Days Of Perdition: Voodoo Plague Book 6 (16 page)

Navy Lieutenant Randy Parker looked down over the lowered rear
ramp of the C2-A Greyhound that had launched from the aircraft carrier USS
Harry S. Truman over eight hours ago.  The twin turbo-prop aircraft was flying
at slightly over 32,000 feet and they were less than five minutes from the jump
point of their HAHO – High Altitude High Opening – insertion into Alaska. 
Parker looked behind him at the rest of his SEALS, twelve of them stacked up in
line.  Everyone had switched over to their portable oxygen supply and were
ready to go.

“Arrest and extract the President of the United States,” was
what Admiral Packard had ordered Parker and his men to do.

After a lot of soul searching, and the most detailed
background briefing for an operation that he’d ever received in his Naval
career, Parker had accepted the order.  Not without reservations and certainly
not without doubt.  But the “normal” world that would have made this act
unthinkable a few months ago had been ripped away.  There was no normal left. 
Only the fight to hold on to what you had, and the thought of the President
handing the remains of the country to the Russians on a silver platter was what
had swayed his decision.

“Fifteen seconds.”  The jumpmaster’s voice over his radio. 
“Godspeed, Lieutenant.”

Parker looked up at the small “Christmas Tree” over the open
rear door.  A stack of lights resembling a traffic signal with red and green. 

As he watched, the red light on top of the stack faded out
and the green began glowing.  Then the world turned on its side as the aircraft
suddenly banked hard and began rapidly losing altitude. 

Parker was thrown against the men behind him and wound up
pinned to a bulkhead by the violent maneuvers of the aircraft.  He started to
shout out on his radio but a blinding white light consumed the Greyhound and
all souls aboard.

“We have a confirmed shoot down, Madam President.”  An Army
Sergeant said a few moments later, looking up at Kathleen Clark in the darkened
operations center at Fort Wainwright, Alaska.

“Thank you,” she said, turning to face General Carey, the
base commander.

The General looked decidedly unhappy about having shot down
a Navy plane full of American sailors.  But a sympathizer within Admiral
Packard’s command had contacted him and warned of the SEAL mission to arrest
the President.  Carey wasn’t happy with the decisions she had made, felt they
weren’t in the best interest of the United States, but she was the President
and he was obligated to carry out her orders and protect her. 

When he’d told her about the impending SEAL raid she’d flown
into a rage.  Wanted him to attack the aircraft carrier the Admiral was based
on and sink it.  He’d finally calmed her after a long explanation that he
didn’t have any way to carry out that order.  His compromise to her insistence
that the Admiral be punished was to agree to use one of his Patriot missile
batteries to shoot down the SEAL’s plane.  He’d argued for letting them
parachute in and having troops waiting to capture them alive, but she’d
overruled him and insisted that a statement needed to be made so the Admiral
didn’t make any more attempts.

“You’re welcome, Madam President.”  He finally responded,
not meeting her eyes.

The President smiled and swept out of the operations center,
three MPs assigned as her personal security detail going with her.  General
Carey met the haunted eyes of the Sergeant who’d released the missile that had
killed their fellow servicemen, then walked out and headed to his office for a
stiff drink.

“That’s definitely a shoot down, sir.”  The Navy Chief Petty
Officer said to Admiral Packard.

They were deep within the bowels of the USS George
Washington in the CIC - Combat Information Center – watching a real time
satellite image as the debris from the Greyhound fell towards the ground.  The
sailor clicked his mouse a couple of times and the image jumped, displaying the
aircraft in flight. 

He adjusted a setting and the playback slowed just as a
streak of white appeared and intercepted the plane.  Milliseconds later there
was a bright flash that obscured the entire screen, then as it faded pieces of
the shattered airframe could be seen spiraling down, trailing smoke.

“I never saw any canopies,” Packard said, hoping the Chief
would rewind some more and show him that at least the SEALs made it out alive.

“No sir.  They hadn’t jumped yet.”  The man said in a low
voice.

