Primeval: An Event Group Thriller

by David L. Golemon

  “Sir, the president is on the phone. He says you’re not answering your laptop.”

  Niles laid there, not wanting to move, not wanting to face the man he had disobeyed. He took a deep breath and then slowly sat up on the couch, placing his stocking feet on the floor one at a time.

  “Sir, you look horrible. Maybe you should just answer his phone instead of going visual?”

  Niles looked his young assistant over. Her name was Linda, and she was reporting more and more for duty since Alice Hamilton was spending more time with Senator Garrison Lee these days, the former director of the Group. Compton figured that the two oldest members of the Event Group deserved all the time they had together; they had after all, earned it.

  “I look that bad, huh?”

  “Yes, you do,” she said.

  “Well, your training progresses, young lady. I think I’ll follow your advice. Hand me the phone.”

  She reached out and pulled the phone over from the small table next to the couch. She lifted the receiver.

  “Mr. President, we have located Director Compton.”

  There was silence on the other end of the phone line when Niles placed the receiver to his ear.

  “Compton,” he said with a mouth full of cotton.

  “I warned you, Mr. Director, CIA reported a backdoor hack of their Dahlia system. May I assume it was your people?”

  “You may not assume it was my people,” Niles said with as much indignity as he could conjure up.

  “Okay, then you’re telling me it was NSA, the FBI, or the boys at the Pentagon? They’re the only ones other than your Europa who has that capability. And believe me, I know what that nervous bastard Pete Golding is capable of, I’ve seen him work: He can twist that damn Cray system to do backflips if he wanted.”

  “I resent that, Mr. President, just because Pete’s—well, anyway, I resent the accusation.”

  “Just so you know, I have ordered the arrest of Colonel Collins and anyone in his security department that tries to fly out of Nellis, which I highly expect they’ll try. For Christ’s sake, Niles, as a friend, I asked you not to tell him. I wanted to let this thing play out a while. As it looks, we’ll never know the real reason for his sister’s reasoning for talking to her brother.”

  “And as a friend, I told you what you wanted to hear. Would you want to be kept in the dark about your sister? No, you wouldn’t. And that man has done more for this country than anyone you or I have ever known, I think—”

  “Don’t think, damn it. We may have serious problems here, his sister may have been getting close to something and Director Easterbrook has stuck his neck out to assist her. And don’t ask because we really don’t know yet. Look, Collins has already screwed the pooch here, he’s made a big mistake, he and his buddy, Everett, filed an advanced flight plan to Los Angeles out of Nellis. Hell, it took the FBI all of two minutes to get that information. And they have at least two agents at every dirt airstrip for fifty miles, too. Listen, Niles, Jack Collins is too close, and I don’t want to lose him along with his sister—that’s what I owe him, at least until we get a handle on what his sister was working on. So, let the FBI catch and detain him.”

  “I know that, but I am not going to keep that man in the dark even if his sister is already dead. If she is, can you think of anybody else in this world who you would want to track the bastards down that killed her?”

  “No, but consider yourself under house arrest Mr. Director, you little bastard. I should just fly out there right now and hang you.”

  “Excuse me, but I’m a little drunk and I’m going to go back to sleep.”

  “You do that!”

  Niles winced as the phone was hung up.

  “Is the president mad?” Linda asked.

  “Yes, very mad,” he said as a smile crossed his lips. “He’s going to catch Jack at the base before he enters his aircraft,” he said as his eyes started to close and the smile was drifting but still present. “But I think I may have gotten a step on him. When McIntire and Mendenhall get here, give them this,” he said as he handed her a folded piece of paper.

  “Is there anything else we can do to help the colonel, sir?” the young assistant asked.

  Niles didn’t answer her question as he had fallen asleep with the phone still clutched in his hand and the smile still on his lips.

