Blacksnow Zero

by Lee Gimenez

  She placed the beer bottle on the coffee table and sat up. “That’s why I’m calling.”

  “I thought it was because you missed me.”

  “That too,” she replied.

  He chuckled. “Bullshit. What do you need?”

  Just then there was an odd clicking sound on the phone and Steve’s voice faded out for a moment. “You there?” she asked.

  His voice came back. “Yeah. I’m here. The satellite signal must have kicked out.”

  “Guess so. Listen, there was a power blackout during the murders. Looks like an electromagnetic pulse was set off. The local detective on the case says the Pentagon’s got some new portable device that can do that. Can you check it out?”

  There was a pause on the other end, then he said, “Sure. Anything for you. I’ll make some calls.”

  “Thanks. By the way, when are you coming home?”

  “I’ll be back in D.C. in a couple of days.”

  “Good. We’ll get together. Maybe I’ll fix us dinner.”

  He laughed. “You cook? No way. I’m not taking that big a chance.”

  “You bastard.”

  “Okay, Erica. Let’s go out for dinner. The Palm?”

  “Sure. But dessert at my place.”

  He laughed again. “I like you for dessert.”

  “Thought you would. See you.” She turned off the call and took another sip of the beer.

  Then she stretched out on the sofa, glanced at her watch. No way could she fall asleep now. As usual she was too wired.

  Grabbing the remote, she turned on her small TV and surfed the channels. She found nothing interesting and eventually settled on one of the cable news outlets. Maybe that would help her fall asleep.

  Listening idly, she rested with her eyes closed, the buzz from the beer making her lightheaded. Surprisingly, she fell into a fitful sleep.

  She awoke with a start and gazed at her watch, which read 2 a.m. Realizing she’d slept over two hours, she knew she’d be awake the rest of the night.

  Getting up, she went into the kitchen, grabbed another Budweiser and her Kindle and settled down at the dinette table to do some reading. Reading novels was one of the few ways she could pass the long stretches of sleepless nights.

  She turned on the Kindle and began reading the mystery novel. She was halfway through it and was determined to finish it tonight.

  Just then she heard a noise from outside her window and she got up and looked out. It was a quiet street, well-lit by several light poles along the road. Scanning the parked cars on the street, she noticed nothing unusual at first. Then she spotted it, a black Suburban, parked across from her building. It had heavily-tinted windows, so she couldn’t see inside, but wisps of exhaust fume were coming from the tailpipe.

  She didn’t believe in coincidences. Un-holstering her Glock service weapon and tucking it in her waistband, she grabbed the flashlight in her kitchen and raced out of the apartment. She sprinted down the corridor, ducked into the stairwell, and quickly descended the three flights of stairs.

  Rushing out of the building a moment later, she scanned the street.

  But the black SUV was already gone.

  23 Days to Zero Hour

  20 miles west of Norfolk U.S. Naval Base

  Virginia

  Captain Bobbie Garcia stared out the side window of the unmarked Blackhawk helicopter as it skimmed over the rural, sparsely populated area. The chopper was the latest design in stealth technology and the sound from the rotors was muted, almost whisper-like. Garcia had picked it for that reason, since tonight’s mission was more difficult than the last. Except for the vibration that shook the craft as it flew, he could swear the Blackhawk was a business helicopter instead of an efficient killing machine.

  “It’s up just ahead,” the chopper pilot said over Garcia’s headset.

  “Copy that,” the captain replied. Garcia looked back into the cargo compartment at the six heavily-armed men who sat across from him. Like him, the Special Forces team carried suppressed Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine guns and wore unmarked black uniforms and black helmets with night vision goggles.

  “Okay guys,” he spoke into his mike. “Almost there. Any questions?” They had rehearsed the operation several times and he wasn’t expecting any. The men, all NCOs, shook their heads. Their expressions were stony.

  Garcia had handpicked this team over the last year, swore them to secrecy and gave them specialized training in a facility located away from the other Special Forces units at Fort Bragg. His handler, the general, had appropriated the facility and Garcia and his men reported to him personally.

