Time Frame (Split Second Book 2)

by Douglas E. Richards

Blake and the president had hit it off famously, and he had spent many hours with the man, both during meals and in working sessions with Secretary Johnson and General Herman. Janney had introduced Blake simply as the man behind Kim’s capture, but had made it clear Blake was under orders not to divulge anything else about his mission or team, even to them.

  The progress of the interrogation had been stunning, especially during the past few days. Cargill had sent a supply of T-4 along with the kettle, but their first attempt to use it had killed Kim within seconds. Even so, Blake had realized they were in a unique position to experiment with its dosing.

  Without access to a kettle, experimentation was impossible. If the first dose killed a subject, there could be no testing of a different dose. But the ability to make endless duplicates of a subject made it possible to search for a dose that wasn’t too potent, killing the subject, or too weak, rendering the serum useless. One that was just right: the Goldilocks dose.

  While Blake took responsibility for this testing, Entwistle and Beal interrogated multiple Kims using other methods. If one Kim gave up information, they would go after the same information with another Kim from a different angle. If the information was bogus, the other Kim would often tell a different lie. Only if three Kims independently provided the same intel would they become convinced it was true. All intel was checked in the field, whenever possible, using all available resources, including the re-tasking of satellites to take hard looks at coordinates where Kim indicated missile launchers were hidden.

  Then, even better news broke out. After two days, and twenty-six dead Kim Jong-uns, Blake succeeded in his quest. It turned out that there was no single dose of T-4 that would work. The first six doses Blake had tried all killed the Korean tyrant. When Blake finally found a dilution just under the threshold of lethality, it was completely ineffective.

  Only when Blake had gotten more creative did the breakthrough occur. After considerable further experimentation, he discovered that if the highest non-lethal dose was administered once an hour over a four-hour period, Kim’s tongue would finally become unstuck, and he would spill his guts for two to three hours before finally dying. At this point, another Kim would already be in the process of being dosed, and would soon get his two or three hours on stage.

  Because of this success, they were able to obtain intel from the North Korean leader that was more comprehensive than they had dared to hope was possible. Whatever else one might say about the man, Blake found his knowledge of his own weapons and their positioning to be encyclopedic. Since everything that could be checked out, did check out, Secretary Johnson and General Herman developed great confidence in the information, even without knowing exactly how it had been wrung from Kim Jong-un.

  Meanwhile, the situation in North Korea was deteriorating by the hour. The country was in utter turmoil, and intel reports from the region couldn’t begin to keep up, no matter how rapidly they were updated. The Kim in power, whom Johnson and Herman had been told was an impostor, was livid about the loss of his favorite palace and the attempt on his life, and was shaking things up, just as Cargill had predicted.

  No head was safe from the chopping block. Kim had already had hundreds of men and women in his government put to death, and no one knew who might be next. Blake wondered what would happen first. Would Kim drop dead from the poison in his veins, which was due to happen any time? Or, given the immense fear and desperation his purge was creating in his followers, would he be assassinated before this occurred?

  While it appeared as if North Korea would tear itself up without any further outside intervention, Janney was relishing the chance to help this collapse along and relieve the country of its ability to unleash weapons of mass destruction. Now that the multi-pronged strike on North Korea was imminent, the president had been in one planning session after another with his Secretary of Defense and Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. They had tied in generals, admirals, and intelligence personnel via secure videoconferencing to plan the attack, which would include missile strikes, fighter-jet sorties, and the deployment of hundreds of teams of special forces commandos on the ground.

  And Blake had a front-row seat to it all.

  Not only that, but a front-row seat to the mission to capture Knight, which was also underway. The president had just received a report that Knight’s location was now known, and Tom TenBrink was marshaling forces to end the threat that he posed, as well. This time, not only killing Knight, but making sure that he stayed dead.

