by Kevin Tinto
A loud pop sounded near Jack’s position, and a rocket propelled grenade streaked skyward with a whoosh of propellant trailing behind. An instant later, the RPG struck the side of the helicopter’s fuselage inches below the main rotor. The explosion separated the rotor from the helicopter, which tumbled in flames toward the steep slope, flinging smoke and aircraft parts in every direction before impacting.
Jack took a moment to perform a quick self-check. It seemed he hadn’t broken any bones hurling himself over the boulder. Aside from rock rash and the pain associated with hitting rock and gravel, he was unharmed.
Hawar was working his way up the mountain from less than 200 meters below, a canvas gear bag over one shoulder and the RPG launcher on the other. As he moved toward Jack’s position, Jack stood gingerly and retrieved his backpack. He could have simply taken the chips out of the cameras, and left the pack, but after the shoot down, he had a sense he needed all the gear he had—and perhaps more if he were forced to stay out of sight for a period of days, even weeks.
Hawar hugged and kissed his sons, and Jack felt tempted to join the lovefest. Instead, he offered Hawar his sincerest thanks while the boys recounted their climb and discovery in Kurdish.
“The Turks will send aircraft, soldiers, and more helicopters very soon,” Hawar said, translating for Jack. “They will hunt for us without stopping because we shot down one of their helicopters.”
“I’m truly sorry for all this,” Jack said. “I had no intention of putting you in the way of the Turkish military.”
“We are all in danger, Mr. Jack.” Hawar pointed toward the west—the direction of Istanbul, where Jack was supposed to be picked up by the Cessna X after being smuggled back on to the tarmac at Istanbul airport. “I’m sorry, too, but we cannot take you back, Mr. Jack. Our only choice is to travel east. If you go west, you’ll never make it back by yourself. The Turks will set up many roadblocks and it won’t take long to find you.” Hawar paused long enough for that to sink in. “There is only on way for you to survive, God willing.” Hawar pointed toward the east. “The Persian border,” he said. “It is still Kurdistan. We have allies there. The Turks won’t find us once we cross the border.”
Iran…. Jack knew the border was only a few kilometers from Ararat. They could be across in twelve hours or less on foot.
“How long before this area is crawling with Turkish military?”
“Six hours—perhaps less.”
“How dangerous is Iran?”
Hawar shrugged. “Normally—I would say not so much, but you are a very valuable and profitable target, my friend. Even Kurds could not turn down so much lira, if offered. The Iranians—they will kill us on sight, should we be caught out in the open.” Hawar glanced off to the east. “God will decide, if we are too live—or die.” Hawar spun, and begun leading them down to the cavern, where they’d retrieve the horses, and make for the Iranian border.
Jack hesitated for a moment, before falling in behind. He had a chilling sensation, that God had already decided, and Jack was likely to end up like David Samuelson, just another unmarked grave, this one out in the middle of the Iranian badlands
Chapter 43
Marko studied the forest floor outside the cavern, checking for movement, but also waiting for full-on darkness to settle over the canyon so he could leave for what he’d begun to call his daily ‘constitutional.’ In common parlance, he had ‘to go’ and was running out of time if he wanted today’s call of nature to take place outside the cavern. The military Meals Ready to Eat were getting to his stomach and his bowels.
Friggin’ kill for a veggie burrito.
He winced at the sharp salivary reaction the image provoked. And the consequent urge to go to the bathroom.
A reminder to get the ladder ready to go—every second counted today. Marko shoved the aluminum ladder, positioning it right up to the cavern entrance. He knew he should cool his heels for at least another thirty minutes, make sure it was dark, but that wasn’t happening tonight.
Marko slid the ladder over the sandstone, seating the ladder in the same depressions created the first time he decided to do an ‘against the rules’ walkabout. He grabbed his toilet kit and, instead of dashing to an expedient but environmentally-correct ‘spot,’ he stretched and looked up at the stars. Without the crushing claustrophobic weight he suffered inside the damp cavern, the need to immediately relieve himself dissipated—temporarily, at least.
