The Roswell Conspiracy

by Boyd Morrison

  Colchev’s late arrival on the island meant that the Americans had a head start. Simply going out to the site mapped out on Dombrovski’s photo of the wood engraving wouldn’t work. And his first order of business was to cover his rear, which meant taking out anyone on the Air Force jet.

  Instead of attempting a direct assault, Colchev, who stayed on the plane with Zotkin in case he’d be recognized, decided deception was the better choice. He instructed Kiselow and Chopiak to drop the models at a hotel in Hanga Roa, where they checked into a reserved room. Then his men took their rented vehicle to a remote location along the shore and called the police asking for help. When the lone police car arrived, his men shot the policeman and dumped him into the ocean.

  The whole plan had gone smoothly. Kiselow and Chopiak drove the hijacked police car to the C-17 leisurely, as if they were just making a courtesy call. Before the man guarding the plane could tell that they weren’t Easter Island cops, he was shot twice, the action shielded from the tower’s view by the immense plane’s fuselage. With the element of surprise complete, an ambush took out all four men aboard the jet without drawing any attention at the sleepy airport.

  Colchev and Zotkin joined the two other men in the police car and set out for the location described on the map. From a distance they saw a Suzuki 4x4 parked near the ocean-side cliff.

  Colchev had instructed Zotkin to drive toward the SUV slowly so that the vehicle’s occupants wouldn’t become suspicious. There were three people in view, a woman inside the Suzuki and two men holding assault rifles walking toward the cliff. They had to be security guards protecting Tyler.

  The woman honked the SUV’s horn, causing the two guards to whirl around. When they saw that it was a police car, the younger blond man waved and started walking toward them while the older curly-haired one stood near the cliff.

  When they got within twenty-five meters, Colchev raised his own AK-47 and shot the blond man, who crumpled to the ground. Chopiak fired at the other man who fell over the edge of the cliff. Neither of Tyler’s guards got a shot off.

  Zotkin then sped toward the SUV as the woman, whom Colchev now recognized as Fay Turia, jumped out and ran toward the ocean. They intercepted her just as gunfire rang out from the cliff’s edge. A bullet slammed through the rear driver’s side window, killing Chopiak instantly. Chopiak must have missed or only injured the second man, who had to have landed on a ledge. Kiselow returned fire, and the guard ducked for cover.

  “Keep your aim on him,” Colchev said. “If he shows his head again, blow it off.”

  Colchev leaped out and grabbed Fay. She kicked and punched him but was no match for Colchev’s bulk. He put her hand in a controlling grip, making sure not to snap it.

  “Calm down, Mrs. Turia. There’s nothing you can do now.”

  “Screw you!”

  “You are a feisty grandmother, aren’t you?”

  “Let go!”

  “No.” He plucked a video camera from her hand. “What do we have here?”

  “Family photos.”

  “I don’t think so. I think you found something. Let’s see what.”

  Kiselow fired again, but his shot missed. It did, however, keep the guard pinned.

  Colchev peered at the LCD display and saw that it was video from inside a cave. He fast-forwarded through it, watching Tyler Locke and Jess McBride occasionally making appearances. Intriguing. It provided everything he had to know to find the xenobium. He slowed the playback when he got to the part showing Tyler waving around a radiation detector. After a look of alarm crossed Tyler’s face, he turned to Fay and the video ended.

  “Where is the xenobium fragment?” Colchev asked her.

  She remained silent, but her eyes inadvertently flicked to the Suzuki.

  “Zotkin,” Colchev said, “search their vehicle.”

  Zotkin scuttled over to the 4x4, keeping the police car between him and the guard. In a minute he returned carrying a silver case. He put it down in the grass and opened it.

  “No!” Colchev shouted when he saw the pea-sized bit of xenobium. It wasn’t the large specimen in the photo from Dombrovski’s lab. “Blya!” He slammed the case shut.

  “That isn’t …” Zotkin said, stumbling over his words. “If that’s all there is, our mission is over.”