  The captain looked out the window again, the ghostly green images of the tree line giving way to a large clearing by a curving rural road. Situated on the clearing was a sprawling, ranch-style house. Admiral Stanton’s home. A widower, Stanton lived alone so Garcia hoped they could get in and out without any collateral damage.

  The Blackhawk swooped down over the clearing just as one of the team unstrapped himself from the seat and slid open the side cargo door. A whoosh of air filled the cockpit and Garcia crossed himself. Feeling the adrenaline rush, his heart pounded in his chest.

  “Let’s go!” he yelled into his mike. The men scrambled to their feet, clutched the stubby MP5s and moved toward the door. Leading the way, the captain grabbed a handhold by the opening, stared out. The instant the chopper landed, he sprang out of the craft and sprinted toward the house, his combat boots making a sucking sound on the sodden ground. It had rained yesterday and the large grassy area of the backyard glistened with moisture.

  They had landed a hundred yards from the house and the group fanned out as they ran forward. Halfway there, they stopped and took cover behind a row of bushes.

  Scanning the home with his night-vision goggles, Garcia saw no light and no movement. It was 2:35 a.m. and the Admiral should be fast asleep.

  Behind him the whisper of the chopper’s rotor’s died down and the night went quiet. All he heard was the drone of cicadas.

  Garcia motioned to Master Sergeant Thomas and the man sprinted toward the house. Reaching it moments later, Thomas crouched by the side wall. His job was to cut the phone line, the power line and provide cover fire, if necessary.

  Glancing at his watch, the captain counted off the minutes and then gave the signal to the rest of the team.

  He ran forward, the MP5 in one hand.

  The group spread out, surrounding the house, and in seconds were hugging the walls. Garcia quickly climbed the steps of the spacious wooden deck and crouched by the back door. Thomas was to his left and the man gave him a thumbs up.

  Wasting no time, the captain glanced through a window into the house. Nothing moved in the darkened interior and he pulled the lock-pick toolkit that hung from his belt harness. Slinging the rifle over his shoulder, he selected one of the picks and worked on the lock for a moment. The tumbler gave way with a click and he turned the knob. Putting the tool away, he unslung the rifle.

  He crouched in, trained his weapon in front of him and listened for any sounds.

  It was quiet and he turned back, stepped outside a second and motioned to the others. Three of the men followed him back in the house.

  Recalling the house diagrams his handler had provided, Garcia bypassed the kitchen to his right and followed the dark corridor on his left. The house had four bedrooms and Stanton’s was at the end of this hallway. He headed there, while the others quietly opened doors, making sure the rest of the place was unoccupied.

  Reaching the end, he pressed his ear against the closed door, heard nothing. Slowly turning the knob, he stepped inside.

  A large lump lay on the king-size bed, covered by a light blanket. Garcia had been briefed on the admiral, knew the man was tall and overweight. He was sure the lump was Stanton.

  He crouched near the sleeping man, verified the face. The admiral was an ugly man, with a large, hooked nose, pockmarked skin and bushy eyebrows. Clearly it was him. The man w
as wearing blue striped pajamas.

  Taking a syringe from his vest, Garcia plunged it into the man’s upper arm.

  Stanton jerked awake, his big eyes bulging.

  Garcia punched the man several times, the blows landing on the man’s wide stomach, but the admiral fought back until a moment later the sedative kicked in. The admiral slumped back on the bed, unconscious.

  Grasping a roll of duct tape clipped to his belt, he tore off a piece and slapped it on the admiral’s mouth.

  Just then Thomas came in the room, said, “Rest of the house is clear.”

  Garcia nodded, relieved. “Get a couple of the guys in here. We need to carry the fat bastard back to the chopper. Then grab one of the guy’s suitcases, fill it with a week’s worth of clothing and get Joey to start working on the cut cables. I want this place to look undisturbed.”

  “You got it, sir.”

  Before leaving, Garcia took the admiral’s wallet, keys and cell phone, which lay on the nightstand.

