by Tony Bulmer
As the hot bullets burned past her, Kellerman felt her finger tightening instinctively against the trigger. She held back. Wait. Buchanan had told her to follow his lead. But maybe he was hit? Cut down in the opening salvo? What then?
Another blast of gunfire—then another.
Kellerman dipped her head back
instinctively, but held her M16 high and ready. Another second—give it another second.
More dark figures sliding down the ladder, moving so fast you could hardly see them. Kellerman swallowed. What the hell was Buchanan
waiting for, it had to be now, or they would be overrun for sure.
She held back, standing frozen in the darkened door way. They had to see her. Surely they had to see her?
37
Oahu, Hawaii As she stepped out of the shadows, Calista Johnston’s face looked tight and thin. Her black pitiless eyes licked over Karyn’s body, glowing with a wild and unspeakable passion. Beside her, looming in the darkness, the unmistakable figure of Enrique the personal assistant. He slouched forward and leaned in against the doorway, examining Karyn from close-‐quarters. His breath wafted, thick with the smell of cigarettes and booze. He stared heavy lidded, his narrow gigolo lips undulating with lust. “You look real-‐nice, in your cute little dress,” he said at last. “That number you’re wearing standard-‐government issue?”
Karyn gave him a thin look.
“You must excuse Enrique, manners are not his strong point,” said Calista Johnston. She stepped forward. “It appears you are lost Ms. Kane. Were you looking for something?”
“A friend of mine actually.”
“A friend?” said Calista Johnston, her thin-‐ penciled eyebrows rising high. “We like friends, don’t we Enrique?”
Enrique gave a filthy chuckle. “Yeah, we like friends,” he drawled in a thick accent, his heavy eyelids fluttering upwards to reveal dilated pupils. He flipped a stick of gum into his mouth and began masticating lazily, like a sad-‐eyed dairy cow. “We like girlfriends best,” he said. “Ain’t that right Calista?”
Calista Johnston flashed her too perfect grin, her dark eyes roving once more across Karyn’s body. “I am not sure that Ms. Kane wants to be our friend, do you Ms. Kane?”
“It’s a little soon after your husband’s death to be making new friends, don’t you think Calista?”
Calista Johnston pouted. “How predictably jejune of you Ms. Kane. I had high hopes that we might have an altogether more stimulating relationship. Sadly, I can see you are one of those annoyingly assiduous women, who think more of their so-‐called career than they do almost anything else. I must say I am disappointed my dear.”
“Brad Verner,” said Karyn flatly.
Calista Johnston raised her chin
imperiously. “Not a name I am familiar with my dear. Is that the friend you are looking for? I don’t remember seeing his name on the guest list, do you Enrique?”
Enrique masticated gum and gave a happy sneer. “Not on the guest list,” he said, by way of confirmation.
“So, there we have it, ” said Calista Johnston brightly, “If your friend isn’t on the guest list, he cannot possibly be here. You will have to give him a call. It really is too bad my dear.” Calista Johnston looked faux pouty and added, “A most unfortunate state of affairs—your superiors at the Department of Justice working you as hard as they do. Don’t you ever get any time off?”
The security of the United States comes first,” said Karyn.
Again Calista Johnston’s eyebrows rose northwards. “One would imagine that the security of the United States could take care of itself. So
many little people working in little ways like an army of termites chewing their way through a big idea. It is a pity that you should be involved in such a thankless endeavor Ms. Kane. Perhaps you should think of your future and consider a move to the private sector. I am sure you would find the change of scene most rewarding. Wouldn’t you agree Enrique?”
Enrique gave Karyn a crooked smirk, and nodded slowly, as he masticated his gum open-‐ mouthed. “Rewarding,” he parroted. “Very rewarding, for a beautiful lady such as this.”
Karyn looked into his drug-‐fuelled eyes and almost smiled, thinking how it would feel to take out this unpleasant little creep permanently. Three quick moves and he would be dead. She had killed with fewer moves. But in this case the extra strikes would be an indulgence, a treat to herself for having to swallow down his close-‐quarters bullshit. Unfortunately, such a play would jeopardize the strictly limited ground her investigations had gained thus far. Big picture thinking could be a real drag sometimes. But, the implications of this ugly little approach were filtering in hard and fast now. Calista Johnston and her creepy little familiar were hooked into the very highest echelons of the Deng Tao conspiracy. What’s more, they were sounding her out and not just for a hot-‐tub hula-‐hula session. They wanted her to buy in to the big idea and step aboard the Deng Tao express to a happier-‐clappier future. As Karyn weighed the implications, she sensed peripheral movement—white-‐jacketed stewards closing in from all angles.