He spread his arms out wide, opened his mouth, and was tempted to cut loose a monster-sized Tarzan call—New Mexico-style.
Nope…gotta keep it together. So far, he hadn’t broken any bones, or been injured since the beginning of this debacle. No need to provide Leah additional motivation to use my bones as a stress-reliever.
Marko continued to stretch, drawing in deep breaths as he did. He swung his arms from side to side, then reached down diagonally, brushing the top of his boots with his fingertips—the good ol’ high school windmill toe-touch. He hated it then, dressed in gray shorts and the mandatory jock strap. But, damn, it felt good this evening. He continued on for another two minutes, then took care of his immediate business. But instead of dashing for the ladder, he stood away from the wall and studied the sandstone. Not all that safe to climb, but maybe some bouldering, just enough to get the blood moving, and strengthen his body a bit before heading back into the cavern.
I’ll be careful. After all, there’s no one within fifty miles in any direction.
No one within fifty miles—true. But he hadn’t considered three miles, directly overhead.
***
The General Atomics MQ-9 Reaper drone had been on station for three hours in a standard racetrack pattern at an altitude of fifteen-thousand feet AGL, using classified, infrared surveillance equipment designed to find, differentiate, and target a wide variety of heat-generating targets.
This particular Reaper, along with two more working the eastern side of the Gila National Forest, looked for human heat signatures in five one-hundred-square-mile areas with designations like Anvil, Buckshot, Cobalt, End-run, and Friction.
The Reaper operator had target hits three nights in a row at the same numbers. She rolled video and snapped infrared photos of the target, the video overlaid with the exact Global Positioning coordinates.
After the target disappeared, the operator was ordered to return the drone home to Creech Air Force Base, near Las Vegas, Nevada. The two men standing behind the operator high-fived. They’d identified the target, against long odds. Now, time to go operational.
Chapter 44
Paulson reduced throttle on the T-38 Talon and began a decent into the abandoned airfield. Everything looked just as he’d last seen it. The two Cessna 172s that sat on the tarmac, sat exactly where they’d been when he’d landed the Gulfstream weeks before. Luke’s hot-rodded Cessna, the one Derringer had flown when they’d hidden the Hafnium device, Paulson assumed, was still tucked away in the hanger.
After yesterday’s meeting with President Wheeler, he’d requisitioned a T-38 Talon from Andrews and told Teresa Simpson he intended to meet with Gordon, get a first-hand update on the Genesis Settlement. Although he had to refuel at Holloman, he had no intention of sitting through a long-winded briefing with Gordon. He needed a reason to overfly Luke Derringer’s airport, and the briefing provided him perfect cover. He didn’t want to alarm Teresa, so he’d kept the real reason to himself.
During his meeting with Wheeler, Paulson thought something had changed in the president’s attitude. While that should have been a positive step in their working relationship, the man’s sudden calm and almost cocky demeanor had set Paulson’s internal alarms off.
Something had changed. Something Paulson didn’t know about. And that was not good.
There was only one living person who knew enough to throw this whole apple cart under the bus. That was Luke Derringer. The old pilot had r
efused to leave his remote airfield and, frankly, Paulson figured the stubborn, but frail old man would die long before he gave up Marko’s location and their get-out-of-rendition-free card, the Hafnium warhead.
Besides, Wheeler knew well enough that a move against any of the Antarctic team, including Luke Derringer, would ‘release the dogs’ as Paulson had told Wheeler on numerous occasions. The dogs being the opposition politicians, who would still love to see Wheeler gonzo, despite the negative impact that would have on national security. While not quite an airtight security plan, Paulson allowed Derringer to stay at the airport, instead of sequestering the near centenarian behind military barbwire.
Paulson overflew Luke’s airstrip at pattern altitude and on the downwind, checking to make sure some desert dirt-bag hadn’t parked a rusted Buick, or anything else for that matter, on the centerline of the runway. The wind direction and approximate speed were exactly what he expected.