  Jack, Carl, and Jason Ryan stepped from the tram that led to Gate Two just beneath the Gold City Pawnshop, the clandestine entryway for all Event Group personnel. They were dressed in civilian attire and had identification that indicated they were Los Angeles police detectives, and L.A. County sherriff’s officers. As they took the elevator up, Jack looked at his watch.

  “Mendenhall was nowhere to be found?” Collins asked the small naval aviator.

  “No, sir, he left his security badge in the security office, I couldn’t get a track on him through Europa.”

  “Damn,” Jack said as the elevator doors slid open. The view ahead was the dusty and very dingy back storeroom of the Gold City Pawnshop.

  They were met by Lance Corporal Jess Harrison, a black marine from Compton, California. The young corporal had the duty at Gate Two.

  “Sir, this just came through from the director’s office,” he said handing Collins a flimsy.

  “What’s the word, Jack?” Everett asked as he walked over to the arms locker and used his security code to open it. The corporal watched Everett with a wary eye.

  “Oh, effective in,” Jack again looked at his watch, “exactly five minutes, the director has ordered us detained.”

  “Do you agree with the wording Corporal?” Jack asked his gate security officer.

  The marine looked around from watching Everett removed three nine-millimeter automatic pistols and their holsters from the arms locker, along with three clips of ammunition apiece. He also looked at his watch.

  “Yes, sir. In five minutes, I am to detain you,” the lance corporal said, still watching Everett.

  Everett handed Jack a holstered weapon along with Ryan. “Let’s not hang around for that five minutes so our young friend here doesn’t have to do his duty.”

  The three men left the back storage area and into the back office of the pawnshop.

  “Sir, Air Police, and what looks like the FBI is crawling all over Nellis looking for you guys,” the corporal said as he buzzed them through the secured office and past the armed army private that had his finger close to the trigger of a submachine gun clipped underneath his desk.

  “I would be worried if that was where we were going, Corporal.” Jack stopped and turned to face his men. “Watch the place for us. If you can’t find Lieutenant Mendenhall after we leave, you’re in charge of security. I imagine you’ll have orders to lock down the complex.”

  “Yes, sir. Good luck Colonel.”

  Jack didn’t answer, but Everett slapped the young marine on the back as they left the back office and then a minute later the Gold City Pawnshop.

  They didn’t use one of the three department vehicles sitting in the alley beside the pawnshop; instead, Ryan used his irritatingly loud whistle to flag a cab. With temperatures hovering around 108 degrees, they quickly climbed in and Collins ordered the driver to take them to McLaren Airport where there was a C-21, a U.S. air force variant of the Learjet 35, stashed in a hangar on the military side of McLaren, a hangar complex the gamblers and vacationers never knew existed.

  The cab pulled into the far drive that led out onto the taxing tarmac after Jack had shown his fake Los Angeles Police Department ID. As the cab approached the aluminum hangar, the hackles rose on the colonel’s neck.

  “The agency and the FBI may have outthought me on this one.”

  “I feel it, too, they’re here,” Everett said.

  “Jesus, we can’t shoot it out with our own people, Colonel,” Ryan said, pulling the Hawaiian shirt from his chest, having been stuck there with the sweat that was pouring from his body.

  “Stop here,” Jack said as he tos
sed the driver two twenties as he climbed from the backseat.

  He removed the nine-millimeter from his holster and made sure the safety was on. He looked at Everett and Ryan, making them do the same.

  “No accidents—no one gets hurt, if it comes to them stopping us, give me time to do what I have to do, then you two surrender. Am I clear on this?”

  Everett looked into Jack’s blue eyes and nodded once. Then he looked at Ryan.

  “Hell, Colonel, I want to give up now. I’m allergic to the Feds.”

  “Good boy, Lieutenant.”

  Carl and Ryan fell into step behind Collins as he made his way to a line of employee cars parked outside of the private hangars that flanked the two military enclosures on the north side of the airport. As they moved, they kept their heads down. Ryan almost let loose a scream as they passed one of the private hangar doors that started rising with a loud whine. They hurried past before the opening could reveal them sneaking by.