  “I know that!” Colchev yelled before calming himself. “It’s all right. All this does is prove that Dombrovski was right. The photograph we found wasn’t a forgery. The xenobium we need was in fact hidden by the Nazca. Mrs. Turia has given us the information we need to get it.”

  “Colchev!” came a man’s shout from the cliff’s edge. “Colchev!”

  Colchev peeked around the corner of the police car but couldn’t see anyone. “Who is that?”

  “My name’s Tyler Locke.”

  “Dr. Locke, you keep popping up in the wrong place. I remember you from the hood of my road train.”

  “And I remember you killing Nadia Bedova. Now let Fay go!”

  “Why should I?”

  “Take me in her place.”

  “Again, why should I?”

  “Because she’ll slow you down.”

  “She seems spry enough to me.”

  “What do you want then?”

  “Come out with your hands up.”

  “No. We know you stole the Killswitch weapons, Colchev.”

  Colchev grinned. “So?”

  “So Kessler is dead. Your plan went up in smoke in Alice Springs.”

  The grin vanished. “You’re the one who forced me into this action, Locke. If you hadn’t interfered with my truck bomb, none of us would be here right now. Don’t make me kill Mrs. Turia.”

  A woman’s voice yelled out. “If you hurt her, I’ll cut your nuts off and feed them to you!”

  “That must be Ms. McBride. I won’t hurt Mrs. Turia. She’s going to be my guide.”

  “The hell I will,” Fay said. “Don’t listen to them, Jessica!”

  Colchev took a handkerchief from his pocket and stuffed it in Fay’s mouth.

  “Colchev!” Tyler yelled. “Let her go, and I’ll guarantee you safe passage off the island.”

  “It’s too late for that, Locke.”

  “We can’t stay here,” Zotkin said. “Somebody might have heard their gunshots. We have to kill them now.”

  “Their position is too well-defended,” Colchev said. “We don’t have the manpower to outflank them.”

  “Keep them distracted. I’ll crawl through the grass and shoot from over there.” He pointed to a rocky outcropping 150 yards away.

  “There’s no time. We’re not even sure you’ll have a clean view of them. We’ll take out Locke’s car so he can’t follow us back to the airport. By the time he gets there, we’ll be long gone.”

  “But even with his car disabled, it’s only four miles to the town. Locke will be able to call the mainland before we can get there. The police will intercept us as soon as we land in Chile.”

  Colchev’s eyes fell on the case. There wasn’t enough xenobium for his ultimate goal, but it would be sufficient to power the Killswitch he had with him. He buried his head in his hands, trying to think of another solution, but he wracked his brain and nothing came. It was either use the Killswitch or risk total mission failure. At least it would give him a chance to test the weapon and verify that it worked.

  Colchev glowered at Zotkin. “We’ll make sure he can’t call the mainland when he gets back to town. Put the Suzuki in neutral and then get in the police car.” He turned to Kiselow and pointed at Fay. “Keep her head toward the cliff so they won’t fire. I’ll drive.”

  Shielded by the police car, Zotkin ran to the Suzuki and back. He and Kiselow climbed in the car with Colchev taking the wheel. He drove forward until the police car’s front bumper touched the back of the Suzuki’s. Colchev gunned the engine, pushing the vehicle toward the cliff.

  When he got within four car-lengths of the drop-off, he wrenched the wheel to the right. The Suzuki’s m
omentum caused it to go sailing over the edge just as the guard popped up to see what was going on. The SUV smashed into him, taking him down to the rocks below.

  Fay screamed through her gag, but the momentary appearance of two heads above the cliff edge meant that Tyler Locke and the granddaughter were still alive. Not that it mattered. Once Colchev’s car was gone, he was sure the Americans would head back to Hanga Roa on foot. At a fast trot the two of them could reach the outskirts of town in a little over thirty minutes.

