The Roswell Conspiracy

by Boyd Morrison

  “Do the shop owners carry guns?”

  “Shop owners in gun shops do.”

  “I don’t suppose there are any gun shops in this little town.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Hiding in a store might work, or it might get innocent bystanders killed. Given that the gunmen were still in hot pursuit, it didn’t seem like they cared much about witnesses.

  Tyler saw a red sign flash by for Shotover Jet, the jet boats that take passengers on a high-speed ride down the Shotover River canyon. Grant had shown him a brief video of the boats when they were planning their trip to Queenstown, but Tyler hadn’t thought about it further because of the cold weather.

  “Fay,” he said, “do the jet boats run in the winter?”

  “Oh, yes. Year round.”

  He glanced in the mirror and saw Grant nodding. “It’d be hard for them to follow us.”

  Bullets hammered the tailgate.

  “Down!” Tyler shouted, but nobody had to be told to duck.

  The Toyota was less than a hundred yards behind them.

  The rear wheel was now grinding along the asphalt, throwing up a shower of sparks. At any moment the wheel itself might fly off, and then they would be easy prey.

  “Since they’re after me,” Fay said, “the noble thing for me to do would be to offer to have you drop me off to distract them while you get away, but I have to admit I’m too scared to make the gesture.”

  “Don’t worry, Fay,” Tyler said. “That’s not an option.”

  “Good, because if you’re thinking of using the jet boats to get away from these men, the turnoff is coming up on the right.”

  Tyler was impressed. Even though she was frightened, Fay still kept her wits. Sure enough, a new sign for the jet boats pointed to the right. Tyler cranked the wheel and grimaced as the rear hub squealed against the road in protest.

  Tyler approached a fork in the road. “Which way?”

  Fay indicated a gravel lane straight ahead. The Land Rover passed a parking lot where startled tourists watched the SUV flash by. Tyler slammed on the brakes as they turned down a tree-covered decline.

  He accelerated again when they reached a rocky beach along a bend in the river. On the right were several of the bright-red jet boats still stowed on their trailers. Two boats were in the water, and Tyler could make out the twin-jets poking from the back of the sleek craft just above the waterline. Each of the identical boats was big enough to hold twenty passengers, and an aerodynamic roll-bar stretched across rear, giving them the appearance of sports cars.

  Not that Tyler knew much about boats. Cars and planes were the vehicles he spent his time on. But Grant was a fanatic for boats. He had several of them back in Seattle and hosted a party on his thirty-foot Bayliner every August on Lake Washington to watch the Navy’s Blue Angels perform their air show. In addition to the cabin cruiser, he also owned a jet boat for water skiing.

  If they made it onto one of the Shotover boats, Grant would be the one driving.

  To their left, a group of passengers were waiting for their ride, already decked out in weather gear and life jackets. Several of them yelled as Tyler skidded across the stones.

  One of the docked jet boats was unloading tourists, and the other was empty. Tyler had been hoping there would be only one boat, but with the Toyota rushing down the road toward them, blocking their sole way out, they were committed. Standing and fighting wasn’t an option.

  He stopped and the three of them jumped out. Fay sprinted for the empty boat. Seeing that he didn’t have to help her, Grant waved the shotgun around in the air, sending the tourists and jet-boat operators scattering back toward the guest center in terror.

  With the Land Rover covering their escape, they pounded across the dock and climbed into the boat. Passengers were rapidly evacuating the other one.

  The Toyota smashed into the SUV, and more shots split the air. Tyler felt a round zing past him as he helped Fay into the boat. Grant tossed the shotgun on the deck and leaped in, quickly examining the dashboard. He found the ignition and hit the button. The engines turned over, burbling with barely restrained power.

  While Fay belted herself into her seat in the front row, Tyler threw the lines off. “Clear!” The massive Blaine sprang out of the car and ran along the dock, snapping off shots from his pistol. Tyler dropped to the deck.

  “Hold on!” Grant yelled.

  He threw the throttle forward. With a deafening roar, the jet boat surged into the river. As the boat pulled away, Blaine jumped from the dock and landed in the back row.