  Kim Jong-un’s regime and Edgar Knight would both be taken down within days of each other, possibly hours. To a soldier like Blake, there was no satisfaction greater than taking part in a historic mission to subdue America’s greatest enemies. And here he was, witness to two missions that were each even more historic, more consequential, than the mission that had taken out Osama Bin Laden.

  For a man like Blake, this was a hundred Super Bowl Sundays tied into one.

  62

  Captain Tom TenBrink had considerable experience on special forces missions, and had even commanded several, but nothing of the scope and importance of this mission. His Inner Circle colleague, Joe O’Bannon, had also been in the special forces, achieving the rank of lieutenant before being handpicked to join Q5.

  But this mission was well beyond the scope of anything either man had ever done, or even been part of. It blended together eight special forces teams into one massive team, ready for anything.

  Well, almost anything. With time travel thrown into the mix, possibilities emerged that none on these teams had encountered, or even imagined.

  TenBrink stood next to O’Bannon and a special forces major, Joe Lazear, in an open field four miles beyond the outer boundary of the Chester Moreland Pivot Farm, on a site they had chosen from satellite footage to become their staging area. Several men were now stationed around the perimeter of the field to ensure no one would stumble on them, a veritable special forces army preparing for battle on an empty tract of wilderness in the heart of Nebraska.

  Major Lazear had considerable experience directing multidisciplinary teams and, by rights, should have been in command. He wasn’t simply because he didn’t have knowledge of either Edgar Knight or time travel. If duplication or teleportation reared their ugly heads, only TenBrink and O’Bannon would know what was happening.

  TenBrink studied the satellite feed on his tablet computer yet again. Nothing had changed. The video continued to show nine mercenaries, armed with assault rifles, patrolling the perimeter of the main house, leaving no doubt that Knight was inside. The satellite imagery was much more impressive than any available to civilians, with respect to both sharpness and magnification. The video footage could well have been shot from an overhanging tree, for all anyone could tell.

  “We now have four F-22 Raptors in the air,” said Joe Lazear. “They’re flying in formation as if on a training mission. In addition, six Apache helicopters are now airborne. Any or all of these aircraft can reach Knight within minutes. Before we proceed, though, I recommend we do further recon with a few drones. The satellite imagery is excellent, but it can’t get the angle to peer through windows. The drones can, from as far as a mile out. This will give us a better read on what’s going on inside.”

  TenBrink considered. “We can’t take that risk,” he said. “Knight has no idea we know where he is. We need to keep it that way.”

  “Understood,” said Major Lazear. “But there’s no way he’ll spot the drones. No sensors can detect their presence from a mile out.”

  “You don’t know Edgar Knight,” said TenBrink. “He has access to some very advanced tech. Just because we can’t do something doesn’t mean he can’t. We need to err on the side of paranoia.”

  “Can I ask who this guy is?” said Lazear. “And what this is all about? I was contacted by President Janney himself on this. Directly. So I know the priority of this mission is off the charts high.”

  “What did the president tell you?” asked O’Bannon.
<
br />   “Just that I was to follow Captain TenBrink’s and your orders to the letter. Without hesitation. That a man named Edgar Knight was the target, and needed to be taken alive, at all costs. That I was authorized to draw on unlimited military resources and to use any weapon in our arsenal, including missiles, if need be. Even on American soil. And that I could never tell anyone about this mission.”

  TenBrink winced. “Yeah, sorry about keeping you in the dark, but I really can’t add anything to what you’ve been told. But back to the task at hand, I won’t risk trying to get a look inside the farmhouse. So, based solely on what we’re seeing outside, Major, what are your recommendations?”

  Lazear paused in thought. “I can get a dozen snipers in range of the guards within twenty minutes,” he said. “We should be able to take them all out simultaneously. Then we can move in and show Knight the full extent of what he’s up against. Order him to basically come out with his hands raised.”

  “We can’t do that either,” said TenBrink. “It could backfire.”