Paulson rolled the T-38 gently on to the base leg then final, expecting at any time to see the old man limping out of the FBO, the wooden cane more for appearance than real support.
On short final, Paulson focused on his touchdown point and eased the stick on the T-38 back, walking the rear landing-gear wheels onto the pavement before allowing the nose wheel to settle on the centerline.
Five minutes later, he was parked in front of the FBO. The Talon was decidedly old-school, with much of the navigation done with an iPad strapped to his knee, so the shutdown was fast and easy.
The roar of the T-38 flyby and landing should have brought old Luke Derringer out of the FBO, but no joy. The breeze that helped grease the landing blew dust over the tarmac, magnifying how eerily quiet it was with the jet’s turbines spooled down.
Paulson deployed the air stair that allowed him to exit the T-38 without benefit of a standard fighter-jet style boarding ladder. He shielded his eyes from the blowing dust and walked over to the door leading into the FBO. He tried to turn the old brass door handle, but it wouldn’t budge. Locked up tight. He pounded on the door.
“Luke! You in there? It’s Paulson!”
Nothing but the sound of the wind blowing through wires that secured the radio aerials lining the roof of the FBO. Paulson tried looked through the window on the door. The seventy-year-old glass had the clarity of a vintage coke bottle after years of desert dust polishing.
He pounded on the door again, then hiked around to the back of the building. Luke had converted one of the rear offices into a living space. The door that provided Luke with entry into the living space rear door was unlocked and hanging open. Paulson scanned left and right. He had the impression that someone was watching him from behind. He studied the hangars and abandoned buildings: nothing out of the ordinary.
Paulson focused on the open door, evaluating the chances of getting shot by his own ally. The old pilot was hard of hearing. The likelihood Derringer would shoot first, and ask questions later was a given, if Paulson broke into the building.
Paulson cupped his mouth. Didn’t hurt to amplify. “Luke! You in here? It’s Al!”
No reply.
Paulson tip-toed in, blocking the door open. In case the old bastard opened up on him, he wanted a quick exit.
“Luke! It’s Paulson!”
Paulson turned the corner and peered down the hallway leading to the lounge and the living space. At the end of it, he peeked around the doorway into the living space, ready to bolt should he be met with a barrel.
No Luke Derringer.
Paulson tip-toed toward the lounge and the FBO kitchen.
“Luke!” he shouted.
He peeked around the corner and into the kitchen. What Paulson saw caused him to step back in shock. A man sat strapped in to a wooden office chair. Heavy-duty, black plastic zip ties secured his wrists to the armrests on the chair. His ankles were similarity strapped to the chair legs. The man’s chin rested against his chest.
The cause of death was obvious: blunt-force-trauma and blood loss, a lethal side-effect of extended torture. There was a tremendous amount of dried blood coating the body, so confirming the identity took more than a few moments. While the torture scene was horrifying, it was nothing compared to Paulson’s astonishment and disbelief when he realized the man wasn’t Luke Derringer.
It was Stan Fischer.
Fischer had been dressed in his standard Washington suit, still wearing his jacket. The plastic ties that restrained him to the chair had cut deep into the flesh, a testament to how agonizing the torture had been.
Paulson backed out of the kitchen and checked the hallway both directions, then walked to the counter located inside the lounge. He squatted down and searched around in the storage areas underneath the counter with his hands until he felt the butt of a handgun. He slid it out—one of Luke’s Glock 19s—keeping the barrel pointed away from his body. He dropped the clip out and took a look. Full load of fifteen. So Luke hadn’t fired the Glock.
Paulson shoved the magazine back into the handgun and checked that the safety was operating properly. If he needed to use the Glock, he didn’t want the trigger-safety to hinder him from unleashing fifteen rounds in rapid-fire succession. A simple pull of the trigger disengaged the safety. The Glock was operating perfectly.