  “Watch out!” Tyler shouted to Grant, who turned around and saw that they had a hitchhiker. Blaine raised his pistol to fire. Tyler, in the front row of seats next to Fay, was too far away to do anything. He pulled her down to get her out of the line of fire and told her to stay as low as she could.

  In the middle of the river, Grant turned the steering wheel all the way right, and the boat whirled around in a 360-degree spin. As he struggled to keep from being tossed out of the boat, Blaine was thrown into the handle bar in front of his seat and dropped the pistol into the third row.

  “He lost it!” Tyler yelled as he saw Foreman draw a bead with his own pistol from the dock. “Go! Go!”

  Grant goosed the throttle, and the boat darted ahead just as rounds slammed into it. Tyler couldn’t hear over the cacophonous engines, but Foreman rushed through the fleeing passengers from the other boat and screamed at the operator, who dived over the side into the freezing water. Foreman climbed in, obviously intent on continuing the pursuit.

  Having regained his footing, Tyler vaulted into the second row of seats and leaned down, searching frantically for the dropped pistol. Blaine had the same idea and spotted it before Tyler did. He bent over to snatch it, but Tyler grabbed his arm to prevent him reaching it. Neither would let go of the other, and both of them fell into the third row as they entered the narrow canyon downriver.

  Because of the precise control the engine nozzles afforded them, the Shotover Jet boats could come within a foot of the canyon walls, nearly brushing the rocky outcroppings as they rocketed down the river at sixty knots. Though it seemed dangerous, the highly trained operators made it a safe thrill.

  Tyler just hoped that Grant had as much skill as the normal operators, because they were coming awfully close to hitting the cliffs.

  However, that wasn’t his biggest problem at the moment, which was that Blaine was mercilessly pummeling his midsection with fists the size of canned hams. Tyler threw his own punches, but because he was on his back and constricted on either side by the seatbacks and railing, he couldn’t get much power behind them.

  Blaine’s face was so close that Tyler got a noseful of his fetid breath and saw that his attacker had the scarred remains of a disfigured left earlobe, no doubt the result of a previous fight. The man was a professional, not giving Tyler the opportunity to move his arms. There was no way for him to reach into his pocket and get to the knife on his Leatherman multi-tool.

  A punch to the temple set stars whirling in front of Tyler’s eyes. Blaine bent over to retrieve the pistol so he could finish the job. At the same time, Grant juked the boat left, causing Blaine to reel backward. Seeing his slim opening, Tyler kicked out with both feet.

  He caught Blaine in the stomach, which combined with the momentum of the boat, launched him over the side just as the boat passed another outcropping of rock.

  Blaine crunched into the sandstone as if he’d fallen from a ten-story building. His inert crushed body flipped backward into the roiling water and disappeared beneath the wake of the jet boat.

  Tyler, the adrenaline masking the effects of the pummeling, bent over and picked up the pistol, a .45 caliber Heckler and Koch. He checked the magazine. Six rounds left, including the one in the chamber.

  The jet boat behind them had made up the distance while Grant had been maneuvering to help Tyler get rid of Blaine. Barely a boat length separated them.

  Rounds
thudded into the back of the boat. Tyler popped up and fired off three quick rounds from the HK, but the motion of the boats made it impossible to get a clean shot. His bullets missed, but the other boat swerved away, giving Tyler a chance to climb to the front.

  Fay was belted in and leaning down in the seat as far as she could. Tyler squeezed her shoulder, and she replied with a thumbs-up.

  “Where does this river go?” he asked her.

  “It ends up in Lake Wakatipu. We can get all the way to Queenstown.”

  That might have worked but for an ominous sputter coming from the rear of the boat. Black smoke trailed behind them.

  “He hit one of the engines,” Grant yelled. “I’m shutting it down. Any rounds left in your hand cannon?”

  “Three.”

  They were coming to the end of the canyon. The river widened ahead, looping around low stretches of stone beach like the one at the dock, which would leave them fully exposed to gunfire from their flank.