Packard shook his head and balled his hands into fists in
his frustration.  His first inclination was to order a squadron of bombers off
the Truman to reduce Fort Wainwright to rubble, but he wasn’t about to start
killing soldiers because of the bitch occupying the virtual White House.

“Get me General Carey at Wainwright,” he said to a
communications specialist.  “I’ll take it in my cabin.”

The Admiral turned and stormed out of the CIC, sailors in
the passageway leaping out of his path as he strode through the giant ship with
murder in his eyes.  Three minutes later he slammed through the door of his
personal quarters and snatched up the phone that was ringing.

“General Carey on the line, Admiral.”  The specialist said
before connecting the call.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing, General?”  Packard
barked into the phone.  There was silence on the other end for a long time then
Carey spoke in a subdued voice.

“How many?”  He asked.

“How many what?”  Packard snapped.

“How many men were on that plane?”

Packard paused, his anger tempered by the obviously contrite
manner of the General.

“Thirteen SEALs and four in the flight crew.”  He answered in
a less brusque tone.

“Jesus Christ,” Carey breathed into the phone.  “Jesus
Christ.”  The Admiral heard ice tinkle in a glass and thinking it was a good
idea pulled open a desk drawer that contained a prohibited bottle of whiskey.

“This is going to spiral out of control,” the General finally
said.

“Going to?  I think it already has.”  Packard retorted,
pouring two fingers of amber whiskey into a water glass and tossing both of
them down his throat.  “You killed seventeen Americans.  And don’t even fucking
tell me you were just following orders.”

“What the hell am I supposed to do when the President’s
security is threatened and she issues an order?  Ignore it and let your SEALs
walk in and take her away?”  Despite his words, Carey’s tone didn’t change. 
Didn’t become belligerent.  Packard took a deep breath and collected his
thoughts.

“Sam, do you really support what she’s doing?  Crawling into
bed with the Russians after what they’ve done to us?  To the whole world?”

“I don’t like it, but goddamn it Admiral we took an oath. 
Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

“It means everything to me, including the part about
defending what’s left of this country against all enemies.  And right now, with
a President conspiring with Russia instead of standing up and defending us, I’m
choosing to follow my oath.  And so should you.  That bitch is going to hand
everything that’s left over without firing a shot, and what does she get in
return? 

“You saw the same radio intercept I did of her conversation
with Barinov.  She has a fucking mansion waiting for her in Russia.  All she
has to do is get us to stand down so the infected and Russian troops can finish
off the last of us.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”  General Carey’s
voice rose for the first time.  “I’ve not seen any intercept.”

“Son of a bitch!”  Packard exploded.  “Something’s rotten
somewhere.  I ordered you copied on that a couple of days ago!  I’ll call you
back.”

The Admiral slammed the handset back onto the phone, picking
it up a moment later and ordering the CO of the Washington, Captain James to
report to his cabin.  It was time to find out whom he could trust, and who else
was responsible for the deaths of his sailors.

Katie looked over her situation for the third time,
frustrated that she couldn’t come up with any way to escape.  Roach had forced
her down the stairs from the roof and left her in the VIP lounge while he
explored the massive casino.  Her hands were bound behind her back and her
ankles were once again restrained with plastic ties that securely held her to
the furniture.  The paracord noose around her neck was stretched up to the
ceiling and tied off to a light fixture.  There was just enough slack in the
line for her to sit on a red velvet couch as long as she remained sitting up
very straight.

She had thought about trying to pull the light out of the
ceiling, but if she exerted any pressure on the rope it would tighten around
her already bruised throat.  Without her hands she would die quickly as once
tightened, the cord wouldn’t loosen by itself.

Katie had tested her bonds until her wrists were raw and
bleeding, but she didn’t think even John would be able to break out of the
restraints.  There was a bar with rows of gleaming glasses on the far side of
the room.  If she could reach it and break one of them she could cut herself
free, but Roach had effectively ensured that she wasn’t moving off the damn
sofa.

With nothing but time to think, Katie wondered if John was
really alive or had Roach lied to get her to willingly come with him?  She
still didn’t know what he wanted, for sure, but every time she thought about it
there was only one logical answer.  He wanted her.  She would let her thoughts
get that far before shutting them down, refusing to think what her immediate
future held.

