The Omega Command

by Jon Land

  Blaine read the number listed on the white Princess phone into the receiver. It rang not thirty seconds later.

  “Your name,” a dull voice requested.

  “I need Stimson.”

  “Your name,” the voice repeated.

  “Look, you bastard, I’m not going to bother giving you my name because I’m not on your active list. I’m sanctioned by the chief directly and I’ve got to speak to him.”

  “Do you have an operative code or designation?”

  “No, goddammit, it was cover clearance. Nine-zero coding.” Blaine slapped his forehead. “No, that’s not what you boys call it. I don’t know what you call it.”

  “I’m going to terminate this line unless I receive a proper designation immediately.”

  “All right. Just tell me if Stimson’s still alive. I’ve got to know.”

  The phone clicked off. Blaine dropped the receiver.

  He was completely isolated. Stimson’s plan had backfired. The unthinkable had happened. Someone had gotten to the Gap chief and Blaine had no contact. Equally bad, the call-back procedure he had followed would allow Gap personnel to trace the unauthorized call into their most sterile of exchanges. They would investigate. A unit would be dispatched almost immediately, a unit that would see McCracken as an enemy.

  He had to get out of here. But to where? Who could he take his story to?

  The CIA. He would have to make do with them. …

  The Company was still his official employer. And he could reach them because this time he would have the proper codes. He would give an alert signal and they would make arrangements to bring him in. Never mind the business with Chen and possible Company complicity in all this. The involvement of Krayman could account for everything he had previously blamed on his official employer. They were his best bet at this point, his only bet.

  McCracken pounded out a new exchange.

  “Box office,” a voice greeted him without benefit of tape-recorded greeting.

  “I’ve lost my ticket.”

  “Status?”

  “Nine-zero coding.”

  “That is a discontinued exchange.”

  “Check my clearance, dammit! Gallahad, six-zero-niner.”

  “What is your designation?”

  “Triple-X ultra.”

  A pause.

  “I’m sorry, that file is no longer active.”

  The phone clicked off. Blaine slammed the receiver down.

  I’m sorry, that file is no longer active.

  How could he have been so damn stupid? Of course his file wasn’t active anymore; the Company thought he was dead. Another element of Stimson’s plan to seal his mission. Well, he was sealed now, all right, sealed off from every potential safe harbor in the government. A black revolutionary army and a mercenary resistance force were about to clash in the streets of American cities just for starters, and there was no one he could report it to. All the emergency numbers stored in his head were of no use because each of the operators would request the same information and he could satisfy none of them enough to be passed on to the next level. They regarded him as dead. Because of that, ironically, he might soon be.

  He had to get out of Newport immediately and buy himself some time elsewhere. Wells’s men were no longer his only concern. There were Gap and CIA teams to consider as well, drawn to this area by an uncleared caller’s breach of sterile security lines.

  Blaine’s mind drifted back to the fronton, back to a fact that had slipped away during the frantic chase that followed: someone had arranged for the lights to go out and then freed him from Wells’s manacles. For some reason someone wanted him to stay alive.

  But more people wanted him dead.

  Chapter 21

  FRANCIS DOLORMAN’S BACK was hurting so horribly Tuesday morning he could barely shift positions in his chair. Getting in and out of it was an agonizing experience for him, no less agonizing than the latest report from Wells.

  “So McCracken is still alive after all,” was his only comment to Verasco.

  “Solely due to interference from the rebels this time,” Verasco noted. “Wells had McCracken in Newport until one of them freed him.”

  “Not like Wells to let his own people be infiltrated.”

  “It may turn out to be a blessing,” said Verasco. “One of his men, the rebel, we assume, has disappeared. Wells is in the process of retracing his movements, and undoubtedly the investigation will lead to his cohorts.”

  “Tell Wells to concentrate his energies fully in that direction. I’ll handle McCracken.”

  “How?”

  “Alone he can do us no harm. But if he were to reach receptive ears in Washington … We have the contacts in place to insure his continued isolation. They will be alerted. I want all these distractions cleared up before Omega is activated. Let’s review the timetable.”

  Verasco opened a folder perched on his lap. “We will fly tomorrow to the airfield in Maine and make our way to Horse Neck Island for final preparations.”

  “All perfunctory at this stage, of course. And the mobilization of Sahhan’s strike force?”

  “Nine P.M. eastern standard time. That means six o’clock on the West Coast.”

  “Darkness in both instances.”

  “According to plan.”

  Dolorman nodded, obviously satisfied. “And when does phase two go into effect?”

  “Exactly four hours after Sahhan’s troops are mobilized. It will take sixteen minutes for our friend in the sky to pass from one coast to the other, insuring our goal of total paralysis at the optimum time. Phase three entry of mercenaries will begin twelve to sixteen hours later.”

  “I thought we had agreed on twenty-four.”

  “A slight alteration to obtain maximum visibility at the peak of panic. Their heroic response must appear irrefutable, but it must also seem vague. The rumors and obscure reports will work to our advantage.”

  “I assume the preparations for phase four are complete, then.”