  “I say we turn around. Those tourists at the dock would have called the police. They should arrive by the time we get back.”

  “Let’s do it,” Tyler said. “I’ll distract him with a couple of shots.”

  “Got it.”

  Tyler belted himself in, leaned out and squeezed off two rounds, causing Foreman to duck again. At the same moment, Grant twisted the steering wheel and Tyler’s stomach along with it. The boat did a 180, dug in, and then launched forward. Foreman didn’t have time to shoot, but Tyler saw him do his own turn. They left him far behind, but with two working engines on the pursuing boat, Foreman would likely catch them before they reached the dock.

  They roared back up the canyon, the sound of the single engine echoing off the steep walls. Tyler peeked above the gunwales and saw the other boat gaining quickly, but he didn’t fire. With only one round left, he’d have to make it count.

  More bullets raked the stern.

  “We’re not going to make it,” Grant shouted. “Any ideas?”

  “Keep sweeping back and forth. Make sure he can’t pull even with us until we reach the other side of the canyon. Then let him come up on the right. Remember the rock beach back at the dock? Maybe we can strand him on it.”

  Grant nodded. “Better than nothing.”

  Even at their slowed speed, it took no time for them to race back to the northern entrance of the canyon.

  “Ready?” Grant yelled.

  Tyler held up the pistol in response. Grant steered left and ducked down, and Tyler could hear the trailing boat pull alongside. Foreman was waiting until he was next to them before he dealt the coup de grâce.

  Tyler sat up and took aim. If he was lucky, his shot would kill the gunman.

  He wasn’t. The shot went wide, but it was close enough to make Foreman flinch.

  Grant rammed their boat into the other one. Because Foreman was holding the pistol, he had only one hand on the wheel and wasn’t able to react quickly.

  Tyler saw the surprised expression on the gunman’s face when he realized he was headed directly for the rocky beach at full speed. Foreman tried to bump his way to the left, but Grant wouldn’t let him budge. At the last second, Grant spun the wheel, putting their boat into a slide and missing the beach by inches.

  Foreman wasn’t as nimble. He went into a slide as well, but it was the worst possible decision.

  Had he simply gone straight forward, Foreman’s boat would have slid up onto the beach and come to a stop. Instead, the skidding motion meant that the side of the boat’s hull hit the rocky shore at fifty knots.

  The boat rolled spectacularly, the engines whining as they sucked air. The roll bar would have protected Foreman if he’d been belted in. Instead, he was ejected into the path of the somersaulting boat and crushed by the hull.

  Grant eased back on the throttle and guided the boat toward the dock. Four policemen who’d been watching the chase covered them with rifles as they approached, shouting at them to put their hands in the air. Grant put his hands up and let the boat drift close enough for one of the policemen to tie them off. Tyler dropped the pistol onto the deck and raised his arms.

  “It’s okay, Fay,” Tyler said. “You can get up now. Just do it slowly. Your local constables look like they have itchy trigger fingers.”

  Fay sat up and peered at the men. Her eyes lit up when she recognized one of the officers. “For goodness sakes, Michael Brown! Stop pointing that thing at us. These aren’t the bad guys.”

  The tension drained from Brown, and he lowered his rifle, signaling the others to do the same. Tyler followed suit.

  “Mrs. Turia?” Brown said. “We had a report that you’d been taken hostage.”

  “Don’t believe everything you hear.” She unbelted herself and stood. Tyler held her hand as she stepped out.

  Tyler, his eyes still fixed on the policemen as he climbed onto the dock, heard a woman yell, “Nana!” She rushed past the policemen and threw herself into Fay’s arms. Tyler thought she could be the granddaughter Fay had mentioned, except that this woman had much darker skin than Fay. The two of them hugged tightly until the woman pushed back to hold Fay at arm’s length. “I was horrified when I heard about the fire at the house. Are you okay? Tell me you’re okay.”

  “I’m fine, Jessica, thanks to these young men.” She gestured at Tyler and Grant.