Katie had no illusions about her looks and the behavior of
men.  She wasn’t narcissistic like many beautiful women are, just realistic. 
Unwanted advances from men was something she had dealt with since she was a
teenager.  She’d dealt with college professors who made thinly veiled proposals
of how she could receive easy As. 

Then co-workers at the predominantly male CIA.  On one
occasion she’d drawn the attention of a department head whose behavior
qualified as stalking, his training helping him go so far as planting cameras
in her home and listening in on her personal phone calls.  She had confronted
him, but he had effectively covered his tracks and she had no evidence.  After
their very public confrontation in the halls of Langley his spying on her had
only gotten worse.  Until she broke down one night and told John.

This was years ago, her still with the Agency and John still
in the Army.  He’d been somewhere in the Middle East, or at least that’s what
she thought.  They had been talking on encrypted satellite phones and she was
sure that half way through the conversation she’d heard a faint
adhan
in
the background.  The adhan is the Muslim call to prayer, and in many Middle
Eastern countries it is played over loud speakers five times a day to remind
the faithful to prostrate themselves before Allah. 

The next morning when she arrived at work everyone was
talking about the department head that had been the victim of a vicious street mugging
the previous evening while walking his dog.  He was in the hospital with
multiple broken bones, bruised kidneys and a severe concussion.  The odd thing
was his dog’s leash had been carefully tied to the tree next to where he was
found, the animal unharmed and with enough slack to be comfortable while it
waited for its master to get up.

Katie had thought about asking John what he knew about the
incident when they talked a few days later, but knew his response would be
something innocuous.  He had been in the Special Forces community a long time
at that point and had friends all over the world, in every branch of the
service as well as in service to several other nations.  One phone call and he
could reach out from half a world away and solve her problem.  At first she’d
been upset he’d taken it on himself to get involved, but then if she hadn’t
really wanted his help she wouldn’t have told him about it in the first place.

Years later the topic came up late one night when neither of
them could fall asleep.  She had poked him a little, saying if she’d wanted to
kick her stalker’s ass that she was more than capable of doing that herself. 
He’d just grinned, crushed her to him in his big arms and whispered, “and what
would have stopped him from having you arrested and prosecuted?  Do I really
need to explain plausible deniability to you, of all people?”  She’d thought
about what he said for a moment then smiled and snuggled against him, feeling
as safe as a CIA case officer can ever feel. 

Then, three weeks later the bottom had dropped out of her
world.  She’d been at her desk at Langley when she’d received a phone call
asking her to come to the Assistant Director’s office on the seventh floor. 
Arriving, she’d been met by her immediate supervisor who was waiting in the
reception area for her.  He’d escorted her into an office where an Army Colonel
in dress uniform stood stiffly next to the AD.

They’d invited her to have a seat and offered coffee or tea,
but the presence of an Army officer told her something had happened to her
husband.  Rather rudely she’d told them to get to the point.  The men exchanged
glances then the Colonel told her that John had been missing for four days
after leading his team to rescue a squad of MARSOC Marines.  She nodded her head
and asked a few questions which were answered evasively.  Thanking the officer
she’d turned and walked out of the office and directly to a sub-basement room
that housed the operations center for the Middle East.

Her best friend, Anne Hoffman, was an analyst that spent
most of her time with her nose buried in satellite photos of that part of the
world.  Katie told her what was going on and as she suspected, Anne knew all
about the mission, just not that John was involved.  Together they spent two
days and nights looking through images until Anne got lucky and found one taken
at a very oblique angle as a satellite was being moved over the horizon.

The photo showed a firefight raging between a small force of
men who were noticeably paler than the larger group they were battling.  While
the resolution was nowhere near good enough to recognize anyone, the fighting
was happening at the right location and time.  It had to be John and his unit. 
With the photo as a starting point they eventually constructed two timelines. 
One was the exfiltration of John’s unit and the Marines, without John.  The
other was two men, both still unrecognizable, who were cut off by hundreds of
freshly arrived jihadists and had set off into the desert.

