out the window. The mountain itself lay perhaps five miles away and nearly four miles below them, but the gray boiling ash reached upwards straight for them before shearing off at the top by the high altitude winds—not unlike the anvil top of a thunderstorm.

  “Pretty impressive, isn’t it?” Michael asked. “I don’t think I’ve ever flown this close to an active volcano.”


  “Amazing,” Donovan agreed, and then listened as a stream of Spanish came over the overhead speaker. “Who are we listening to?”

  “Right now we’re in contact with Guatemala air traffic control, such as it is. We’re the only aircraft in this part of the sky, so we can do pretty much anything we want. The commercial traffic is being routed around the ash cloud. As near as I can tell, we’re the only ones flying an airplane this close to a known airborne hazard. All the other pilots seem to have enough common sense to fly someplace else.”

  Donovan nodded in agreement. Michael’s comment held an element of truth.

  “We didn’t really get a chance to talk much last night,” Michael said. “You seem a little off. Are you feeling okay?”

  “Thanks—I’m good. I’m not sleeping well, is all.” Donovan felt both troubled and touched at Michael’s observation, though there was no way to describe how he felt. Michael had no clue about Donovan’s past, which was exactly the way he wanted it to remain. He and Michael were close, closer than anyone he’d had as a friend when he was Robert Huntington. If Michael ever found out, the dynamic of their relationship would change overnight. So right this moment, there was no way to explain to Michael that his world was coming unraveled, that the distant past had somehow leapfrogged into the present, and managed to blur everything in between. Meredith Barnes seemed to be calling to him, and, at times, hers was the loudest voice of all.

  “Okay,” Michael replied. “But if memory serves me correctly, you never sleep well.”

  “You’re right, it’s not just the sleep. I’m worried about William.” Donovan hesitated. He knew he was touching on dicey territory. “I’ve known him, as well as Stephanie, since the formation of Eco-Watch. It’s why all this is so hard.”

  Michael studied his friend. “I completely understand. William is one of a kind; we all love the guy, but try to remember you’ve been on a well-deserved sabbatical. Now you’re trying to go from zero to full speed virtually overnight. I can’t help but wonder if you should be here in Guatemala. I don’t want anything to happen to you, and I know Lauren and William don’t either. It’s obvious to me your head isn’t in the game. It might be a sign to sit this one out.”

  “Can’t do it,” Donovan answered, not bothering to dispute anything Michael had just said. “Sometimes you’ve got to play hurt. I can’t go home until this is finished.”

  “Good enough. Then at least be smart enough to let your team take some of the load. We’re not all here just because of our good looks.” Michael shot Donovan a crooked grin. “Well, in my case, that might be partly true. We’re all good at what we do. If you need us, don’t hesitate to ask.”

  Donovan nodded and turned to look out the side window. It pained him to not be able to tell Michael the real reasons about why this was affecting him to the extent that it was. He’d resolved long ago never to tell Michael, or Buck, or anyone else who worked at Eco-Watch, the truth about who he was. It was the price he paid for his actions in the past. He allowed himself to wonder what Meredith would say about his predicament. She’d been the catalyst for so much of who he was today. It had been twenty-two years ago, but he was nearly overcome with the feeling that it had been only yesterday. He looked off in the distance to the southeast—where the sky met the earth was Costa Rica. It was where she’d left him. Right this moment, Donovan could almost feel her, as if the years had melted away and she’d be there when they landed.

  Donovan caught sight of the lake and the volcano as they wheeled in the sky and his reality crashed down around him. Meredith was dead. He’d lost her. He’d lost everything he’d had with her and everything he was ever going to have with her. There was something incomprehensible about losing the promise of tomorrow that made it worse than anything else a human could experience. He’d been helpless to stop her death, and as he looked down at the ground below him, he knew Stephanie was down there somewhere, and he felt as if she too were going to die unless he did something.

  “Guys,” Craig called out from just outside the cockpit. “We need to head back now. Professor Murakami has discovered that the Scimitar has a coolant leak. John says we should return to base before more problems develop.”

  Michael picked up the microphone to relay the request to the Guatemala air traffic control center.

  Donovan unfastened his harness and got up out of the seat. “Here you go, Craig, you fly. I want to go back and see what’s going on.” Donovan patted Michael on the shoulder as he slipped from the cockpit and hurried back to the Scimitar control panel.

  “The instruments are heating up,” Lillian explained. “We made four passes right through the ash cloud. Professor Murakami thinks we’re losing coolant.”

  “So far nothing has affected the controls,” John said, without looking up from the small screen he was using to pilot the Scimitar. “We’re hoping the liquid nitrogen is venting overboard—and not into the airframe itself. Once I maneuver it back into visual range, we can look for ourselves.”

