Act of Terror (23 page)

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Authors: Marc Cameron

BOOK: Act of Terror
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C
HAPTER
F
ORTY-THREE
Northern Virginia
 
J
acques Thibodaux paced the oblong tile floor in front of the bank of blinking flat-screen computer monitors and glowing digitized maps of China and Afghanistan. The whir of cooling fans gave the place the feeling of a giant white noise machine. Thibodaux had to keep his hands behind his back to keep from slapping the big-eared Air Force staff sergeant sitting behind a computerized instrument panel and beefed-up military version of a game controller. On the wall above hung a three-foot blue banner bearing the motto of his secret unit in ornate golden script:
hic sunt dracones
—“Here There Be Dragons.”
A red dot pulsed on the tightly stacked topographic lines of the map, seventeen miles across the Chinese border into the Wakhan Corridor of Afghanistan.
An emotionless female voice, like the ones that warned military pilots to “pull up, pull up” and avoid low terrain, sounded the alarm of “Impact ... impact ...” followed by a repeated set of GPS coordinates.
Staff Sergeant Guttman, the big-eared object of the Marine's wrath, banged away furiously at the keyboard beside his game controller. His wide eyes blinked in teenage dismay at the instrument display on the panel before him.
A video game prodigy, he was one of a new generation of Air Force pilots assigned to Detachment Seven, the highly classified unit within the Fifty-third Test and Evaluation Group based at Eglin AFB. He was the primary pilot of the AX7 Damocles, a top-secret, Tier III—high-altitude, low-observable drone. Developed by Lockheed Martin's infamous Skunk Works project office, Damocles differed from the RQ-170 Sentinel in several ways, the most notable being that it carried a payload of weapons. Like the mythical sword on a single horsehair, Damo could loiter above the enemy for nearly two days at altitudes well over sixty-five thousand feet.
The emotionless female voice continued: “Impact ... impact ...”
Thibodaux stopped to rest both hands flat on the counter, breathing down the kid's neck. “Somebody wanna tell me what Bitchin' Betty's talkin' about?”
“I swear, sir.” Guttman looked up, terrified. “It wasn't me. I didn't deploy anything.”
Win Palmer sat in a leather office chair along the back wall of the narrow control room, across from Staff Sergeant Guttman. The windowless trailer was more like a submarine than an Air Force control center. The national security advisor's arms were folded across the chest of his white dress shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
“What deployed?” Palmer asked. “A Tomahawk or the Hellfire?”
“The one-fourteen, sir,” Guttman chirped, his voice cracking from youth and fear. “The Hellfire.”
“Very good,” Palmer said. He leaned back, nodding as if relieved. “Damocles is normally armed with four Tomahawk missiles. We replaced one with a Hellfire to give Quinn close air support for this mission.”
“And?” Thibodaux wanted to say,
What the hell does that mean?
But even he knew there were limits to ways you spoke to the president's right-hand man.
“The Breitling Mrs. Miyagi gave him,” Palmer explained. “We programed Damocles to lock on to the watch when the ELT antenna was activated. The Hellfire would then deploy on a two-second delay. With travel time from altitude, that would give Quinn between five and seven seconds before impact.”
“You mean to tell me”—Thibodaux's face burned red—“you just shot a Hellfire missile at Jericho?”
Guttman shook his head. He forced a sick smile. The kid was actually wearing multicolored braces on his teeth. “No, sir, at least not unless he told us to. The Breitling Emergency pings at two hundred and forty-three megahertz for your basic military frequency. Mr. Palmer's shop tweaked it to talk to Damo and Damo only. When your friend pulled the pin, the watch sent up a signal that went out like a giant cone. Damocles just had to lob one in the basket of that cone, so to speak. The Hellfire followed the signal down to the watch with less than one meter of error.”
“Yeah, well,” the big Cajun harrumphed, exhausted at being trapped stateside while Jericho was in danger, again. “Does Damo have a camera?”
“Multiple,” Guttman said, puffing up his chest like a proud father. “Conventional and infrared—all mounted on a Gorgon Stare Pod—”
“Excellent,” Thibodaux said. “Then get her zoomed in and let's make sure he's okay.”
Guttman shot a terrified look at Palmer.
“Can't do that, Jacques.” The national security advisor frowned. “The AX7 is a stealth platform, but it does leave some signature. With the Hellfire deployment, they'll be searching for us as it is. If we bring the drone lower to look through the cloud layer the Chinese will shoot her out of the sky. The Red Army has an air defense battery just outside of Kashgar. Too close.”
