The Complete Donavan Adventure Series

by Tom Haase

  The taxi pulled up to the address Bridget had given the driver at the airport. Matt paid and got out. They were in the middle of nowhere with no other structure in the vicinity. "We’ll find a place to stay and a rental car as soon as we get a handle on how long this will take. I’m sure they’ll take us to a motel or hotel."

  The one-story oblong brick building possessed no aesthetic value whatsoever. Two large windows decorated the front on each side of a sliding door that extended from the roof to the concrete floor in the center. The larger door contained a smaller portal for people. A man waited for them at the small entrance.

  "That’s Mr. Pasha," Bridget said. "I recognize him from pictures Dad has. We said we’d be here at two p.m., and we’re here on the dot."

  They approached Mr. Pasha, a medium-sized man with a full head of white hair, who wore an open-collar white shirt and brown slacks. As they introduced themselves, Matt noticed Pasha’s height equaled Bridget’s. He also sported a ruddy complexion, thick black-rimmed glasses, and piercing gray eyes.

  "I’m glad you could come. Please follow me. I’ll give you a cursory tour of the plant, and then I presume you’ll want to do your own investigative work."

  "That would be precisely what we need," Matt replied. He instantly liked Mr. Pasha, sensing the man's intelligence from his appearance and no-nonsense manner.

  As they entered the building, they heard two more cars arrive. As they continued into the structure, Matt assumed the new arrivals were some of the workers at the plant returning after lunch.

  The structure did resemble a warehouse and reminded Matt of a federal records center. On each side of the main aisle, stacks of old desks and boxes were piled one on top of another. The main passageway led straight to a glass wall at the rear.

  "We have positioned the laboratory for the solar tech items behind the glass panels," Mr. Pasha said.

  Matt noticed how a small space appeared to exist next to the walls on each side of the building, probably only wide enough to walk through. Mr. Pasha stopped in the middle of the aisle, halfway to the glass divider.

  "I’m sorry. I remember you were in a taxi for most of an hour to get here. Would you like to freshen up? The restroom is near the front door."

  "I’m fine," Matt said.

  "I’ll take you up on it," Bridget said. She headed back to the restroom and disappeared into it. Matt started to ask Mr. Pasha the details about the land surrounding the building when they heard what sounded like gunfire outside.

  He swung back toward the main entrance and saw a rifle barrel protrude through the front door. Without hesitation, he grabbed Mr. Pasha and pushed him under one of the desks on the side of the aisle, and then he fell flat on the floor and rolled under another desk.

  Glass shattered as bullets hit the laboratory windows. Matt recognized the weapons as automatics from their rate of fire. The intruders fired wildly as they ran down the aisle. From the sounds of the pounding feet, he estimated maybe four men. Then he saw four pairs of legs running toward the laboratory. Damn. He had no weapon. Nothing.

  His hand swung around under the desk. Something. Spiders. God, he hated spiders. He forced himself to continue searching, flipping his hand over and over to avoid having a spider get on it. Then something. It felt like a round metal paperweight. Not exactly something with which to engage four armed men. He now racked the inner reaches of his mind to figure out how to protect this location. He needed to start protecting it or in the future no one would give them any new business. But to do that he needed to immediately protect himself and get this situation under control.

  As the last man ran past, Matt swung his foot out. The man tripped and went down. The others fired their rifles at the laboratory, failing to notice him. Matt rolled out from under the desk, one hand slamming the paperweight into the man’s head and the other grabbing for his weapon, an M-16 rifle.

  He aimed at the back of one of the men running down the aisle and fired a three-round burst. He went down. Matt had inhaled rapidly before shooting and this caused him some difficulty in aiming on his second target with accuracy. He fired and missed. Slow down, he chided himself, take aim, and squeeze the trigger.