  Verasco nodded. “All equipment is in place and functional on Horse Neck Island. Construction of all communications and broadcast facilities was completed yesterday. The testing has gone magnificently. Of course, the activation of phase four will be a give-and-take matter. We must be flexible. The timing will be difficult, public sentiment difficult to gauge.”

  “They will be our public by that time,” Dolorman assured him. “They will feel what we want them to.”

  “But not until after Christmas Eve and your interview with Sandy Lister is scheduled for barely an hour from now.”

  “Your tone indicates you feel I should cancel it.”

  “I see no good it can do us so close to activation.”

  Dolorman eased himself forward. “She has seen people, talked to people. It would take only one receptive ear in the wrong place to do severe damage to Omega. By remaining cooperative with Miss Lister, we assure ourselves that she will have no reason to seek out this ear. We are fairly certain, based on her movements and correspondence, that she hasn’t looked for this ear yet. But that says nothing for the others she has made contact with. One of them still might know the right numbers to call, in which case immediate action on our part would be called for.”

  “You don’t expect her to come out and tell you, of course.”

  “Knowledge is her only weapon, so I expect her to reveal much of what she knows. The what will lead us to the who.”

  Verasco looked unconvinced. “She’s a celebrity, Francis, a star in her own field. It’s her own connections I’m most worried about.”

  That drew a smile from Dolorman. “But the most important ones have been severed. I think we can relax.”

  Sandy Lister rested her shoulders against the elevator wall and tried to still her trembling. The doors slid closed and the compartment began its descent from Dolorman’s office toward the lobby.

  The interview was over.

  And Dolorman had beaten her. She had not been up to the task. De
speration had worked against her, stealing her poise.

  She had come straight to Houston from her meeting with Simon Terrell and arrived Sunday night. Monday morning first thing she dialed T.J. Brown’s exchange at the network.

  The voice that answered was not his.

  “Who is this?” she demanded.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “This is Sandy Lister. I’m calling for T.J. Brown.”

  “Oh, Miss Lister,” the strange voice responded, “someone upstairs mentioned you might be calling. I just moved down from my office. Your assistant is on vacation.”

  “He’s what?”

  “It came as a shock to me too. I just got the order to move—”

  “Thank you,” Sandy broke in, and abruptly hung up.

  She grabbed for the receiver again and dialed T.J.’s home phone number. It rang and rang. No answer.

  Your assistant is on vacation. …

  Sandy felt a dread chill creep up her spine. With the receiver still in her hand, she dialed Stephen Shay’s private number.

  “Mr. Shay’s office.”

  “Mr. Shay, please. Sandy Lister calling.”

  “I’m sorry, Miss Lister, I’m afraid he’s not in.”

  “When will he be back?”

  “Not for two weeks. He’s gone to Europe for a special conference.”

  “Did he leave a forwarding? This is somewhat of an emergency.”

  “I’m afraid not,” said the secretary, and Sandy hung up.

  Because a man in Shay’s position always left a forwarding address. Unless he had never left at all. Unless it was a front.

  Everything was a front.

  They had T.J. They had Shay.

  Sandy spent the rest of Monday on the phone begging for appointments with a host of NASA officials. None would see her. With two she went so far as to mention Pegasus and received only curt denials. No one was talking. So there would be no help from NASA, not immediately, anyway, and immediately was all that mattered.

  That left her only with Dolorman, and she had a strategy prepared. A small tape recorder hidden in her handbag would capture the entire interview. After it was over she would go to the FBI. She would tell them about the plagiarized Krayman Chip and the billionaire’s obsession with controlling America. She would tell them about COM-U-TECH’S possession of Adventurer’s orbital flight plan and the thing Krayman had sent up into space in the guise of a satellite. When they asked for proof, she would hand them the tape recording of her interview with Dolorman. They could run it through their sophisticated machines to discover how many lies were told in response to her direct questions. Of course, that meant she would have to pose them, and that in itself was a grave risk.

  Arriving at the Krayman Tower barely an hour before, she had been escorted up by a security guard in Dolorman’s private elevator. Now the same guard was escorting her down and she felt for the reassuring bulge of the tape recorder in her handbag as she replayed the interview in her mind.

  Dolorman’s office was huge and plushly decorated. The wall paintings were originals and there were bookshelves filled with leather-bound editions lining one wall. Dolorman’s desk, though, made the greatest impact on her. It was unquestionably the largest she had ever seen, neat and clean, without a trace of clutter.

  “Please excuse me for not rising, Miss Lister,” Dolorman said. “But my back has been a burden for several years now and is growing worse.”

  Sandy stepped forward and moved halfway between the door and his desk. “Yes, that turned up in my research.”

  They eyed each other briefly as the secretary closed the door behind her.

  “Your research must have been quite exhaustive,” Dolorman said.

  “Just professional.”

  “Please, Miss Lister, sit down.”

  Sandy took the Chippendale chair a yard in front of the white-haired man’s desk. As she reclined, her hand located the tape recorder through the fabric of her handbag and switched it on.

  “You’ll have to excuse my uneasiness,” Dolorman continued. “I don’t grant many interviews.”

