Revolution: Luthecker, #3

by Keith Domingue

  Luthecker: Revolution

  Keith Domingue

  Third Street Press

  Contents

  Also by Keith Domingue

  PROLOGUE

  I. MISSION CREEP

  1. Arrangement

  2. La Bestia

  3. Choice

  4. Phoebe

  5. Cyber Center Pushback

  6. Terminal Island

  7. One Step Behind

  8. Cause and Effect

  9. Negotiation

  10. Blue Curtain

  11. The Barbarian

  12. Mission Creep

  13. We Got This

  14. Night Raid

  II. ALL THINGS ARE CONNECTED

  15. Retaliation Planning

  16. In Custody

  17. Shut Down

  18. Observation

  19. Soldiers

  20. Bloodline

  21. Contact

  22. Courier Message

  23. Change of Plans

  24. Attitude

  25. Our Choice

  III. THE REVOLUTION

  26. Destiny’s Align

  27. Coalition Fortress

  28. Trusting the Enemy

  29. Brinksmanship

  30. Places Everyone

  31. Incoming

  32. Final Stand

  33. The End of the Animal

  34. One Month Later

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Keith Domingue

  Also by Keith Domingue

  Luthecker

  Luthecker: Rise

  Luthecker: Revolution

  * * *

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  Luthecker: Revolution

  © 2017 Keith Domingue

  All Rights Reserved

  * * *

  Third Street Press

  First Edition, 2017

  All characters in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  * * *

  This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for brief quotations common in a book review.

  Cover images courtesy of:

  Viche81, Canstockphoto, Olga Altunina, and dreamstime.com

  * * *

  Cover by Joleene Naylor

  ISBN-13: 978-1-948142-13-7 (ebook)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-948142-02-1 (paperback)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-948142-11-3 (hardcover)

  PROLOGUE

  SIACHEN GLACIER, HIMALYAS, PAKISTAN / INDIAN BORDER – ONE MONTH AGO

  “Watch your step sir,” Rahul Malik said to the man who trailed several steps behind him on the hard-packed snow that blanketed the Siachen Glacier, a forty-seven mile long sheet of ice that bridged the border between rivals India and Pakistan.

  Malik, a short, barrel-chested Indian in his early forties, had been put in charge of guiding the foreigner, an American scientist, to the military outpost located closest to the Pakistan-Indian border.

  The former captain in the Indian Army stomped his feet on the hard- packed snow to keep warm as he waited for the much slower American.

  Now special counsel for the region and under contract to the American military conglomerate Coalition Properties, Malik had been tasked with chaperoning one of its representatives, a pale-skinned, bald-headed man by the name of Mark Kirby.

  Kirby, a civilian and therefore soft in Malik’s mind, was unused to the extreme weather conditions of the remote frozen outpost and had struggled a great deal to keep up as soon as they stepped clear of the helicopter less than an hour earlier.

  Located in the eastern Karakoram section of the Himalaya Mountain Range, the Siachen, a word in Balti that roughly translated to “land of abundant roses,” was a region that had been in a territorial dispute between India and Pakistan since the early 1980s.

  Despite the bitter cold, with temperatures that could dip to minus 50 degrees Celsius, and the average winter snowfall, which could be ten meters or more, both countries kept a full contingent of soldiers on constant alert across the glacier, with skirmishes between them being commonplace.

  “Hold up, I have to rest,” Mark Kirby called out to his guide.

  The combination of elevation and cold made Kirby dizzy with every effort, and he was forced to stoop over, resting his hands on his thighs while trying to catch his breath. After several seconds, Kirby stood upright and instinctively pulled his parka close.

  He did a quick scan of the ice-horizon. It was late afternoon, and despite wearing dark wrap-around sunglasses specifically designed to shield his eyes from sunlight that reflected off the surface of the glacier, Kirby was forced to squint from the glare. Even though he had been told what to expect, what Kirby saw shocked the scientist.

  Extending all the way to the horizon, the white-blue of the glacier was peppered with refuse. Kirby could see countless plastic bottles, abandoned tents and poles, along with tires, fuel drums, axes, and old television sets, all half hidden in the melting ice. There were newspapers, fast food wrappers with familiar logos, along with lost gloves and hats. But more numerous than anything else, were the empty shell casings.

  The larger ones appeared to be from RPGs and shoulder mounted rockets, but most of the metal casings were from small arms fire, and they were sprinkled across the ice as far as the eye could see. To Kirby, it looked like an eerie frozen battlefield, a wasteland museum representing the twin engines of consumption and war, which drove much of the world, all of it contrasted by the peaceful and pure-blue skies overhead.

  “What happened here?” Kirby asked, his voice echoing through the open air.

