Nelson Demille - [John Corey 2]

by Lions Game(Lit)

  Paul Grey continued, "Here you see I've set up a generic fighter-bomber cockpit, complete with rudder pedals, throttles, control stick, bomb release triggers, and so forth. Since you have no experience with fighter craft, you won't be able to fly this thing, but you can experience a bomb run just by putting on the stereoscopic helmet while I fly."

  Asad Khalil looked at the elaborate paraphernalia around him, then said, "Yes, we have similar capabilities in our Air Force."

  "I know you do. But the software that has recently been developed is years ahead of existing software. Let's sit in front of the monitors, and I'll give you a quick look before we move on to virtual reality."

  They moved back to the other side of the room, and Paul Grey indicated one of the two leather swivel chairs with a • console between them, and a keyboard in front of each chair. Khalil sat.

  Paul Grey, still standing, said, "These are seats from an old F-lll that I put swivel legs on. Just to get us in the spirit."

  "Not very comfortable."

  "No. They're not. I once flew—I've flown long distances in those seats. Can I hang your jacket?"

  "No, thank you. I am not accustomed to the air conditioning."

  "You may want to take your sunglasses off when I dim the room."

  "Yes."

  Paul Grey sat in the aircraft seat beside Khalil and picked up a remote control from the console, hit two buttons, and the lights dimmed as heavy blackout curtains drew closed over the large windows. Khalil removed his sunglasses. They sat silently in the darkness for a second, watching the lights of the electronics around them.

  The image screen brightened and showed the cockpit and windshield of an advanced jet attack fighter. Paul Grey said, "This is the cockpit of the F-16, but several other aircraft can be used in this simulation. You have some of these aircraft in your armory. The first simulation that I'll show you is of an aerial toss-bombing mission. Fighter pilots who spend ten or fifteen hours with this relatively inexpensive software are that many hours ahead of a pilot who goes cold into a flight training program. This can save millions of dollars per pilot."

  The view through the windshield of the simulated cockpit suddenly changed from blue sky to a green horizon. Paul Grey said, "Now, I'm just using this joystick with a few additional controls and the keyboard, but the software can be interfaced with the actual controls of most modern American attack aircraft which are placed in a virtual reality ground simulator, which we'll see later."

  "This is very interesting."

  Paul Grey said, "Now, the targets programmed into the software are mostly imaginary targets—generic stuff—bridges, airfields, anti-aircraft emplacements, and missile sites—they shoot back at you—" He laughed, and continued, "But I have some real targets pre-programmed in, plus other real targets can be programmed if there's some aerial recon, or satellite shots of it."

  "I understand."

  "Good. Let's take out a bridge."

  The view through the computer-generated windshield changed from a featureless horizon to computer-generated hills and valleys, through which a river flowed. In the distance, coming up fast, was a bridge on which was a simulated column of moving tanks and trucks.

  Paul Grey said, "Hold on." The horizon disappeared and turned to blue sky as the simulated jet climbed into the air. A radar screen in the cockpit now filled the right-hand viewing screen, and Grey said in a rapid tone of voice,

  "This is what the pilot would be paying close attention to at this point. See the radar image of the bridge? The computer has completely isolated it from the background clutter. See the crosshairs? Right on. Release—one, two, three, four—"

  Now the screen in front of Khalil showed a close-up overhead view of the simulated bridge with the simulated armored column crossing it. Four huge explosions, complete with deafening sound, erupted from the speakers as the bridge and the vehicles disintegrated into a fiery ball. The bridge began to collapse, and a few vehicles fell off the structure, then the simulation froze. Paul Grey said, "That's as much blood and guts as I wanted to program into the show. I don't want to be accused of loving this stuff."

  "But it must give you some enjoyment."

  Paul Grey did not reply.

  The screen went blank and the room was dark.

  Both men sat in the darkness awhile, then Grey said, "Most of the programs don't show such graphic detail. Most just give the pilot his bomb score and the results of the damage. In fact, Colonel, I don't enjoy war."