  ***

  Half an hour later the Blackhawk took off, the unconscious admiral stretched out on the floor in the back. As the ground receded below them, the dark house became a dot in the nighttime landscape.

  Garcia was sitting in the co-pilot’s seat and he turned his head to face the pilot. “How long before we reach the airfield?”

  “No more than 20, Captain.”

  “Punch this thing. We’re behind schedule.”

  Garcia was pressed into his seat as the helicopter picked up speed.

  Ten minutes later the Blackhawk was hovering over an unmanned air field with only one landing strip. There was a small airport office building next to the runway, but the place was dark. A few small jets and twin-engine turboprops were parked off to one side in a fenced area. The place looked deserted.

  At one end of landing strip, a Gulfstream jet waited with no lights on.

  “There it is,” Garcia said, pointing at the jet. “Land right by the plane.”

  The pilot pushed the joystick and the craft pitched forward. Seconds later it hovered again and touched down next to the black Gulfstream. Other than the tail numbers, the jet had no markings or logos.

  Instantly, the side door of the jet opened and a ladder rolled out. Two uniformed men climbed out of the plane, their rifles at the ready. Garcia recognized them immediately – they were the rest of his team.

  He unstrapped from his seat, grabbed his weapon and climbed out of the chopper. The sooner they got the admiral in the jet the better.

  ***

  Las Vegas, Nevada

  It was daylight when the Gulfstream landed on the remote airstrip ten miles north of Las Vegas. After touchdown, the jet taxied to the end of the runway and stopped. Garcia looked out the plane’s window and saw nothing but empty desert, tall cactus and scraggly tumbleweeds. Mountains were visible in the distance.

  He followed Sergeant Thomas out of the plane, and the rest of his team came out next, carrying Stanton down the steps. Scanning the area, Garcia noticed that next to the long, asphalt airstrip sat a gray Suburban with dark-tinted windows.

  The men placed the admiral in the back of the SUV, along with the suitcase. When they were done, Garcia climbed in the passenger side front seat and closed the door.

  The Suburban sped away, heading south.

  ***

  The house is perfect for the job, Garcia thought when they drove up to the curb. The general had done well.

  It was a small home, typical Las Vegas concrete-block design with a faded barrel-tile roof. And it sat away from the other houses in the scruffy, run-down neighborhood. Not far from the Strip, the area looked like an ideal hang-out for low-rent hookers, drifters and drug-addicts.

  He climbed out of the car, gazed around. Not many people were out and they moved quickly away as soon as he spotted them. The guilty always run, he mused.

  He motioned to Thomas, who went to the front door, unlocked it and went in. A minute later the man opened the single-car garage from the inside and the SUV slowly backed in, the large vehicle barely fitting in the narrow opening. The garage door closed and Garcia went in through the front door.

  The place was a dump. Torn, dirty sofas were in the living room. Trash littered the floor. The scuffed walls were decorated with orange and yellow striped wallpaper.

  His team stood in a semicircle in the kitchen, with the admiral lying on his back on the floor. The man was still unconscious and would be that way for several more hours.

  Finding a chair by the dinette table, Garcia inspected it, brushed off dirt and sat down. Then he turned to Thomas. “All of us need to change out of these uniforms and into the civvies we brought. No sense in standing out. Then put Stanton in the bedroom and take the tape off his mouth. Take his clothes out of his suitcase and put them in the bedroom closet. After that, go find two prostitutes. And don’t bring me skanky whores. I want lookers. Also, stop at one of the casinos, pick up some gambling chips.”

  The sergeant nodded and the men began to change into the casual civilian clothes they had brought. Then they carried the sedated man into the bedroom.

  Thomas and another member of the team went into the garage and moments later Garcia heard the SUV pull away.

  The captain changed into his civvies, put on disposable gloves, and sat back down on the chair. Then he folded his arms across his chest and leaned back in the wobbly chair.

  All he could do now was wait.

  ***

  An hour later Sergeant Thomas was back, trailed by two women in their mid-twenties. Both were busty, wore tight short-shorts and low-cut blouses that exposed bare midriffs. One of them was short and black, the other tall and blonde, but they were both good-looking. Only their eyes gave away their profession – they were way too weary for their age.