Thibodaux rubbed his jaw. “You once said you wouldn't drop us in the grease without fair warning. Looks to me like Jericho is fryin' out there and you don't give a shit.”
Palmer shook his head slowly. If he was offended, he didn't show it. “Quinn was fully briefed, Jacques. He knew how to deploy the weapon and how far away he had to be. He's alive now or he isn't. I'm betting he had an escape plan before he pulled the wire.”
“We should at least look.” Thibodaux rolled his shoulders, trying in vain not to let his temper get the best of him.
“No one wants to more than I do,” Palmer said.
“I'll bet I do.” The Marine stared hard.
“Easy to say, Jacques, when you only have your friend to consider ...” Palmer studied him a long moment before nodding slowly, opening both hands. “But okay. You're in charge now. You say the word and Sergeant Guttman will bring Damocles out of near orbit to check on our friend Quinn. Don't worry about the little dustup with China, Pakistan, and the rest of the world over our previously top-secret invisible armed UAV.” The national security advisor turned to Guttman. “This man says the word and you bring her down.”
“Sir ...” Guttman stammered, looking like he might have already wet his pants.
“Just do it, son.”
Thibodaux stood completely still, glaring at the ashen staff sergeant.
“Shit!” he finally spat, throwing up his hands. “Just forget it.”
Across the room, Palmer released a pent-up breath. Guttman slouched in his seat, looking as if he might weep.
“There are damn few people in the world we can trust now, Jacques,” Palmer said. “The last thing we need is for what we're doing to end up on WikiLeaks. We've got to believe Jericho knows what he's doing... . Give him a chance.”
“I know.” Thibodaux nodded. His neck burned with a mix of worry over Quinn and pity for men like Palmer who had so many layers of convoluted junk to consider. He preferred the heat of battle when it was kill or be killed. The political side of matters fatigued him. He turned to leave. Camille was in the hospital on bed rest and he hated to leave her alone too long.
“Jacques,” Palmer called.
He stopped at the coded, metal door.
“Sir?”
“For the record, I wouldn't have made that offer if that had been another Marine out there.”
Thibodaux grinned. “Shows how much you know, sir. I adopted Chair Force into the Corps about an hour after I met him.”
C
HAPTER
F
ORTY-FOUR
J
ericho clenched every muscle in his body. The veins on the side of his neck swelled as he strained with his left arm to hold on to Ronnie where she dangled five thousand feet above the hungry rocks below. He lay on his stomach, the crook of his right elbow clutching a nubbin of stone where they'd landed on the ledge roughly the size of a kitchen counter an instant before the Hellfire strike. The camel herder had fallen to his death and the two bandits left topside had been reduced to fine bits of ash.
The missile's impact had rendered Quinn partially deaf. He could hear snippets of Ronnie's frantic shouting, but her voice sounded like it was coming from the inside of a metal can. He couldn't see over the edge, but her hands clutched his forearm and he knew he had a good grip on some piece of her clothing. He could just make out the dust-covered crown of her head over the ledge.
Bracing with his legs against a thin fissure in the rock, he rolled backward, gaining inch by slow inch until he was able to haul her up like a fleshy, wriggling fish. She collapsed, wheezing on top of him, and he realized his handhold had been at the small of her back, on the bunched waistband of her wool long johns.
She looked down at his face as she rearranged her bunched clothing. “In some parts of Cuba, a wedgie like that would mean you'd have to marry me.” Bits of gravel covered her lips. “Good thing I wore my big-girl panties... .”
“Yeah, good thing.” Jericho was already working out a plan to get them up the sheer ten-foot face and back to the smoldering crater where their camp had been. He explained about the Breitling while he studied the rock.
“All this time you had an exploding watch and you didn't tell me?” She shook her head from side to side, her ebony hair a tangled nest of dirt and ash. “I
am
riding through China with James Bond.”
“The watch just sent up a signal. The explosion was courtesy of the U.S. Air Force. And, technically—” Quinn grunted, trying to pull himself up with a shallow handhold, then slipping back down to hug it so he didn't fall backward into the dizzy drop behind him. “We're in Afghanistan ... and now I won't even know what time it is.”
“How far do you think—to the Kyrgyz camp?”
“If they haven't started their trek back out of the high pastures ... maybe six miles according to Gabrielle's map.”
Garcia faced the rock, raising her arms above her head. She arched her back and stuck out her butt.
“Come on,” she said. “Give me a boost.” Even under their desperate circumstances, the stance took Quinn's breath away.