  "I didn't mean to be offensive."

  The lights brightened slightly, and Paul Grey turned his head toward his guest. He said, "May I see some sort of credentials?"

  "Of course. But let's first move to the virtual reality seats, and destroy a real target with women and children. Perhaps . . . well, do you have, for instance, a Libyan target? Specifically, Al Azziziyah?"

  Paul Grey stood and took a deep breath. "Who the hell are you?"

  Asad Khalil stood also, his plastic water bottle in one hand, his other hand in the pocket of his suit jacket. "I am—as God said to Moses—who I am. I am who I am. What a remarkable response to a stupid question. Who else could it have been, but God? But I suppose Moses was nervous, not stupid. A nervous man says, 'Who are you?' when what he really means is one of two things—I hope you are who I think you are, or I hope you are not who I think you are. So, who do you think I am, if not Colonel Itzak Hurok of the Israeli Embassy?"

  Paul Grey did not reply.

  "I'll give you a hint. Look at me without my sunglasses. Picture me without the mustache. Who am I?"

  Paul Grey shook his head.

  "Don't pretend to be stupid, Captain. You know who I am."

  Again, Paul Grey shook his head, but this time took a step back from his visitor, focusing on Khalil's hand in his pocket. Asad Khalil said, "Our lives crossed once, on the fifteenth of April, in nineteen eighty-six. You were a lieutenant piloting an F-111 attack aircraft out of Lakenheath Airbase, call sign Elton thirty-eight. I was a boy of sixteen, who lived a pleasant life with my mother, two brothers, and two sisters in the place called Al Azziziyah. They all died that night. So, that's who I am. Now, why do you think I am here?"

  Paul Grey cleared his throat and said, "If you are a military man, you understand war, and you understand that orders must be obeyed—"

  "Shut up. I am not a military man, but I am an Islamic freedom fighter. In fact, it was you and your fellow murderers who made me what I am. And now, I have arrived at your beautiful home to avenge the poor martyrs of Al Azziziyah, and all of Libya." Khalil pulled the pistol out of his pocket and pointed it at Paul Grey.

  Paul Grey's eyes darted around the room, as though he were looking for an escape.

  Khalil said to him, "Look at me, Captain Paul Grey. Look at me. I am reality. Not your stupid, bloodless virtual reality. I am flesh-and-blood reality. I shoot back."

  Paul Grey's eyes went back to Asad Khalil.

  Khalil said, "My name is Asad Khalil, and you can take that to hell with you."

  "Look . . . Mr. Khalil—" He stared at Khalil and recognition dawned in his eyes.

  Khalil said, "Yes, I am that Asad Khalil, who arrived on Flight One-Seven-Five. The man who your government is looking for. They should have looked here, or at the home of the late General Waycliff and his late wife."

  "Oh, my God . . ."

  "Or the home of Mr. Satherwaite, who I will visit next, or Mr. Wiggins, or Mr. McCoy, or Colonel Callum. But I'm happy to see that neither you nor they have reached any such conclusions."

  "How did you know . . . ?"

  "All secrets are for sale. Your compatriots in Washington betrayed you all for money."

  "No."

  "No? Then perhaps it was the late Colonel Hambrecht, your squadron mate, who sold you to me."

  "No . . . did you . . . did you . . ."

  "Yes, I killed him. With an ax. You will not suffer such physical pain as he did—just mental pain, as you stand there and contemplate your sins and
your punishment."

  Paul Grey did not reply.

  Asad Khalil said, "Your knees are shaking, Captain. You can release your bladder if you wish. I won't be offended."

  Paul Grey drew a deep breath and said, "Look, your information was wrong. I wasn't on that mission. I—"

  "Oh. Then forgive me. I'll be leaving." He smiled, then tipped his bottle of water, and let it pour on the carpet.

  Paul Grey focused on the water splashing on the floor, then looked back at Asad Khalil, and an expression of puzzlement crossed his face.

  Khalil had the Glock close to his body, the muzzle pushed into the neck of the plastic bottle.