  Behind them from the hangar they heard a loud piston engine fire up, then a second, but they kept moving as quickly as they could toward the military doors now only ten feet away. Once they got to the personnel door of the first hangar, Jack reached out and took the handle. To their rear, the loud engine noise continued as the aircraft slowly taxied out from the privately leased hangar. Jack ignored the plane behind him and pulled open the personnel door of the military hangar and quickly stepped inside.

  Collins, though very tempted, refused to pull his gun. He gestured for Everett to make his way to the far side of the C-21. The plane sat there gleaming in the bright sunlight streaming through two overhead skylights far above. There was no guard on duty and no mechanics evident. Collins shook his head as he saw Everett disappear around the rear-mounted engines just under the tail.

  Ryan was the first to the door just forward of the wing. He looked back at Collins and grimaced, shaking his head. Jack nodded once as Everett came back around the front of the plane and shook his head from side to side.

  “No one, Jack,” he said, barely above a whisper.

  “Okay, Lieutenant, open it up.”

  Ryan popped the stainless-steel guard and the handle popped free and the folding steps deployed as he stepped to the side. As he did, Collins went up the staircase in two steps, Everett followed and then Ryan. Once inside the small aircraft, Jack allowed his eyes to adjust to the dimness of the interior.

  “Okay, Ryan, get to your preflight and let’s get the hell out of here,” Everett said.

  Just as Ryan started to move, Jack took him by the shoulder and shook his head.

  “Forget it, we have company.”

  Just then, the cockpit door opened and first one agent, then another came through, and unlike Collins and his two men, they had their handguns drawn. As they watched the agents come toward them, the aft restroom door opened and another two agents came out.

  “Goddamn sneaky little bastards,” Everett said, even though he knew through his SEAL training he could take at least the two from the back, because against all of the FBI training the two agents went through, they were too close to their targets. When he conveyed this to Jack with his eyes, Collins shook his head.

  “Colonel Collins, you and your men are to be detained on a national security matter. Please remove your weapons and place them on the floor of the aircraft.”

  Jack, Ryan, and Everett did as they were ordered just as the loud aircraft leaving its hangar outside became close to unbearable. The two agents at the front of the aisle slowly came on as Jack watched for some kind of an opening, one that would ensure no one got hurt—well, not too hurt anyway. As the first FBI agent reached down and collected the handguns, he remained low so the three men could still be covered by the man to their front and the two behind. One of the latter slipped past and went down the stairs.

  “Okay, Colonel, we want no trouble. We’ll take you into our field office and from there, your people, whoever they are, can have you back. No booking, no cuffs, okay? We’ll call it a professional courtesy, and that comes from the highest source,” the lead agent said, his gun never wavering from the three men. “Now, Agent Williams is waiting for you at the bottom of the stairs. Please, let’s be nice,” the first man said loudly, trying to be heard over the idling engine noise of the plane just outside the hangar.

  Jack could see no way out of this without using deadly force and these men didn’t deserve anything close to that. They were fellow Americans doing their job. Collins nodded for Everett and Ryan to start down.

  Finally, as Jack made his way down the steps backward, he was suddenly and harshly pulled down and onto his back, knocking the wind from him. On his way down he saw Ryan and then Everett hop over the small cable that was used as a handhold on the stairs, he never saw them hit the concrete. Around him all was a blur as someone shot forward and pushed the stairs back up into the aircraft’s fuselage. He heard shots, then he was being pulled to his feet. Another single shot rang out.

  As Jack regained his breath and his senses, he saw the man who had taken the single shot was Will Mendenhall. He watched as the black army lieutenant reached up and pulled on the door’s handle; when he was satisfied that the handle had been damaged enough to jam the door for a good while, he turned and smiled.

  “I think we better go,” Will hurriedly said over his shoulder as he ran for the door, jumping over FBI Agent Williams who was writhing on the floor with plastic wire-ties on his hands and ankles. His weapon lay beside him with the slide back and the ammunition clip removed. Collins shook off the hands that helped him to his feet and then noticed who it was. Sarah smiled up at him.