He examined the lounge for clues to Fischer’s demise. It looked exactly the same as Paulson had seen it less than a month before—other than the horror scene in the kitchen. From the condition of the body, Paulson guessed that Fischer had been tortured and murdered hours prior. Maybe as long as a day before.
Paulson unlocked the front door to the FBO and examined the tarmac. The T-38 was parked exactly where he’d left it, canopy down and locked, no sign the airport was about to be stormed. He went back to the kitchen, standing just outside the doorway, careful to not contaminate the crime scene.
Had Fischer come to take Luke Derringer hostage, work him over for information on how to find the hidden Hafnium weapon? Had Luke turned the tables on him and tortured the younger man to death.
Hardly. It was Luke who had information about the location of the Iso-Hafnium nuclear device. Not Fischer.
Paulson couldn’t figure it. In fact, he was still having a hard time believing he’d found one of the President’s closest advisors strapped into a chair and tortured to death. Then again, Paulson had said many times that Wheeler had to keep Fischer because he knew where all the skeletons were buried.
True, except for one key point: Fischer had no idea where the Hafnium warhead was hidden.
Paulson walked into the FBO lounge and relocked the door, then wiped his prints off the door handle. When he exited out the rear doorway, he wiped any prints off the door where he’d pushed it open. He proceeded to searched the grounds of the airfield—no sign of Luke Derringer. Either he hadn’t been here, or, whoever tortured Fischer had taken him along. Granted, if a smart interrogator wanted to get information out of the old man, torture would be the last way to do it. Perhaps some black-op medical facility would work, where they could use a series of drugs. But normal torture could kill the old man before he had a chance to tell what he knew.
If this was Wheeler’s work, then Paulson’s intuition that something was off was correct—though Paulson had a hard time imagining what could have happened in the President’s world to force this particular outcome.
Paulson stopped. His head spun so he was looking directly at the hanger, where Luke’s personal Cessna should still be sitting inside. He jogged over and found the hanger door unlocked. When he pushed it open, Paulson was shocked to find an empty hanger. The Cessna was gone. They only person who’d fly that old bird would be Derringer himself.
It was starting to look like old Luke heard, or smelled a coming attack, and had flown himself out of danger—but to where? Paulson had given him a satellite phone. When he’d explained how to use it, old Luke glazed over. This technology was way too new for Luke Der
ringer, who didn’t know how to use a computer. Even so, if he’d flown to a public airport, he’d have tried to make a phone call. Paulson had stuffed the old man’s wallet full of business cards, with direct numbers both for him and for Karen.
It was a mystery, but with a silver lining. It was unlikely they’d gotten a hold of Luke Derringer. That meant the location of the Hafnium warhead should still be secure.
Paulson climbed back into the command seat in the T-38 and spun up the turbines. After dropping and locking the canopy down, he taxied to the end of the runway. Without a word on the radio to announce his intentions to any aircraft in the area, he jammed the throttles forward to take-off power.
There was no feeling in the world like pushing the throttles forward on the super-sonic T-38, but Al Paulson drew no pleasure from the experience today. It was time to dig out his war face.
Chapter 45
Karen, Al Paulson’s Executive Assistant, watched with interest as an overseas phone number lit up the display on her personal mobile phone. She recognized the country code as Turkey’s, which meant only one person could be calling: Jack Hobson.
She hit the receive button and put the phone to her ear. Before the caller could speak, she said: “Jack Hobson. Are you in trouble?”
“Karen. I can’t tell you how great it is to hear your voice.”
Jack sounded hoarse. He always sounded this way after safely delivering Paulson back down to the Base Camp of whatever godawful mountain they happened to be climbing. In addition to the climbing-induced hoarseness, she heard tension in Jack’s voice. Something she’d never heard, even on the bad Everest Expeditions. She immediately pulled a yellow pad down, plugged in her headset, and grabbed two pens.
“What’s going on?”
“My plan is blown here. We’ve run into trouble with Turkish Military. There’s no way I can get to any major city in western Turkey. In fact, I’m headed toward the Iranian border as we speak, along with my guide and his sons.”