  “Normally, I’d agree,” said the major. “A cornered rat could come out firing rather than surrender. But our force will be overwhelming. Staggering. And he doesn’t have any innocents to use as human shields. Imagine staring out a window at an Apache helicopter at point-blank range, with its massive machine gun pointed right at you. Not to mention multiple Hellfire missiles with thermobaric warheads. Now multiply this by six. Then add in four Raptors in formation roaring across your field of view for good measure.”

  Lazear paused to let this imagery sink in. “Trust me, no man can face even a single Apache helicopter at short range without being intimidated. And by intimidated, I mean without soiling his pants. I don’t care what tech Knight has, he won’t stand a chance. He’ll know that.”

  TenBrink sighed. This was true, as long as Knight wasn’t able to materialize grenades inside the helos when they were fifty-eight feet away. “Sorry, Major,” he said. “I know it’s hard to plan an Op when you haven’t been fully briefed. But this man could be more formidable than anything you’ve ever come up against. So we need to take him off the field first—then take out the men guarding the house.”

  “How would you propose we do that?” asked the major.

  “Since we can’t kill him,” said TenBrink, “we need to knock him out.”

  O’Bannon nodded. “We could hit the inside of that farmhouse with enough gas to knock out a herd of elephants. But we’d need to do it quickly, before Knight could prepare—or retaliate.”

  Lazear considered. “We have missiles that we can fire from drones, with a range of five miles. Missiles that are tiny, but also very fast, and very accurate. We could fire enough of these missiles to deliver a gas-canister payload through every window in the farmhouse, upstairs and down. He would have little warning, if any at all. If he did spot them streaking in across his farm, he’d think they were armed with explosives, so he wouldn’t be diving for a gas mask.”

  “You have a gas in mind that won’t kill him, no matter how much he inhales?” asked O’Bannon.

  “Yes.”

  “Perfect,” said TenBrink. “Let’s do it.”

  Lazear made a call to set things in motion. Several minutes later he paused his conversation and turned to his temporary commander. “We can commence the attack in an hour,” he said. “Is this acceptable?”

  TenBrink swiped his tablet to check on Vargas’s progress, bringing up another screen. Satellites showed the truck was now only ninety-five miles away. “Make it forty-five minutes,” he said to the major. An hour should still give them plenty of cushion, but TenBrink wanted to capture Knight before Vargas and his Q5 cargo got anywhere near him.

  “Roger that,” said Lazear. He spoke for another minute into the phone and then ended the connection. “Forty-five minutes will be tight,” he reported, “but they’ll do their best.”

  “Now that this is being readied,” said O’Bannon, “we need to plan out the rest. Assuming we knock out Knight and whoever else is inside that farmhouse, we’ll still need to go in and get him. Which means taking out the nine men outside. And they’ll be diving for cover the moment the missiles hit, so snipers won’t work.”

  “What about moving in from the ground?” said TenBrink.

  Lazear shook his head. “This farm is mostly open space.” He consulted his tablet once again. “We’d have little cover on any approach,” he continued. “A few silos, some large tractors, a storage shed, and a few large mounds of what Google tells me are harvested Sugar Beets.”

  “Lack of cover isn’t our only problem,” said O’Bannon. “Who knows what landmines Knight has in store for us? Including actual, literal, landmines.” He turned to the major. “I say we use the intimidation strategy you wanted to use on Knight. Give his men a close encounter with a half-dozen angry Apaches and see if they don’t want to surrender.”

  “Agreed,” said TenBrink.

  “Good,” said Joe Lazear. “Looks like we have a plan.”

  “Almost,” said TenBrink wearily, imagining Knight or one of his mercs inside a kettle, able to send in unlimited reinforcements. “We have to alert everyone involved that if they see two or more hostiles suddenly seem to appear from out of nowhere, who look identical, they need to sound an alarm. If this happens, we’ll need to call an immediate retreat and hit that farmhouse with everything we have.”

  “Two or more hostiles who look identical?” repeated Lazear in disbelief. “Who appear out of nowhere? Are you serious?”