  They would arrive just in time to die.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  When Grant climbed down to the bridge’s vehicle deck, only Morgan’s intervention kept twenty police officers from training their weapons on him. He jogged over to her as he eyed the train stopped halfway up the bridge. Officers swarmed over part of the track behind the last car. The suited man she was speaking to got a phone call and retreated to take it.

  “Who was that?” Grant asked.

  “Roger Abel. Australian federal agent.”

  “Are we all playing nicely?”

  “Grudgingly on their part. They know this is related to Pine Gap. They’re leading the investigation here, but they’re instructed to share any info they find.”

  “Given that you’re not interrogating your runner, I’ll bet he didn’t come quietly.”

  Morgan nodded at the rails. “Pulped by the commuter train.”

  “Anything useful left over?”

  She shook her head. “He’s spread across a hundred feet of track. The Aussies will collect the pieces. They’ll tell us if they come across anything pertinent, but I’m not holding my breath.”

  “We might have more luck with my guy.”

  “I saw him hit the ground. What happened? I told you not to kill him.”

  “Look who’s talking.”

  “My guy was an accident.”

  “So was mine.”

  “I heard that you shot him.”

  “Yeah, but only in the leg. It was a good shot, too.”

  “Let’s go look.”

  “By the way, anyone hurt at the hotel?” Grant asked as they walked toward the center of the bridge.

  “No. We got lucky. These guys were just trying to sow confusion so they could escape.”

  “It almost worked.”

  The agent caught up with them. “That was my director. I don’t know what’s going on here, but I don’t like it.”

  “You don’t have to,” Morgan said.

  “Nicely handled,” Grant said.

  “We’ve got two dead gunmen,” Abel said, “one of whom your partner shot before he fell to his death. I need to know whether we have more of them out there.”

  “You don’t. Did your director tell you to cooperate with us?”

  They reached the corpse sprawled in the middle of the right lane. Abel crossed his arms. “According to him, I retain custody of anything we find, but you can see it before it goes into evidence. I’m allowed to get your statements, but then you’re free to go.”

  “Good. We need to examine anything found on this man.”

  Abel scowled and then nodded at a uniformed officer carrying a plastic baggy. He handed the package to Morgan.

  The baggy contained a wallet, a US passport, phone, car keys, and a scrap of paper with an address. She opened the wallet to find two hundred Australian dollars and nothing else.

  “This is it?” Morgan said.

  Abel nodded. “We’re running down the ID on the passport.”

  “It’ll be fake, just like the ones on the bodies we found in the warehouse in Alice Springs.”

  “Were these men responsible for the explosion there yesterday?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to find out.”

  The phone was still operational. Since the guy landed on his back, Grant assumed it had been in his front pocket.

  Morgan scanned through the recent calls and text messages. They’d been wiped clean. Same for the contact list.

  “This guy didn’t make or receive any calls?” Morgan said.

  “It must have been erased remotely,” Grant said. “My company worked on similar technology. It’s a common feature on secure phones used by foreign intelligence services in case they’re caught or lose the phone. That’s why this one’s not password protected. The remote erasure took that out, too.”

  Abel stared at the body. “He’s with the CIA?”

  “We think he may be a Russian,” Morgan said.

  She glanced at the piece of paper and then showed it to Grant. It said 22 Lic. Jose Lopez Portillo Ore.

  “Does that mean anything to you?” she asked Grant.

  He shrugged. “A town in Oregon? Maybe someone he’s planning to meet with?”

  “Or a street address where they’re going to meet.” Morgan jotted down the phrase in her notebook and handed the items back to the officer.

  After making their reports of the chase to Abel, they walked back toward their car.

  Grant searched for the phrase on his phone while Morgan was lost in thought. The entire phrase failed to yield anything useful, so he started plugging subsections of it into a search engine.

  “When Kessler didn’t show to make the drop,” Morgan said, “their next move would probably have been to leave Australia. We think that they had some connection with the Baja drug gang. This could be related to their contact in the cartel.”

  Grant continued trying different combinations. “Like we said earlier, a drug gang would be a good way to smuggle the Killswitches back into the US. They’ve got the systems already in place, and they’ll do anything if the price is right.”