  The two remaining attackers whipped around. They swiveled their weapons toward him and fired, but turned back and continued running. One of their bullets sliced through the outer side of his right upper arm. Damn, it burned. He took a little air into his lungs, then released half of his breath and took aim. He squeezed the trigger this time, like he had been taught in basic training, and saw another man fall. These couldn’t be professional soldiers, or even well trained attackers—perhaps fanatics. He hoped not terrorists. His hatred for those types exceeded that for spiders, and he couldn’t fathom why they would be attacking a solar energy manufacturing plant in the middle of Texas. It made no sense.

  The last man ran around the end of the stacked desks, trying to make his way along the narrow space next to the wall to get back to the exit. Matt sprinted toward the glass lab, taking out a handkerchief from his rear pocket and pressing it on his wound. Blood soaked the right sleeve of his shirt. He stopped at the corner to be sure he wouldn’t pass the wall and be in the man’s rifle sight. He eased around. No shots came at him. As he moved along the wall, Matt heard the man’s footsteps and realized he needed to stop him before he reached the exit. He wanted to question him. Matt moved back to the main aisle, aiming the rifle at the door to nail him when he tried to leave.

  The man now moved along the back wall, attempting to gain the exit. The door to the restroom opened right in front of him. He slammed into it. The rifle fell and slid sideways on the floor. The man moved backwards as he staggered, endeavoring to keep his balance.

  Bridget stepped out of the restroom, the stunned attacker tried to swing at her with his right fist. She rolled into him, grabbed his arm, and started to throw him over her shoulder, using his momentum against him. He went halfway over her upper back, and with great effort he rolled off. As his feet came to ground, he pulled a blade from his belt with his left hand. A Ka-Bar knife with a six-inch blade swung at Bridget, but the attacker remained off balance. She ducked beneath the swish of the weapon as it passed over her head, coming up under his arm and twisting it back behind him while he tried not to fall forward. She ripped the knife out of his hand, rotated it around to have the blade facing out, and with all her strength plunged it into his neck. Then she twisted it. Blood shot out and covered her hand and arm. She pushed the dead man away. The corpse fell to the floor. Bridget went over and picked up his rifle.

  Not the first time this counterterrorist and hand-to-hand combat specialist had killed. Just a month ago in the Saudi Arabian desert, she had witnessed a man approach the prone body of Matt and start to raise a pistol to fire into his supine torso. Bridget had leaped forward to land in a firing position with the M-4 rifle, taken careful aim at the terrorist’s head, assuming he might be wearing body armor, and fired. That act had saved Matt’s life.

  "Matt, I took one out. Are you okay?" she shouted.

  "Yes. I’ll rescue Mr. Pasha. He’s in the center aisle under a desk."

  They both approached the supine form of the man Matt had knocked out with the paperweight.

  "Who the hell is he? Why attack this place?" Matt asked.

  The man on the floor attempted to sit up but fell back. He tried to talk, but only mumbled, "You will pay for this, you and your president. Soon Yuri will see to it."

  Matt reached down and grabbed him by his shirt collar. He appeared to be a Middle Eastern youth, dark skin, black hair, and hatred spitting from his mouth. "Yuri who?"

  "Yuri the bomb maker. He will get you and your family."

  "Who are you?" Matt shook the young man.

  "You and your family will pay for this," he repeated.

  "When will it happen, and where is this Yuri?"

  The youth laughed and rolled onto his side away from them, trying to rise. Bridget’s eyes caught the glimmer from the knife whip
ping out. She raised the butt of the rifle taken from the man she had killed and slammed it into the man’s skull. The thud echoed in the building as the rifle butt drove into his brains.

  "A little mad, are you?" Matt asked looking into her eyes. "We need to check if there were any more outside."

  Bridget followed. "You bet your ass I'm pissed. Those bastards were here to kill everybody." They both held weapons now, and Mr. Pasha followed them to the front door.

  “Who were those people?” Pasha asked. “What were they after?”

  Bridget examined the man as he was definitely on the verge of shock from the recent events. She grabbed him under the arm to support him as they headed to the exit. The old man was trembling to where she could feel it.

  "Where in the hell are all the employees?" said Bridget. "More important, why attack a non-operational solar factory with weapons? Matt, these guys are terrorists. You heard Yuri’s name...you know what that means."