  “Compliments of Director Compton. He said you didn’t stand a chance getting out of the desert.”

  Sarah pursed her lips in a pretend kiss and then ruthlessly shoved Jack toward the door and then through it and into the sunlight and the unbearable noise of the desert airport. When he looked up, he couldn’t believe his eyes. Sitting there only a few feet away, with a blue-and-white shining paint scheme, had to be the oldest seaplane he had ever seen. It was a Grumman G-21A Goose, a twin-engine plane that predated World War II. It was loud and noisy and with its twin landing gear sticking out of its boat-shaped hull, it looked like the most ungainly aircraft he had ever seen. The Grumman was beautiful and was well maintained. The Goose was designed during the heyday of the flying boats in the late 1930s and a good number of them were still active at air shows around the world. This was the aircraft that had started up inside the hangar they had passed by on the way in.

  “Jesus, Colonel, look at this,” Ryan said as he pointed to the glassed-in cockpit.

  “Unbelievable,” was all Collins could say as he saw the small arm of a woman hanging out of the side cockpit window, waving them forward, insisting they hurry.

  “Is that Alice?” Everett said as he took off toward the cabin door.

  “It belongs to Alice and Senator Lee. Niles thought it was the only thing we could use to get out of here; after all, the FBI and CIA would be waiting for us at any airport we wanted to land, but they can’t cover every waterfront in L.A.,” Sarah shouted as they bounded up and into the ancient seaplane.

  Once inside, the old Grumman’s engines were goosed and she started to roll. Alice Hamilton, all eighty-seven years young, complete with leather helmet, headset, and flying gloves, threw the two throttles forward and the plywood and aluminum-framed flying boat sped toward the runway as Jack came into the small cockpit and sat next to Alice, and shook his head.

  “You didn’t think Earhart was the only aviatrix this country turned out, did you?” Alice said when she saw the disbelief on the colonel’s face.

  “What in the hell are you doing?” Jack yelled over the sound of the screaming props.

  “Evidently rescuing you,” Alice answered with a smile as she reached down and started pumping the handle that brought the old Grumman’s flaps to the down position. When she looked over and saw Collins frowning, she smiled as the huge wheels left the ai
rport runaway.

  “Okay, Niles knew you would be caught if you tried to use a Group aircraft, then he knew even if you did, you would have to land at an airfield where any number of federal people would be waiting for you, so, he knew Garrison bought me this little toy back in 1955 for my birthday, thus, here we are—now hang on!”

  Jack was thrown back in his seat as the Grumman shot into the sky at an angle Collins never thought a plane that old could achieve.

  As he buckled himself in, he heard the shouts and grunts from the passenger area of the seaplane.

  “This isn’t good!” Ryan screamed as eighty-seven-year-old Alice Hamilton threw the plane into a steep banking maneuver, heading for Los Angeles.

  Director Niles Compton of Department 5656—the Event Group—was rarely, if ever, outthought by anyone in the world.

  4

  The chartered Boeing 737 was above the state of Colorado heading north. Leased through a third party, the federal authorities had no idea their murderous quarry was heading out of the country.

  Sagli leaned forward in his chair and placed his glass of water on the table. Deonovich looked around at the thirty-five men seated around the aircraft.

  “I am curious as to why we cannot dispose of our guest—she is too dangerous to keep around,” Deonovich asked Sagli, taking a large swallow of water from an iced glass; he then turned and eyed his partner.

  “I asked the same question and was told she may be an asset later when we arrive at our destination. She is to be kept healthy at all costs.”

  “Have you thought that maybe we have placed too much confidence in our new ally?” Deonovich asked, raising the glass vodka and draining it.

  Sagli frowned. “That is enough drinking; we have very serious days ahead. I do not need you half comatose.”

  Deonovich raised his brows and eyed his partner.

  “You have not answered my question.”