“As inviting as that looks”—he grinned—“you'll need to push me up first. That way I can pull you up.”
“Okay ...” Garcia shot a worried look over her shoulder toward the sheer drop. “But you know how I feel about heights. Don't leave me down here long.”
C
HAPTER
F
ORTY-FIVE
T
he sounds of Nguyen's hoarse screams still rang in Hunt's ears when the kids came back in the room. Kenny was all grins, but he didn't mention the killing. They came and went at least five times a day. Both Hunt and Nelson talked to the other boys but refused to speak to Kenny again.
“What do you call it when a person likes to set things on fire?” A freckled blond boy of eight or nine asked Hunt from his cushion next to a sullen Kenny. His name was Sam and he had an earnest look in his eyes Karen found disarming.
“Pyromania,” Lieutenant Nelson said, deadpan. He leaned against the curved stone wall of the cell. “Why? You know somebody who's into it? It usually means they wet the bed like Kenny.” He'd talk sports or hunting with the other boys to pass the time, but he didn't pass up the opportunity to give the little jerk a jab if it presented itself.
The rest of the boys giggled until Kenny stared them down.
Little Sam scribbled in his spiral notebook, then looked up under blond bangs. “Don't you sometimes call them something else? I know there's another word... .”
Karen shrugged. “Just plain
pyro
.” She'd decided to play along. Since the guards had dragged poor Nguyen away, a number of boys—all between the ages of eight and twelve—had come to the cell every few hours to talk. Karen counted seven different boys in all, but they came three or four at a time. Kenny was always with them and appeared to be their de facto leader. All spoke perfect English.
Sam seemed to be the most tenderhearted among them. He scooted his cushion closer, smiling up with the gap-toothed adoration of a kid brother. She tried to reach out to him a little, whispering in Tajik while the other boys were busy in a deep conversation with Nelson about baseball and the last World Series. He shook his head as if stricken, throwing a terrified look toward the door. He put a finger to his lips.
“The teachers will beat me if I talk like that,” he said. All the boys called the guards
teachers
. “You should be careful so they don't hurt you.”
“I see.” Karen nodded. “I'm going to ask you something, Sam. Have you been taken from your parents? Are you American?”
He frowned, setting his jaw. “Americans killed my mother and sister,” he said, tears forming in his eye. “I saw it.”
She couldn't help but notice the hint of Boston in the boy's accent. The boy sighed, the weight of the world on his tiny shoulders. “I hate Americans ... but you're a good lady, Miss Hunt. You sorta remind me of my mother. I wish ...” His little voice trailed off and he stared blankly at the cell wall. He shook his head, stifling a sob.
“What?” Karen asked. She kept her voice calm and hushed so as not to alert the other boys just a few feet away. This conversation was something Kenny surely wouldn't approve of. “Tell me what you wish, Sam.”
“Miss Hunt,” the little boy said. “I should study.”
“Sam.” She gave him an exhausted smile. “I think you work way too hard.”
“That sounds funny—‘
ya wook
too
hod... .
' ” He mimicked her Boston accent perfectly, dropping his Rs.
“Don't you see what they're doing?” Nelson had stopped his sports talk with the other boys and was now staring. “They're English bandits—learning how to speak like us. Copying our accents. That's why they killed Nguyen first. His parents came to the U.S. from Vietnam when he was just a kid so his accent wasn't perfect enough for them.”
“Way to go,” Kenny sneered. He stood to tower over the younger boy. “Idiot!” He knocked Sam off his cushion with a swift kick to the ribs. “Now they're on to us.”
Hunt snatched Kenny's arm, yanking him down to face her. The guards might be able to push her around, but she wasn't about to let some runty kid get away with it.
“You didn't have to kick him, you little shit.” Her fingernails dug into the flesh of his arm, drawing blood.
Kenny stared back at her with black pig eyes, breathing softly. “If you know what's good for you, you'll let go of me ... you little shit.”
Karen's entire body shook with rage. She shoved Kenny away and reached to comfort a crying Sam. He buried his face into her shoulder, sobbing.
Kenny rubbed the nail marks on his arm, and then looked at the other boys. “Come on, guys. That's enough lessons for the day.” He said. “Let's go get a Coke. Come on, Sam. Stop being such a baby. You're not in trouble.”
Sam sat up, nodding at Kenny, unconvinced. “Okay ...”
“I'll tell you what I wished for, Miss Hunt.” His solemn eyes glistened with tears. “I wish ... I wish I could save you... .”

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