  The woman turned, and Tyler got his first good look at her. Everything about her screamed athlete, from her drawstring pants and black hoodie stretched over her lithe build to the stylish shag of shoulder-length chestnut hair. She wore no makeup and none was needed. With creamy brown skin, rounded cheekbones, and full lips, she had no trouble drawing furtive glances from the young police officers.

  Despite all that had already happened this morning, it was this moment that really shocked Tyler. He blinked a few times, not believing that he was seeing her for the first time in over fifteen years, half a world away from where they’d last seen each other.

  Eyes like melted chocolate stared at him in surprise, and memories came flooding back like a cresting wave.

  “Tyler?” she said. “What the hell is going on?”

  Tyler opened his mouth, but the words wouldn’t come. He turned to Fay. “Your granddaughter is Jess McBride?”

  Fay’s sheepish look told him that she had known from the beginning that Jess had been Tyler’s college girlfriend.

  SIX

  It had been four hours since Popovich and Golgov, traveling under the names Foreman and Blaine, were supposed to report in that they had disposed of Fay Turia. But when Vladimir Colchev checked his messages upon landing in Alice Springs, there were none waiting.

  Before his three-hour Qantas flight from Sydney, Colchev had meticulously rechecked the Icarus prototype he’d procured from Nadia Bedova. As he’d expected, it was complete and ready for use. She wouldn’t have risked sabotaging it because he might have noticed during the handover.

  As Colchev had been finishing the examination in Sydney, Popovich texted him a brief message.

  We are in her house. She has engraving but no X. Orders?

  To Colchev the information was both interesting and unfortunate. Interesting because he didn’t know the engraving still existed. However, he had a high-resolution photo of it, so it was worthless to him. The unfortunate part was that she had no xenobium. If she had, it would have made his mission much more simple.

  Colchev had texted back immediately.

  Destroy engraving. Term woman.

  He didn’t need any loose ends at this late juncture. Termination of the Turia woman was the best option, and he’d had every confidence that his men would carry out his orders. That was why the lack of communication with Popovich since then was so troubling.

  Colchev exited the plane and emerged from the covered staircase to a cloudless azure sky. The midday sun beat down, but its rays could heat the mild winter breeze to only a few degrees above room temperature.

  Waiting for Colchev at the gate was Dmitri Zotkin, a
whippet-lean operative whose trim mustache and beard matched his short dark hair. Dressed in khakis and a denim shirt, he could have passed for a guide coming to take Colchev on a tour of the outback.

  They exited the airport without a word, and Colchev tossed his duffel into the rear of Zotkin’s SUV. They both got in, and Zotkin drove out of the airport.

  “Why haven’t we heard from Golgov or Popovich?” Colchev said.

  Zotkin cleared his throat. “They failed in their mission.”

  “How do you know?”

  “We’ve been monitoring news reports from Queenstown. Police say that two men were killed in an apparent kidnapping attempt.”

  “Damn it! Is the woman alive?”

  Zotkin nodded. “Her house was burned to the ground, but she survived. No word on her condition.”

  “What about our men? Have they been identified?”

  “No names have been released.”

  Like all of the men who were in Colchev’s operation, Golgov and Popovich spoke fluent English in a neutral midwestern accent, and their passports were stellar fakes. Still, their deaths added to the mission’s risk.

  “Is there anything leading back to us?” Colchev said.

  Zotkin shook his head. “I’ve already sent the scramble signal to their phones. Any data or phone numbers on them have been destroyed.”

  Colchev pounded the dashboard with his fist, shaking it until the glove box popped open. He closed it, sat back, and sighed. “They were good men.”

  “At least they died for their country.”

  They had been a loyal part of his foreign intelligence service team before Colchev’s failure, and now the former SVR operatives wouldn’t even get the honor of a Russian state funeral. He unrolled his window and breathed in the cool desert air. When his team had achieved its mission, he would make sure Golgov and Popovich’s part in the operation was recognized, that they would receive the honor they deserved as heroes of the Motherland.

  Colchev snapped back to focus on his goal now. Because Fay Turia had no xenobium, their path was clear.