  Garcia got up from the chair, studied the women closely as they walked up to him. One thing he knew for sure – in Vegas more than any other city, the whores were better looking.

  “I’m Sugar,” the black girl said, “and this is Lola,” pointing to the blonde. “Heard you’re looking for a good time.” It was obvious Sugar was the leader of the two.

  Garcia nodded. “That’s a fact. My friend tell you what we want?”

  Sugar laughed, glanced at the group of men in the room. “You’re looking for a gang-bang. Fine with us. We give first-class service. But pulling a train costs extra.”

  “No problem. I’ve got plenty of cash.”

  She looked closely at the men’s hands. “You guys are all wearing gloves. Is that some new kinky thing? Never seen that before.”

  “It’s just something we like,” Garcia replied.

  She shrugged. “Like I said, we’re not particular, as long as we get paid.” She sidled up to him, put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed his bulging bicep. “What’s your name, honey?”

  “You can call me Bobbie.”

  She chuckled. “Bobbie. That’s a sweet name for such a big, strong man like you.”

  “My wife says the same thing.”

  She rubbed his arm some more, then her voice turned business-like. “Let’s get the money part out of the way first. Then we can have fun. It’ll cost you a thousand. For each of us.”

  Garcia nodded, pulled out a thick wad of bills from his pocket. He counted out twenty one-hundred dollar bills and handed each woman her share of the money. “And if you’re really good,” he said, “I’ll give you a big tip afterwards.”

  Her eyes sparkled. “I like you, Bobbie. You’re my kind of guy.”

  The captain smiled, leaned down and rummaged through a canvas bag that sat on the floor by his feet. He pulled out a white, brick-shaped, cellophane-wrapped package. He held it up, showed it to the two women.

  Sugar squealed. “Is that what I think it is?”

  “It sure is,” he replied, handing her the bag of pure cocaine.

  The woman grabbed it, caressed the package like it was her first-born infant. “I never seen this much coke before.”

>   Garcia smiled. “You two go in the bedroom, feel free to use as much as you want. My friend’s in there, sleeping off a hangover. Just ignore him. I’ll be in a few minutes.”

  Sugar’s expression was ecstatic, as if she’d died and gone to heaven. “Take your time, Bobbie. Lola and me will have our own little party first. We’ll be so hot and ready in five minutes that I’ll have you coming before you know what hit you.”

  With that the woman took the other by the hand, and they rushed into the bedroom.

  Garcia sat back down, glanced at his watch. He’d give them fifteen.

  ***

  When Garcia and Thomas entered the bedroom, they found the blonde passed out on the floor by the bed. Also on the floor, kneeling, was Sugar. Both women were nude, their hands and faces coated with white powder.

  The black woman was bent over the opened package of coke, its contents spilled over the dirty gray carpet.

  She gazed up at him, her eyes glassy. “This is…good shit…Bobbie. The best….”

  Garcia scanned the room quickly. The admiral’s body, still dressed in the pajamas, was still inert, but he could tell the man was breathing.

  Then he turned back to Sugar. “I told you you’d like it. Later, I’ll let you take some of it home. How does that sound?”

  “You’re great…Bobbie,” she said, slurring her words. “You know…that? Come on over here…let me polish…your knob…I got a mouth…that just won’t quit…I’ll suck you dry…bet the wifey…doesn’t do that…anymore….” She laughed, leaned her head down and snorted more of the coke.

  He walked up to her and squatted down so that when she turned her head back up he was facing her. The woman was a looker, with pendulous breasts and silky chocolate skin. It’s a pity, he thought, that I didn’t meet you under different circumstances.

  She reached out and began to unbuckle his belt, but he grasped her hand, pushed it away. Surprise filled her eyes and he said, “I want to look at you first.”

  She must have thought that was funny because she began laughing uncontrollably.

  “Be quiet, Sugar.” He reached out with one hand and began to caress her face, staring intently into her large, dark-brown eyes. Then he gripped her jaw tightly.