  “Just make this clear to our forces!” snapped TenBrink. “No matter how crazy it sounds. Just make sure if this happens we reduce that farmhouse to ash.”

  “Roger that,” said the major, declining to question the order further. “I’m sure you’re aware that if it comes to this, we’ll have failed to take Knight alive.”

  “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to this, then,” said TenBrink. “But we have to be—”

  He stopped in mid-sentence. A screaming whistling noise was growing in pitch and intensity with shocking speed, causing his breath to catch in his throat and his heart to accelerate, even before he fully comprehended what he was hearing. The sound created a visceral dread that he had never felt outside of his worst nightmares.

  Suddenly, TenBrink realized what it was. He had never heard a low-altitude missile streak through the sky above him at almost a thousand miles per hour, but he knew instinctively that this is what he was hearing now.

  He glanced at his tablet computer just in time to see multiple missiles converge on the farmhouse. Not small missiles with gas warheads, but full-scale missiles used in war zones. The farmhouse erupted into a towering fireball, and the mercs patrolling outside burst into flame and then disintegrated an instant later as the heat spread. At the same time this scene was playing on his tablet, TenBrink could see and hear the aftermath of the strike himself, even four miles away from it.

  “What the hell happened?” he screamed. “Who fired on that farmhouse?”

  “It wasn’t us!” shouted Lazear a few seconds later, listening to his comm and consulting his tablet. “All of our birds still have their full missile compliments.”

  “Who could it be, then?” demanded TenBrink. “And how did they—”

  “Incoming!” interrupted Lazear, shrieking this warning to everyone in the large clearing. “One missile, tracking this way! Run!” he added, taking his own advice.

  Everyone began sprinting to safety, but the warning had come too late. The missile struck on the northernmost border of the staging area, where most of the special forces soldiers were congregated. The explosion and fire wiped out a dozen of them and wounded and disfigured a dozen more, turning the tranquil clearing into a raging hell.

  O’Bannon, TenBrink, and Lazear had been lucky enough to be on the southernmost border of the clearing, and escaped with only hearing loss and the equivalent of severe sunburns from the heat.

  “No other missiles detected!” shouted Lazear. “We’re
working to learn their origin and how they slipped past our defenses. Medical personnel are being flown here now.”

  TenBrink heard these shouted words, but only just, as his ears wouldn’t stop ringing.

  How had this happened? Who could be responsible? It had to have been someone who wanted Knight dead, and who had also known about their Op, as evidenced by the last missile to fall.

  If there was a new player in the game, TenBrink needed to figure out who this might be. And he needed to figure it out in a hurry.

  63

  Hank Vargas noted the incoming call from Tom TenBrink with satisfaction. This could only be good news. TenBrink knew the cab was bugged, and would never call unless he had Knight tied up like a rodeo steer.

  “Vargas here,” he answered cheerfully.

  “Knight is dead!” shouted TenBrink, just short of hysterical. The sound of incoming helicopters and total pandemonium could be heard in the background. “Someone took out the farmhouse with multiple missiles. They also sent one to hit us at the staging area.”

  Vargas’s eyes widened. What the hell! He struggled for breath, as if he had just been sucker punched in the gut.

  He needed to pull over and find out how this had happened.

  A sniper round streaked in from a bluff overlooking the road, punching two holes the size of nickels in the cab’s side windows, the second a foot in front of Vargas’s head. If he hadn’t just hit the brakes to begin pulling over, the second hole would have been drilled through his ears.

  Vargas ducked down as two more bullets whistled through the cab, one missing, and one grazing his shoulder. A moment later the large tire on the passenger’s side of the cab erupted into rubber shrapnel, creating a heart-stopping explosion of sound, and Vargas slammed on the brakes, wrestling the lilting and unstable vehicle to a stop, the trailer fishtailing across three lanes.

  “I’m under fire!” he yelled at a phone that was no longer in his hand. Not waiting for a response, he opened the door and launched himself to the road, keeping the trailer between himself and the shooter.