  “The network and I both appreciate the exception.”

  “But the terms are understood, correct?”

  Sandy nodded. “Nothing filmed goes on the air prior to your approval. I’ll have the written agreements prepared before I return with a crew.”

  “Now it is I who appreciate the exception.” Dolorman leaned painfully forward. “It would help, though, if I understood what precisely the story is going to entail.”

  “It started out as a detailed profile of Randall Krayman, the richest man in the world. …”

  “Many would dispute that.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I found Krayman to be a fascinating individual, a man incredibly attuned to future trends, with the fortitude to throw vast sums into them. I felt there were a great many unanswered questions about this man whose power and influence touches so many lives. I set out to provide some of those answers in my profile.”

  “An ambitious pursuit indeed, since you were aware from the beginning that an interview with Mr. Krayman was out of the question.”

  “Actually, for a while I entertained hopes of at least arranging a telephone conversation with presubmitted questions if necessary. I thought I might be able to convince you to set it up for me.”

  Dolorman chuckled. “Miss Lister, you overestimate my influence with Randall Krayman.”

  “But you are the only man with direct access to him.”

  “That I have never denied. I am in constant contact with him, in fact, because he still maintains an active interest in the vast holdings he painstakingly built up by anticipating those future trends you spoke of.”

  “Then why did he withdraw?”

  “Pressure, I suppose. Randall Krayman loved everything he did, but it reached a point where there was too much to love, too many decisions for any one man to make with the kind of attention and consideration Randall Krayman prided himself on. He just lost patience and wanted to be away from it all for a while.”

  “Does five years constitute a while, Mr. Dolorman?”

  Dolorman’s face turned contemplative. “Time is the one thing money can’t buy, Miss Lister. I’m sorry if that sounds clichéd, but in Randall Krayman’s case it was the truth. He had reached his forties and suddenly the things lacking in his life seemed greater than his awesome worth. There was never time for marriage or a family. Numerous mansions, resorts, estates, even private islands, but not one thing he could really consider his own.”

  “When is a house not a home,” Sandy murmured.

  “Something like that, I suppose. And the problem in Randall Krayman’s case is that he treated them more like hotels to pass through when it was convenient.”

  “So this five-year sabbatical was taken so he could enjoy his property.”

  “It’s far more complicated than that. If it was possible for me to arrange the interview you seek, you’d understand. But Randall Krayman would never agree to it. He has come to loathe public attention. He prefers the status of enigma. I should think that would make profiling him quite a challenge, even for you.”

  “I’ve had to proceed on the theory that a man is the sum of his deeds, Mr. Dolorman. And that led to a change in the story’s focus.”

  “Oh?”

  “Someone I spoke with early in my research said you couldn’t separate Randall Krayman from Krayman Industries, that they were synonymous,” Sandy said, thinking of T.J., and with that a new flood of anger surged through her. “Would you agree with that?”

  “To a point I would have to.”

  “So I changed the conceptual focus of the story from Krayman himself to his vast multinational holdings, especially those centered around COM-U-TECH.”

  “Why COM-U-TECH?”

  “Because it’s the most current of his successful ventures. Today’s television viewers don’t want to hear about plastics or oil. They want to hear about computers and technology.
Telecommunications is the great catchphrase these days, isn’t it?”

  Dolorman just looked at her.

  “What kind of man would Randall Krayman be judged if that judgment were based on the sum of his deeds dealing with telecommunications, Mr. Dolorman?”

  “If you’re speaking of his holdings in cable television, his programming has opened up completely new avenues of broadcasting. It has shown that providing important public services can be accomplished while also turning a profit.”

  Sandy felt her heart thumping against her chest. She couldn’t back off now.

  “I can’t argue with that, Mr. Dolorman, but what about beyond cable television? What about commercial television stations, network affiliates?”

  “Krayman Industries owns several.”

  “How many?”

  “I don’t have the exact figures in front of me.”

  “Just estimate.”

  Now it was Dolorman’s turn to square his jaw. “Miss Lister, I know enough about reporters to be aware that they never ask a question they don’t already have the answer to. Why don’t you tell me?”

  “My research has found twenty-seven individual franchises.”

  “A clear violation of current laws. Obviously, the FCC disagrees with you.”

  “Maybe they haven’t looked as hard. I found the ownerships buried within a maze of Krayman holdings.”

  Dolorman digested the information and wet his lips. “Our unusual interests in the field of telecommunications have led to mergers and buyouts of other smaller companies with similar interests, though on a much smaller scale. When we absorbed them, it is quite possible a number of television stations strung along, but I assure you there is no pattern in what you have discovered. The action on our part was wholly inadvertent.”

  “Would you be willing to say that on camera?”

  “I don’t see why not.”

  “Because it might lead to questions concerning the Krayman Chip.”

  Dolorman simply smiled, and the smile grew into a faint private laugh. “I see the rumors have reached you. I suspected as much.”

  “What rumors?” Sandy asked, disappointed by the calm of his rejoinder.

  “That we stole the chip from a man named Hollins and called it our own.” Dolorman shook his head, still smiling.