  Paul Grey saw the bottom of the bottle pointing toward him, then saw that Khalil held the gun behind it, and he understood what that meant. He threw out his hands in a protective gesture. "No!"

  Khalil fired a single shot through the bottle, hitting Paul Grey in the abdomen.

  Grey doubled over and stumbled backwards until he sank to his knees. He grabbed his abdomen with both hands, trying to stem the flow of blood, then looked down and saw the blood seeping between his fingers. He looked up at Khalil, who was walking toward him. "Stop . . . no . . ."

  Khalil aimed the Glock with the contrived silencer and said, "I have no more time for you. You don't have the brains you were born with." He fired a single shot into Paul Grey's forehead, blowing his brains out the back of his skull. Khalil turned before Paul Grey hit the floor and retrieved the two shell casings as he heard the body fall on the carpet.

  Khalil then went to an open safe sitting between two of the viewing screens. Inside, he found a stack of computer disks, which he put into his black bag, then extracted the disk from the computer that Paul Grey had been using. He said, "Thank you, Mr. Grey, for the demonstration. But war is not a video game in my country."

  He looked around the room and found Paul Grey's appointment book on his desk. It was opened to that day, and the notation said, "Col. H.—9:30." He flipped to April 15 and read, "Conf. call—Squadron—A.M." He closed the appointment book and left it on the desk. Let the police wonder who this Colonel H. is, and let them think this mysterious colonel stole some military secrets from his victim.

  Asad Khalil flipped through the Rolodex and extracted the cards for the remaining squadron members—Callum, McCoy, Satherwaite, and Wiggins. On each card were addresses, telephone numbers, and notations about wives and children.

  Khalil also took the card of General Terrance and Mrs. Gail Waycliff, formerly of Washington, D.C., now residing in hell.

  He also found the card for Steven Cox, and saw that it was marked in red letters, K.I.A., which he knew to mean killed in action. There was on the card the name of a woman, "Linda," and the notation "Remarried Charles Dwyer," followed by an address and telephone number.

  The card for William Hambrecht had an address in England that was crossed out and replaced by an address in a place called Ann Arbor, Michigan, and the notation "Dec'd," followed by the date that Khalil had killed him. There was another woman's name, "Rose," and the names of two more females and a male with the word "Children."

  Asad Khalil put all the cards in his pocket, thinking he could make use of this information someday. He was pleased that Paul Grey was such a meticulous record keeper.

  Asad Khalil put his plastic bottle under his arm and held his pistol in his other hand. He slung his black bag over his shoulder and opened the sliding door. He could hear a vacuum cleaner running somewhere. He closed the door and followed the sound.

  He found the cleaning woman in the living room, her back to him, and she did not hear him as he stepped up behind her. The vacuum cleaner was very loud, and there was also music playing somewhere, so he didn't bother with the plastic bottle, but simply put the pistol close to the back of her neck as she pushed and pulled the vacuum cleaner. He now heard that she was singing as she worked. He pulled the trigger, and she stumbled forward, then fell on the carpet beside the overturned vacuum cleaner.

  Khalil put the Glock in his pocket, placed the bottle in his bag, righted the vacuum cleaner but left it running, and recovered the shell casing. He found his way to the kitchen, then out the back door.

  He put on his sunglasses and retraced his route past the swimming pool, out of the screened enclosure, down the shrub-constricted path to the open area of the hangar. He noticed that the aircraft he'd arrived in was now pointing back to the taxiway.

  He did not see his pilot and went quickly to the hangar. He looked inside, but did not see her there, then heard talking coming from the loft overhead.

  He went toward the staircase, then realized the talking was coming from a television or radio. He had forgotten the woman's name, so he called up, "Hello! Hello!"

  The talking stopped, and Stacy Moll leaned over the half wall of the loft and looked down. "All done?"

  "All done."

  "Be right down." She disappeared, then reappeared on the staircase and came down to the hangar floor. She said, "Ready to roll?"