  “We can’t send out a blanket alert to the Border Patrol describing the Killswitch because of its secret status. And unless we send a detailed description, they won’t know what to look for. We’ll have to see if we can narrow it down to a particular city.”

  “Got it!” Grant said triumphantly. “That guy had the abbreviation wrong or we couldn’t read his handwriting. It should have been 22 Lic. Jose Lopez Portillo Ote. It stands for 22 Licenciado José López Portillo Oriente. It’s an address in Tijuana. There’s a border crossing a quarter mile from there.”

  “That could be where they’re planning to meet to repack the shipment for the smuggling operation.”

  “If we can intercept them there, we might be able to retrieve the Killswitches before they even cross the border.”

  “We’ll have to coordinate with the Mexican Federales to put a stakeout on the location. When the weapons arrive, we’ll raid the place and get them back.”

  “How will you know when the Killswitches are there?”

  “Because you’re coming with me. You know what the Russians look like.”

  “Do I get to have a gun?”

  Morgan squinted at him. “I guess so. You’ve come in handy so far.”

  Grant smiled. “Then I’m in.”

  She got on her phone. “This is Special Agent Bell. How fast can Grant Westfield and I get to San Diego?”

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Jess had been shocked when Polk was dashed on the rocks by the falling Suzuki, but she’d been outraged by the kidnapping of her grandmother. Her instinct had been to charge up over the cliff edge to get Fay back, but Tyler had restrained her when he saw how well Colchev’s gunmen had them pinned. Harris’s lifeless form in the grass only confirmed that they would have had no chance.

  When Colchev’s car was out of firing range, Tyler and Jess gave chase. Her feet crunched on the hard-packed dirt as she ran next to Tyler. They’d settled into a fast jog after sprinting for five minutes behind Colchev’s rapidly receding SUV, which was now long gone.

  “How far … to the airport?” she asked between breaths. She wasn’t struggling for air, but Tyler’s long legs made it a challenge to keep up. He didn’t seem to be huffing and puffing.

  “At least four miles,” he said. “At this pace it’ll take us another half hour.”

  “They could take off by then.”


  “I know. We have to stop them before they get airborne.”

  She wanted to get reassurance from Tyler that Fay would be all right, but wasting her breath on extracting meaningless platitudes wasn’t going to help her get to the airport any faster. She concentrated on sucking in air through her nose and exhaling through her mouth as she did on her twice-weekly jogs.

  Tyler jerked his head around at the sound of an engine behind them.

  She turned to see two motor scooters puttering toward them. Two skinny guys, both in their twenties, waved as they approached.

  “We need those scooters,” Tyler said. “Follow my lead.”

  The kids seemed like college students on summer break, backpacks slung over their shoulders.

  Tyler smiled and flagged them down. The look was non-threatening, just a dirty, sweaty man and woman who were out in the middle of nowhere.

  The riders came to a stop. Both of them paid more attention to Jess than Tyler.

  “Hola,” one of them said to Jess. “¿Qué pasa?”

  “No hablo Español,” Tyler said. “¿Habla Inglés?”

  The men shook their heads.

  “Do you speak Spanish?” Tyler said to Jess.

  “No,” Jess said. “And we don’t have time for this.”

  With a quick nod at the bikes, she took a running lunge and pushed the closest guy off his scooter, grabbing the handle before it could fall.

  Tyler didn’t hesitate to follow her cue. He ripped the second man off his bike as if he were a doll. The man hit the ground with an “oof.”

  “Sorry,” Tyler said, and hopped onto the seat.

  They gunned the engines and zipped away before the men could get to their feet. In her rearview mirror she could see them give chase, but their cursing and arm-waving didn’t help them catch up.

  The scooters could hit forty miles an hour, but the frequent potholes meant that thirty was pushing the safest top speed. Tyler pulled even with her.

  “That’s one way to do it,” he said over the wind.

  “Those guys will be fine. We can’t let Colchev get away with Nana.”