  Matt looked up at the clear Texas sky. He knew what that meant, but he said, "He talked about my family. How in hell did he know me? What’s going on?" He remembered what the president had told them earlier about a Russian named Yuri who had escaped from Saudi and somehow seemed directly linked to the atomic bombs Matt and his team had intercepted at Ras Tanura weeks ago. If Yuri surfaced with an atomic weapon, or some other weapon of mass destruction, there could be hell to pay.

  "I don’t know," responded Bridget.

  "We need to talk to Mr. Pasha, and afterwards I’ll call the president," Matt said.

  They went back inside. Adrenaline ran high. They stopped and faced each other, giving half smiles as they began to relax, releasing the tension from their necks and shoulders. What had just happened? The fast-paced event had lasted less than two minutes. Both showed some slight shaking in their hands. Matt took her hand. "Damn, I’m glad we’re still human. You still want to do this?" Matt asked.

  "Oh, yes. We’re in this now. Something is going on and we need to figure it out. That threat wasn’t an idle boast, was it?"

  "No, I don’t think so. I think some of the ones who got away in Saudi Arabia may be in on this."

  In the building, they searched for IDs on the dead men. Found nothing, and went to Mr. Pasha, who remained standing at the front door.

  "Where are your employees?" asked Bridget.

  "We’re lucky. They all went to Dallas to do a supply run, and I thought they would be here before you arrived. Something must have delayed them. They don’t know how fortunate they are."

  "Okay. Okay." Matt said. "Why would terrorists want to attack this little plant? Four men are dead, and we need to find out the reason. A real good motive. What is it?"

  "They probably came to stop the development of our new solar technology," Mr. Pasha said. He looked around obviously still stunned by the violence of the last few minutes. He seemed to be regaining his composure after seeing the dead bodies in his plant.

  "Why?" Bridget asked.

  "Because if we succeed, and we are nearly there, we could replace over sixty percent of all imports of oil."

  "But solar doesn’t work everywhere," Matt said.

  "That’s a popular misconception, fostered by the early efforts to harness the sun’s power and further promulgated by the oil companies." Mr. Pasha unconsciously slipped into the professorial role in which he appeared to be comfortable.

  "Today, with the technology we are developing here with new wafer and printing grid embedment, the efficiency will be high. Even in areas that have only forty percent sunshine, ninety-five- percent efficiency will be achieved. Our new design for our photovoltaic systems will need only light, not necessarily direct sunlight, or even sunlight at all to achieve maximum results."

  "That’s big," Bridget said.

  "Yes it is. Provided we achieve our goal, the dependency on Middle East oil will be a thing of the past," said Mr. Pasha. "A field two hundred by two hundred miles could deliver all the power needed in the United States until the end of time."

  "Now that would provide excellent homeland security! That would be a super thing," said Matt. "The cash flow to the Middle East would dry up, their influence would dissipate, and there would be nothing to fund terrorism. I believe that if there’s no money, there will be little interest in jihad. Maybe they were here to stop this advancement in technology?"

  "Yes. I don’t see any other reason for such an attack. I want to thank you for what you did. I must call the police now," said Pasha.

  "I see a higher hand in this. Don’t contact the cops until I talk to Washington. Bridget, can you take care of finishing our security contract here?" asked Matt.

  "Sure."

  "I’ll make the call to get the bodies out of here now that we know they’re most likely terrorists. Maybe they can identify these guys. We’ll take care of this, Mr. Pasha. Bridget, you take Mr. Pasha inside, and make sure no one enters until the military gets here."

  "Matt, come in here and let me treat your wound. I want to make sure we stopped the bleeding. You’ve got blood all over your shirt." Bridget took him by the undamaged arm and led him to a chair.

  “You need a new blouse,” Matt said seeing the effect of her knife work on her top.

  A few minutes later, after Bridget bandaged his wound, Matt went outside and made two phone calls on his cell. The first concerned taking care of cleaning up this facility to learn as much as they could from the attack. The second went to the President.