“Tell me,” asked Karyn. “What is it like working in the private sector?”
The white-‐jacketed stewards were with them now, standing around her in a semi-‐circle, with hard expressionless faces.
“We should go and see Mr. Tao. Both he and his wife have been looking forward to your arrival Ms. Kane. I know they are most anxious to know the details of your investigations.” Calista Johnston flashed her over-‐wide smile. Then slowly, languidly, she reached out a cigarette from her silver case. She tapped the cigarette three times and inserted it into her mouth. Enrique moved quickly to light it for her. Calista Johnston took a long, deep, luxuriant pull and exhaled. Smoke curled into the air. She held the cigarette high, a large diamond bracelet coiling against her forearm, and said brightly, “You will come now Ms. Kane. Mr. Tao is waiting.” The white-‐jacketed flunkies closed in, as though they were about to grab Karyn. But, Calista Johnston sucked a quick breath of
disapproval, and they held back, like liveried attack dogs on a short-‐leash reprimand. “That won’t be necessary,” she said. “Ms. Kane is a friend, aren’t you Ms. Kane?”
38
The Pacific The gunfire was coming heavy now. A sheet of suppressive fire so dense, Kellerman dipped back behind the doorframe, as bullets filled the air. Suddenly, she heard the unmistakable roar of an M16 letting rip on full-‐auto. Kellerman dipped out into the bullet filled corridor and opened up with short bursts. The muzzle flash of her weapon cut through the darkness, casting hellish shadows with each trigger pull. Out in the corridor, pandemonium reined, shouts, screams and the heavy rattle of return fire. Kellerman remained calm, even though she wanted roar out like a raging beast. The power of her weapon almost took her off her feet. She compensated, took control, every taunt and bullying instruction from the gunnery sergeant at the Academy tumbling
chaotically through her head, on a tidal wave of adrenalin. Kellerman breathed through the recoil, let the muzzle of her weapon angle down to compensate for barrel climb. She let loose another long burst. The magazine ran dry too quickly, hot smoke running out of the breech.
Kellerman blinked, ran her tongue across her dry lips. And fell to a half crouch, peering down the corridor at the dark twisted shapes that perhaps used to be human. The gun smoke hung in a pall, like graveyard mist. Kellerman swallowed with difficulty, her heart beating out of control. It took her several long seconds to regain her composure, and by that time the dark shape of
Buchanan was lumbering past her at speed, heading to the watertight doors. He shouted something, but the cacophony of gunfire still reverberated in her ears and she couldn’t make sense of a word he said.
Reload—she had to reload. Kellerman popped the release on her weapon and the empty magazine rattled to the floor, falling amongst the swirling mound of hot brass cartridge cases. She reached into the pocket of her jacket, drew out a fresh magazine and found to her horror that her hands were shaking uncontrollably. What the hell was going on? She tried to drive the fresh magazine into her weapon, but it just wouldn’t slide home. She tried again, fumbled and the magazine fell onto the dark floor. She sank to her knees, scrabbling around in the filth of battle, searching desperately for the lost ammo. As precious seconds span away never to return, she finally located the lost magazine, her filthy fingers scrabbling it up and driving it home in the receiver, with a reassuring click of finality.
Rising shakily to her feet Kellerman was about to step into the corridor, when an explosive roar tore past her just inches from her face. Almost instantaneously, there was a blinding flash and she was lifted from her feet and thrown backwards across the room by the force of a concussive pressure wave.
An RPG—it just had to be.
As Kellerman sailed through the air, the quick fire implications of the explosion rushed through her mind. Buchanan. The bastards had got Buchanan. He had been waiting for her by the open hatch. Waiting while she fumbled to reload her
weapon. In the confined corridor the blast must have hit him full force. If only she hadn‘t fumbled that damn magazine. They would both be home and clear by now; scrambling up through the service hatch and away. Instead, they had failed. The last chance of beating the enemy had been lost, and it was all her fault. Her carelessness and lack of experience had sealed the fate of everyone on board. Their last chance of salvation was gone. They had failed in their mission. Buchanan had been right all along—she didn’t have the guts for a life at sea.
The impact, when it came was hard and instantaneous, a black void sweeping down on the whole world. No time to think of her family or anything more, just a final horrifying blanket of failure sweeping down—covering everything.