  Malik walked down the path toward Kirby. His thick rubber boots crunched on the snow. “Conflict,” he replied, as he approached Kirby. “As the ice melts, the past… disagreements are more and more revealed.”

  “Conflict over?”

  “Territory and resources, my friend. Along with God, what else is there to fight for?”

  Malik’s Indian accent provided a singsong rhythm to his English that made the question sound like a nursery rhyme.

  “What resources are here?” Kirby asked as he once again looked over the giant sheet of ice. “There’s no oil.”

  Malik smirked then opened up his thick coat and pulled free a bottle of water. “This. Soon, it will be more important than oil.” Malik held the bottle out for Kirby. “Drink. Dehydration is deceptive in the cold.”

  Kirby grabbed the bottle with mitten-covered hands and struggled to twist the cap free.

  He swallowed the water in big gulps, the liquid noticeably warmed by Malik’s body heat. Kirby finished the water, surprised by how thirsty he was.

  “Thank you,” Kirby said, gasping for air yet again as he held the empty bottle out for Malik to take.

  Malik shrugged. “Throw it in the snow with the others. One more won’t make any difference,” the Indian guide said as he turned back to the trail and marched onward.

  Kirby looked over the refuse-strewn glacier. He carefully unzipped his thick wool parka and stuck the bottle into an inside pocket before quickly zipping up the jacket.

  “How much farther?” Kirby yelled out. He realized that shouting caused him to feel dizzy, and his heart pounded with the effort.

  Malik pointed. In the distance, the outline of several tents and small shacks were visible, along with the smoke of fire.

  “You come here representing the interests of the Coalition,” Colonel Banerjee said as he shook Kirby’s hand.

  Kirby took note of the same
singsong rhythm of English in Banerjee’s voice that he caught in Malik’s. It was disarming, almost playful, and seemingly implied no threat.

  However, Banerjee’s eyes said different—they were hard and piercing, and missed no detail. The soldier’s posture and gait were strong and confident, and to Kirby, Banerjee appeared ready for battle at a moment’s notice.

  Kirby eyed the sidearm strapped to the colonel’s hip. The American scientist instinctively knew that Banerjee could, and, if necessary, would kill him with no hesitation or remorse.

  Banerjee sensed the American’s assessment and cracked a knowing smile.

  Kirby took note that the dark skin of Banerjee’s face was hard-lined and leathered—a tough exterior visibly wind-worn from the harsh air of what was considered the “third pole.”

  “Technically, you are correct that I work for the Coalition,” Kirby finally replied, before he unzipped and removed his parka. “But my interests here are my own.”

  Banerjee smirked. The men locked eyes, and Banerjee searched the American’s for any indication as to what Kirby was after.

  Kirby broke the gaze, rubbing his hands together to keep warm. The doctor took note of a wood stove in the center of the canvass command hut that provided heat.

  “Are you hungry?” Banerjee asked.

  “Starving.”

  Banerjee pointed to a small metal folding table where a warm bowl of stew and a large soup spoon sat ready.

  Kirby sat down in a wooden chair at the table, and the colonel watched as the American paddled the vegetables, Yak meat, and broth into his mouth, as if the pale skinned foreigner with the thick unkempt beard hadn’t eaten in weeks.

  Banerjee turned to Malik, who was standing at parade rest near the entrance to the tent, and nodded. Malik nodded in return, about faced, and quickly disappeared.

  Banerjee turned back toward Kirby. He watched as the American drank the last of the broth before wiping his beard.

  He waited until Kirby looked at him before he spoke. “First the Coalition wanted all of the oil. And now they want all of the water. Is that why you are here? For the water?”

  Kirby wiped his hands with a cloth napkin and got to his feet. “How long have you been fighting on the Siachen?”

  “Does it matter? It’s melting, you know. This—” Banerjee stomped his boot in the ice for emphasis. “All of it will be gone before the next generation sees its last days.”

  “I know. It’s a serious problem. And I’m sorry to say that it won’t be stopped.”

  “There is nothing you can do?”

  “I’m not here for that. At least not right now.”

  “Than why are you here?”

  “I’m here for the pattern reader.”

  Banerjee stopped moving. The colonel stared at Kirby for several seconds without a word. It made Kirby uncomfortable.

  “My information says that he came this way,” Kirby continued. “I’ve been tracking him for months. Have you seen Alex Luthecker?”

  “What do you know of this man?” Banerjee questioned. There was suspicion in Banerjee’s tone, and the colonel made no attempt to mask it.

  Kirby took a moment to think of the right words. The last thing the American scientist wanted to do right now was upset the military leader of this remote outpost.

  “I believe he frees minds,” Kirby finally answered. “And many find him dangerous because of this.”

  “So he is a weapon then? Is he part of the Coalition arsenal?”