  "Hello," came the tired Virginia drawl of the President.

  "Mr. President, Matt Higgins here. We have a problem, which concerns our Russian friend. I need to brief you as soon as possible."

  4

  Eight Days Ago — Washington, D.C

  Matt deplaned from the Air Force aircraft the president had sent to retrieve him from Dallas. A medical technician accompanied the flight and attended to Matt’s wound. He arrived at the White House five hours after the confrontation in Texas.

  Bridget called him on the ride in from Andrews Joint Base in Maryland. She informed him that all had gone well at Solar Tech Industries. “The military cleaned up all traces of the gunfight. They fingerprinted the bodies and ID’d three. They were on student visas at a nearby college. Two came from Yemen, one from Iran. The fourth is unknown but presumed to be an white American male.” She went on to say that she thought the soldiers seemed overeager and on edge about something, but they didn’t say what. She thought something else must be happening.

  On his arrival at the White House, a Secret Service agent led Matt to the Situation Room. On entering, Matt saw the president in a huddle of people, looking at a map of the United States.

  The president said, "Hello, Matt. Come in and give us an account of what happened in Texas. I believe you know Secretary of Defense James Carter, and Secretary of Homeland Security, Eduardo Sanchez, also Admiral Kidd from the NSA, and General Mary Jean Bergermeyer from the Defense Intelligence Agency. And this is the deputy director of the FBI, Mike Anthony. My friend Dick Avery, the national security adviser, is on another mission for me."

  Matt shook hands with each. "There’s not much to relate about the events that transpired in Texas a few hours ago."

  "Go ahead," the president said. "I want you to know that Matt and his partner Bridget have done some exclusive work for me in the past. Now tell us what happened, as I believe it relates to why we’re here."

  Matt took five minutes to describe in detail what had occurred. He failed to mention his shoulder wound, hidden by his blue blazer.

  "Thank you for that detailed account. We can see the resolve and determination we’re up against," President Brennan said, "I believe we have to bring you up to date on other, obviously related, events. You were not the only one to experience a terrorist attack today. In Oakland, an army arsenal was destroyed, in Annapolis, a navy supply building was demolished by a bomb with two dead. And at the Training Center in Norfolk, Virginia a sniper shot two seamen."

  The president walked
to the other side of the map and pointed to the tip of Florida. "A few minutes ago, we received word that the U.S. Coast Guard station in Miami was partly destroyed by an explosion. Seems they filled a motorboat with explosives and rammed it into a Coast Guard cutter. Still waiting to hear on any casualties."

  At the president’s suggestion, they all moved to take seats around the conference table. The secretary of Homeland Security, a middle-aged Hispanic man wearing gold-rimmed glassed that contrasted with his thick black hair, spoke.

  "I see this as a major threat—a deliberate and coordinated terrorist attack on our country. Multiple targets, synchronized timing of the attacks. I believe this warrants a major increase to the threat level against America."

  "I’m inclined to agree," the president said.

  Admiral Kidd, director of the National Security Agency, wearing a gray pinstriped suit that fit him with the same smartness as his admiral’s uniform, gestured with his hand. "We’ve noticed an increase in the encrypted traffic in the last week. Something was brewing, but we weren’t able to pinpoint it. Now we can go back and see if we can crack their codes and possibly use them to our advantage in the future. The increase continued up to the time I came here. I think it’s possible that they’re planning more attacks."

  Then the president got up and addressed the entire group. "These attacks today may be an opening volley in a new front against us. Every federal agency is to go on the highest alert and follow any lead to chase down these terrorists on our soil. As far as I’m concerned, extreme force is authorized. It’s time the gloves come off."

  With bags under his eyes, the president yawned and pushed his fingers through his wiry gray hair. He continued in his Virginian accent, "Y’all are going to be busy in the normal channels to do this. That’s why I’m giving Matt a presidential assignment to get this Yuri fellow. If he calls for help, I want it rendered without delay. Any questions?"

  The president went over and stood behind Matt. He put his hand on his shoulder.