By the time Katie and Anne had found them and were able to
set up a real time satellite feed, the two were within a mile of a
Mediterranean beach with nearly eighty men in pursuit.  Katie had snatched up a
phone, and only because the call was coming from the CIA had spoken directly to
the Army Colonel who was the current duty officer for CENTCOM.  Anne had shared
the feed with the Army’s operations center at Fort Bragg and flash traffic
started flying around the globe.

Twenty minutes later the two men made it to the beach and
dug in, holding off the much larger force.  They were running low on ammo and
about to be overrun when three F-18s from an American carrier operating in the
Med appeared on the image the two women were watching.  Forming up in a line
the jets streaked in, strafing the jihadists over and over until they started
running.  Katie had stood up and cheered, drawing disapproving looks from other
analysts working on the far side of the quiet room. 

The fighter jets had stayed on station, occasionally
swooping down and loosing a rocket into the enemy that had taken shelter in the
shallow caves of the area.  Twenty minutes later a Navy rescue helicopter,
escorted by two attack helos, had arrived and quickly winched the two Americans
aboard.  John had called her a few hours later, safely aboard the carrier. 
When she’d asked what he was up to, he replied that he’d been sitting on a
beach sipping a drink with a new friend who just happened to be a Marine. 
She’d smiled and never told him her role in his rescue.

The CIA had taken a dim view of Katie and Anne’s
unauthorized involvement in a military matter.  Both had received letters of
reprimand, which were placed in their permanent records.  Anne lost out on a
promotion that she had already been told was hers, and in utter disgust with the
politics and bureaucracy Katie resigned from the Agency.

Thinking about John brought tears to her eyes, but she
fought them back.  Forced herself to remember the training she’d received. 
Remembered the necessity to remain calm and not let emotions cloud her judgment
or interfere with her thinking.  Sniffing softly she had just returned her
attention to her bindings and the cord around her neck when Roach walked into
the room.

“Good, you’re still here.”  He said with a broad smile on
his face.

“Where else would I be?”  Katie answered, her voice rough
from the cord having been tightened around her throat earlier.

“Well, infected could have come along and helped themselves
to you.  Or maybe some survivors.  Pretty little thing like you would tempt
even the most respectable of men.”  Roach leered at her for a moment, then
reached for her.

It took every ounce of self-control that Katie had to not
flinch away from his touch, but she sat still as he placed his hands on her
hips before slowly sliding them down her legs to the tie around her ankles.  He
let out an exaggerated breath of pleasure, then drew his knife and cut her legs
free.  It took a few seconds, then the pain hit as blood rushed back into her
feet.

Roach grabbed her upper arm and roughly pulled her to her
feet and spun her around.  He took her left forearm in his hand, raising her
bound wrists into the air so he could cut the last of her bonds, but took the
opportunity to caress and squeeze her ass before he did. 

Stepping away he watched her roll her shoulders forward to
start working out the stiffness, then wring her hands as the blood flow was
restored.  She finally turned around, looking warily at him.

“What’s going on?”  She asked.

“The building is clear,” he said.  “And there’s nowhere for
you to go.  All the exits are chained and locked from the inside, and I’m tired
of having to keep you tied up.  If you give me any trouble I’m going to hurt
you.  Understand?”  He waved the knife in the air.

“I understand,” Katie said, carefully reaching up to remove
the cord from around her neck.  “But I don’t understand why you’re doing this.”

A cloud passed over Roach’s face as it turned purple with
rage, then he stepped forward and screamed in Katie’s face, spittle flying, holding
the tip of the knife a fraction of an inch from her stomach.  “Because he left
me no choice!  You’re my leverage out of this!  Now don’t ask me any more stupid
questions!”

Katie kept her face neutral but her concern ratcheted up a few
notches.  Until now she’d thought this guy was just some nut job that wanted
her to live out some sick end of the world fantasy with him.  Now she realized
he was stark raving mad.  Throw him in restraints and shoot him full of
Thorazine mad.  That changed her whole plan about how to deal with him.