  Kirby felt his forehead get hot, and sweat dripped down the back of his neck. “There are many on the Coalition board who think he is a weapon. However, I disagree.”

  “If he is not a weapon, what is he?”

  Once again, Kirby searched his mind for the right words. He finally looked Banerjee in the eye. “An agent of change.”

  “A weapon,” Banerjee fired back.

  Kirby moved closer to the wood stove and held his hands over the hot metal to warm them. “Clearly you did not see or speak with him,” Kirby said. He then turned toward the colonel. “Or more accurately, he did not see you when he was here.”

  “How would you know this?”

  “If you had seen him, if he had made contact with you in any way, I believe that you would no longer have any questions. About anything.”

  Banerjee kept his eyes locked on Kirby for several more seconds before abruptly turning toward the entrance to the tent. “So you understand how he works, then. Exactly how he can do what it is that he does.”

  “Like you, I’ve never met Alex Luthecker. But I very much want to. I knew his parents, and there is much I can share with him about who he is. I thought I had the chance in Los Angeles, but he promptly disappeared, as he is wont to do. That’s why I’ve been tracking him. I want to better understand how he can affect people such as he can.”

  “Tell me what this means,” Banerjee said, before he whipped back the tent flap.

  An ice-cold breeze caused Kirby to shiver.

  “Look,” Banerjee said as he pointed north.

  Kirby pulled on his parka before peering out of the tent. He looked over to where Banerjee pointed.

  On the hard packed snow and ice, Kirby eyed a pyramid of several dozen American supplied M-16 rifles. The weapons looked as if they had been tossed aside in haste. Even at this distance, Kirby recognized the weapons as Coalition-made.

  “You are correct. He was here. Two nights ago. With a woman.”

  “Nicole Ellis.”

  “So my sentries say. I only arrived this morning when I heard you would be coming. I thought you would have an answer for this.”

  “Where are they now?”

  “I was told that they disappeared during the night. The very same night that they arrived.”

  “How is that possible?”

  “Perhaps they left with the soldiers who laid down their arms and abandoned their posts.”

  Kirby looked at the pile of rifles. He looked back at Banerjee. Kirby already knew what had happened.

  “They say he came in under the cover of night like an evil spirit, his woman at his side,” Banerjee continued. “They say he whispered in the ears of my soldiers, and that his words somehow altered them at their very core. I was told some were left crying and shaking. Some were inconsolable. One of my captains even took his own life. And by morning, the rest whom this…Alex Luthecker had spoken to…were gone.”

  Banerjee stepped close to Kirby. Although the colonel was only five foot six, his intensity caused Kirby to step back. “Tell me, Doctor Kirby, what manner of weapon is he? What kind of man can come in like a thief in the night and convince battle-hardened soldiers who would fight to the death with a single command and without hesitation, what would convince them to abandon everything, to abandon the only thing they have ever known?”

  Part I

  MISSION CREEP

  1

  Arrangement

  Coalition Properties CEO Glen Turner sat quietly in a corner booth of the café, sipping his coffee. Still a bit jet-lagged from his flight from Los Angeles to Paris, he found the caffeine jolt provided by the strong French brew necessary to keep him alert and focused.

  The café where he sat waiting, Le Select, was legendary, having once served the likes of Hemmingway, Picasso, and Henry Miller. Opened in 1923, Le Select became one of the most popular cafés on Montparnasse, as it was open 24 hours and catered to the whims and secretive natures of its bohemian customers.

  In days long past, the artists, aristocrats, spies, and political revolutionaries were the ones who packed the cafés of Paris such as Le Select. It was even rumored that Karl Marx had met with social scientist Friedrich Engels in Le Select, the two men crafting their economic ideals over coffee and croissants.

  Now it was mostly tourists and long-time locals who kept the handful of remaining old cafés such as Le Select open.

  Turner eyed the current crowd of customers as he finished his cup of coffee. It was just past 11 a.m. local ti
me, and the restaurant would normally be filled with the rabble of its regulars for this hour.

  Right now, the café was quiet and near empty. The half a dozen customers, all men and all more rough looking than bohemian, sat alone, a calculated distance apart, reading newspapers or staring out windows.

  They never made eye contact with Turner, but he sensed that they were always watching. Their deadpan expressions and mechanical attempts to look casual revealed that they were not locals—and certainly not artisans.

  The cloak and dagger element of this meeting that Turner had been called to made him nostalgic for simpler times. Perhaps not as much had changed in the last 84 years as most people thought, he mused to himself.

  It was the Russian oligarch Ivan Barbolin, otherwise known as “the Barbarian,” who had chosen Paris, and specifically Le Select, as their meeting place. It was neutral territory, the Russian had claimed, but as Turner considered the rough looking and distinctively non-French patrons who currently covered both exits and constantly checked the sight lines, he knew otherwise.