  Donovan glanced at Malcolm. He had removed himself from the others and was sitting in a vacant seat, poring over computer printouts. Donovan walked closer and stood over the lead USGS scientist. “Did you get some information you can use?”

  Malcolm looked up and nodded. “Based on the amount of sulfur dioxide being ejected, I’d say the chance of a volcanic eruption on Mt. Atitlán is increasing. I can’t make any exact measurements until we get back and compare today’s images with the satellite images, but I think we’re seeing even more significant ground deformation than before. The bulge continues to develop on the south flank. With the degassing of the lava and the bulge—I’d say we have the potential for an eruption at least within the next thirty to sixty days.”

  “Anything else?” Donovan asked. He heard the Gulfstream’s engines spool down as Michael put the Galileo into a slow descent toward Guatemala City.

  Malcolm looked up from his paperwork. “We need to focus our energy on hoping that the damage to the Scimitar is minor and that we can get it back up in the air. Otherwise, we’ll have no idea what’s going on with the mountain. My worst fear is that there will be a lull in the volcanic activity, which is very likely. Something like that tends to draw all the evacuated people back to their homes. We need to keep feeding real-time information to the population, keep them out of the area—or we’ll have a full-scale tragedy on our hands.”

  Once the Gulfstream was nearing touchdown, Donovan moved up to the jump seat in the cockpit to watch the Scimitar land. As they neared the approach end of the runway, Donovan could see the whitish vapor from the suspected liquid nitrogen leak streaming back from the small black craft. John did a magnificent job, and once the Scimitar was off the runway, the Galileo touched down. With the Scimitar leading the way, both aircraft taxied toward the USGS hangar.

  Donovan leaned forward, his forearms resting on the backs of the pilots’ seats. Michael was quietly relaying instructions to Craig. Donovan felt relieved that their flight had been cut short. What he wanted was to do was get back to the hotel and find Buck. Hopefully, information about the gunman, as well as the people in the photographs, had been discovered.

  Michael swung the Gulfstream onto the inner ramp, and off to the right Donovan noticed an older model Learjet on the ramp. It was white with orange stripes and bore a Mexican registration. A Learjet was no big deal—there were thousands of them built, and most of the older ones ended up in the third world. Donovan was about to look away when a white Mercedes sedan pulled up next to the Lear. He watched for a moment, mildly curious. A man jumped out of the vehicle. He was dressed in blue jeans, baseball cap, and a windbreaker. He scanned the row of hangars as if to see if there was anyone watching, but ignored the passing Gulfstream. Another man climbed from the passenger’s side. He was larger, wore slacks and a white shirt, and had a beard. He rounded the vehicle, yanked open the rear door, and leaned into the back. An instant later, Donovan caught sight of a slender woman with long black hair being pulled f
rom the van. Her hands were bound behind her back.

  “Michael!” Donovan pointed over his friend’s shoulder, directly at the van. “Do you see what I see?”

  “It’s her!” Michael said, leaning over to see. “I’m getting the impression she’s not leaving because she wants to.”

  Donovan saw her being half-dragged out of the sedan and then yanked to her feet. “She’s not leaving at all if I can help it. Michael, slow down a little bit. Whatever happens, don’t let that Learjet leave!”

  “What are you doing?” Michael called out as Donovan bolted from the cockpit.

  Donovan ran as fast as he could all the way to the back of the Gulfstream. He kneeled next to the baggage door and threw the latch hard over, then slid the door up on its tracks until it remained open. Below him was the tarmac. Without stopping to think, Donovan dropped to the ground and rolled with the impact. He forced himself up and started toward the Learjet. Donovan calculated he’d have a momentary element of surprise. No one was expecting an intruder coming from the runway.

  Donovan never slowed. He drew his weapon as he rounded the nose of the Learjet and began to yell, “Fuego, Fuego!” His cries of “fire” had the desired effect. Donovan saw a look of confusion and alarm form on the faces of the two men. Donovan used his Sig to hit the bearded man in the side of the head. There was a solid thud, and the man collapsed. The second man stepped back and tried to get to a gun that was tucked into the front of his jeans. The woman spun and delivered a vicious kick to the gunman’s crotch. He let out a strangled whimper and went down on his knees, any thoughts about pulling his gun long forgotten as both hands went to protect his battered groin. Donovan clubbed him against the side of the head, and he crashed face first into the tarmac. He turned to the woman and leveled the Sig at her chest. There was no mistaking the rage that burned in her eyes.

  “Turn around and get on your knees,” Donovan ordered, then stepped back and pointed the gun at the startled Learjet pilot who had rushed from the plane. Donovan saw the ID badge dangling from the pilot’s neck and yanked it free from its lanyard.