  "Yes. Ready."

  She walked out of the hangar, and he followed. She said, "You can eat off the floor in that hangar. This guy is an anal retentive. Maybe he's gay. You think he's gay?"

  "Excuse me?"

  "Never mind." She walked to the passenger side of the Piper, and he followed. She asked, "Did he buy the vases?"

  "Yes, he did."

  "Great. Hey, I wanted to see them. He buy them all?"

  "Yes, he did."

  "Too bad. I mean, good for you. You get your price?"

  "I did."

  "Great." She scrambled up on the wing and reached down for his bag, which Khalil handed her. She said, "Doesn't feel much lighter."

  "He gave me some bottles of water for the trip back."

  She opened the side door and put the bag in the rear and said, "I hope he gave you cash, too."

  "Of course."

  She got into the aircraft, then slid across to the left seat. Khalil followed her, sat in the right seat of the small cockpit, then buckled himself in. Even with the door still open, it was very hot in the cockpit, and Khalil felt sweat forming on his face.

  She started the engine, taxied off the apron, and turned right on the taxiway. She put the headset on and motioned for Khalil to do the same.

  He didn't want to listen to this woman any longer, but he did as she instructed. Her voice came through the earphones and she said, "I took a Coke and put a buck in the fridge. You tell him?"

  "I did."

  "Protocol. You understand? Lots of protocol in the flying game. You can borrow what you need without asking, but you have to leave a note. You can take a beer or a Coke, but you have to leave a buck. What does this guy Grey do for a living?"

  "Nothing."

  "Where'd he get his money?"

  "It is not my business to ask."

  "Yeah. Me neither."

  They continued taxiing out to the airfield, and when they reached it, Stacy Moll glanced up at the wind sock, then taxied to the end of Runway Twenty-three. She then reached across Asad Khalil and closed and locked the door.

  She made a broadcast to other aircraft, visually checked the skies around her, then ran up the engine. She released the brake, and they rolled down the runway.

  The Piper lifted off and at five hundred feet, she began to turn to the north, back toward Craig Municipal Airport in Jacksonville.

  They stayed low for the first few minutes, then resumed a climb. The Piper settled into a cruise altitude of thirty-five hundred feet at one hundred forty knots. Stacy Moll said, "Flight time to Craig, thirty-eight more minutes."

  Khalil didn't reply.

  They flew on in silence awhile, then she asked, "Where you headed after this?"

  "I have an early afternoon flight to Washington, then back to Athens."

  "You came all the way here just for this?"

  "Yes."

  "Jeez. I hope it was worth it."

  "It was."

  "Maybe I should get into the Gre
ek vase business."

  "There is some risk involved."

  "Yeah? Oh, like—like, these vases aren't supposed to leave your country."

  "It's best if you discussed this flight with no one. I have said too much already."

  "Mum's the word."

  "Excuse me?"

  "My lips are sealed."

  "Yes. Good. I will be back in a week. I would like to engage your services once again."

  "No problem. Next time, stay awhile, and we can have a drink."

  "That would be pleasant."

  They flew in silence for the next ten minutes, then she said, "Next time, just call from the airport, and someone will pick you up. You don't have to take a taxi."

  "Thank you."

  "In fact, if you want, I can drive you back to the airport."

  "That's very kind of you."

  "No problem." She said, "Just fax or call a day or two before you come, and I'll be sure I'm available. Or make the reservation when we get back to the office."

  "I will do that."

  "Good. Here's my card." She took a card out of her breast pocket and gave it to him.

  She made conversation with her passenger as they flew, and he made appropriate responses.

  As they began their descent, he asked her, "Did you make contact with your friend at Spruce Creek?"

  "Well . . . I thought about calling him and telling him I was a couple of blocks away . . . but then I said to myself, Screw him. He doesn't deserve a call. Someday, I'll fly in low and drop a live alligator in his pool." She laughed. "I know a guy who did that once to his ex-girlfriend, but the gator hit the roof and died on impact. Waste of a good gator."