39
Washington DC It had been a busy morning in the West Wing of the White House. Vice President Dick Hanssen had chaired nine meetings and it was barely 10.30am. Right now, there were so many legislative and procedural plates spinning, that Deputy Chief of Staff Daniel Garavito was literally tearing his hair out. At least he would have been, if he hadn’t torn it out already. With the National Security Council Principals meeting and the upcoming G20 conference in Los Angeles, falling so close together, the workload of the VP’s office had doubled, trebled, then quadrupled, creating a tidal wave of bad-‐mojo five-‐stories high. It seemed the whole world was in crisis, one bullshit problem after another, and every one of them crash-‐landing right on top of his desk. Garavito was so frickin’ stressed, he was popping seven kinds of meds at least, just so as he could fend of the impending heart attack he knew was coming—there was the Celexa, Luvox, Vanatrip, Xanax, Tinzeparin, Lipitor—and a bunch of others he couldn’t even remember the names of. One day soon, his goddamn chest would explode all over his desk and the paramedics would ship him out the service door on a chrome metal gurney. It was coming. He could see it now, clear as the seven-‐ hundred-‐fifty-‐three emails flashing as unread in his virtual in tray.
Running high on stress and caffeine, Garavito paced the front office, barking instructions at junior staffers, and firefighting incoming calls
from the myriad politicos and special interest groups who were looking to bend the Vice President’s ear. Today, more than any other, the office was inundated by these sob-‐story demands. But that wasn’t the worst of things, not by a long shot; every snake-‐bellied-‐lizard-‐smiling reptile in the administration had been slithering through the door, to make their presence felt. The President was going out of town for a few days, and that meant Vice President Dick Hanssen would be, for the next few days at least, the man in Washington.
Sluicing down hot, sweet black coffee with his meds, Garavito had seen them all this
morning—the Deputy National Security Advisor, Raymond Beck, The Director of Legislative Affairs, Christine Wagner, Domestic Policy Advisor, Paul Kearney, and the Chief Economist and Economic Policy Advisor, Alexander Ridgeway. Next up was Alan Borkin Deputy Director of the FBI. Borkin was already waiting in the transition area, sitting erect in one of the leather armchairs and taking in every detail in the office, like he was working a
prosecution. Borkin made Garavito feel uneasy. The squat little Fed had a creepy stare. Garavito tried to avoid Borkin’s relentless gaze, to no avail. Every time he looked around, the Deputy Director’s mean little button eyes were locked on, like he was going to get up out of his chair at any minute and charge across the office. Borkin looked nasty and aggressive, like some wide-‐shouldered football goon, squeezed inside a too tight suit. Garavito shot Borkin an embarrassed smile, and said, “We won’t be long now Mr. Borkin the Vice President will see you next.”
Borkin scowled, made some kind of low-‐ guttural curse and rose to his feet. He wasn’t a tall man, but he was big—over-‐proportioned for his size, one might say. Borkin could see at once that this hard charging veteran of Federal law enforcement had swallowed down just as much as he was prepared to take. He had waited and waited and waited some more, and now—well, he was through waiting. He was moving in on his prey, like an attacking rhino.
Garavito danced forwards, waving his hands in frantic supplication. It was at times like these that the fine art of diplomacy came into its own—No matter how desperate the political situation might be there was virtually no situation that could not be finessed.
Unfortunately Borkin wasn’t going to be finessed.
Far from it.
Borkin headed towards the Vice President’s door with quick, determined steps, barging past anyone who crossed his path.
Still waving his hands, like an NBA guard, Garavito held his post in front of the Vice
Presidential office. “You cannot just barge in on the Vice President, he is engaged in work of national importance.”
“Get out of my way you goddamn
pansy,” growled Borkin nastily.
Garavito blanched, his eyes popping wide, finally he said, “Well goodness me, I never heard anything quite so distasteful.”
Borkin narrowed his eyes. “I bet you didn’t, you prancing-‐mary. Now just so as we are clear I have been waiting to see that boss of yours for as
close to forty-‐five minutes as I am prepared to wait for any man, so step out of my way, and make it smart, or I am liable to get all unpleasant. And you wouldn’t want that—would you now?”
Pinned back against the Vice President’s door, and rising on his toes, Garavito stared at Borkin for a long moment. He took a long, hard swallow and squeezed out a thin smile. Then, very slowly, he reached backwards and tapped on the heavy oak-‐paneled door. There was a long pause. Then, at last, from deep inside the office a voice sounded out. “Come.”
Borkin angled his thick neck upwards, giving Garavito a close-‐quarters snarl. Garavito inched the door open, twisting quickly out of the way, as the FBI’s Deputy Director thundered past.
The Vice President’s door slammed closed and the Deputy Director stood, squinting against the light from the big windows. Sitting back in his leather desk recliner, with his stocking feet riding high on his desk, Vice President Dick Hanssen looked like a man who had the world revolving in the palm of his hand. The VP shot Borkin a welcoming look and beckoned him over. “Have a seat Al, take the weight off your feet and have a cigar.”