The Missile Game (The Dr. Scott James Thriller Series Book 1) (7 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Hangar 9

Camp Peary, Virginia

1:25 pm

CAMP PEARY SITS ON a 9,200-acre parcel of land separated from the rest of Virginia by an eight-foot chain-link fence topped with barbed wire. About 8,000 acres are wooded, and 2,000 cleared acres are used for military housing and training
areas. The enormous, three-mile-long airstrip at the base is surrounded on one side by the York River and on the other by the 400-acre Bigler’s Millpond. It is the most technologically advanced runway in the U.S. defense system.

The airfield at Camp Peary can accommodate the largest aircraft in the world. Embedded in the concrete are sensors that measure wind speed and direction, barometric pressure, air temperature, cloud and fog cover, and precipitation. At times of dangerous weather conditions in Washington D.C, planes flying important government officials to the capital are rerouted here.

Apart from such emergency situations, the Camp Peary airstrip is closed to all civilian and military aircraft, and is reserved, with special clearance, for high-ranking military officers, and for secret landings by the world’s most important diplomats. Though shrouded in secrecy, the camp has long been rumored to be a training base for the CIA, used for the testing of various classified materials and equipment.

In this isolated and secured environment, three men now worked under the body of an MQ-1 drone, or Predator, as it was known. The unmanned aircraft was small—only twenty-seven feet long, with a wingspan of forty-eight feet. For three days, the men had been fitting a direct energy laser system to the underbelly of the aircraft. The little pilotless airplane only stood about four and a half feet off the ground, and that made for back-breaking work.

Never before had a laser weapon system been installed on a drone aircraft. In the past, existing laser systems had been too heavy. Operational lasers, such as the type President Reagan had proposed in his Star Wars plan for missile defense, weighed over five tons.

The leader of the laser group, Jacob Weizman, was a thin, balding Israeli in his sixties. Generally, he gave instructions to the other two men, and then before they could perform each assignment, elbowed them away and did the work himself.

Alpha Charlie, wearing sunglasses, a Redskins cap, and a sweatshirt, watched at a distance. He smiled as he witnessed the interaction between the owner of the aircraft company and his men. Both of his guys had been with him for twenty or more years.

Weizman held a variety of patents on pilotless aircraft and weapon systems for drones. Over the past decade, Weizman’s California-based company had successfully sold six different drone prototypes to the U.S. Air Force. For the past three years, his attention had been focused solely on direct energy laser systems.

It was Weizman who had sponsored the gaming competition that Charlie had won, and Weizman who had urged the CIA to recruit Charlie. And it was Charlie who in turn had the money to buy his own aircraft and finance Weizman’s research. The CIA didn’t have enough money assigned to drone operations to get the job done.

So it was that the CIA and Charlie became partners.

Charlie had started by financing his own fleet of four, MQ-1 Predators, the first and most commonly-used type of drone, all of which were now operational and combat tested. As Charlie’s fees—and reputation—grew to legendary status, he had plans to buy more aircraft, including the Predator’s successor, the MQ-9 Reaper, and eventually, the biggest one of them all, the RQ-4B Global Hawk.

At last, the old engineer stood back, folded his arms, and smiled. Weizman waved Charlie over to talk. Despite having resided in California for so long, Weizman still spoke with a strong Israeli accent. It was so bad at times that even the men who worked with him had a hard time understanding.

“They’re still saying it can’t be done. But this will show them.” he said to Charlie. “The weight of this DE Laser is only 1,100 pounds. It’s the same weight as the Hellfire system that MQ-1s now use.”

Weizman’s reduction in the poundage of electrical wiring needed to make all the connections, lighter metals in the casings, and the newest lithium batteries, had shaved a half ton off the weight. His innovations allowed directed electromagnetic radiation to melt the wiring in ground vehicles, and more importantly, the guidance and detonation systems of modern missiles. He felt the laser could even destroy the wiring systems in ships.

Hitting stationary or slow-moving trucks or cars would be of course easy, but achieving Weizman’s dream, hitting and destroying missiles in flight, would be tough, very tough.

“No one has ever used the DE system to arm drones, but with this small unit, I will do it. With your skills, Charlie, we’ll make history,” Weizman said.

Charlie slapped the thick lenses on the laser pod. “I’m looking forward to testing these babies.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Keyes’ Apartment

Jackson City, North Carolina

3:30 pm

KEYES PARKED THE ACCORD in the carport of a two-story fourplex in need of refurbishing. The inside of her second-floor apartment was equally outdated.

“Please, sit down and relax while I take a quick shower,” she said as we walked in. “Then I’ll make us something to eat.”

Half an hour later I was standing at the sink, hand-washing the dishes, when suddenly Elizabeth appeared by my side, startling me
. She stood so close I could feel her breath. She smelled wonderful … like a white orchid.

“Your turn,” she said, holding out a fresh washcloth and bath towel. “Go take a nice, hot shower while I throw dinner together.”

It was an offer I couldn’t refuse. The showers at the jail were short and lukewarm. The food was disgusting, and I hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast: two rubbery eggs, burnt toast, greasy fried potatoes, and watery orange juice. After being released, I’d been tempted to get lunch at a café downtown but decided against spending any of the little money I had.

I was famished.

“You know, that sounds really good.”

Keyes’ Apartment

5:20 pm

I walked into the dining room to find Elizabeth carrying two plates of spaghetti and meatballs from the kitchen. Already on the table were a bottle of red wine, a bowl of green salad, and place settings for two. After choking down jail grub, that simple meal was looking good to me.

“Just in time,” she said, smiling. “That was one long shower. I was starting to worry about you in there.”

“Aren’t you worried about being alone with an accused killer?”

“Nah. I trust you.”

“Well, you’re the only one who does,” I said. “And the way the investigation is going—” I stopped myself from saying more.

“You can tell me all about it over dinner,” Keyes said.

“And spoil a perfectly good meal talking about my hideous problems? Let’s just enjoy dinner now.” Then, lifting my wine glass, I toasted, “Bon appétit!”

While we ate the satisfying meal and drank the cheap wine, we made small talk. Every few minutes, Keyes would slip in a question about my case, and I’d sidestep the question or answer it cryptically, then change the subject. As dinner wore on, my discomfort increased. Just being there seemed surreal. I mean, I barely even
knew
this woman.

The only time I’d previously spent with Keyes was at work, and our relationship was always all business. We rarely spoke, and our communication was limited to matters relating to patients and running the office.

There was virtually no personal information on her job application; she’d even left the space for emergency contacts blank. She didn’t wear a wedding ring, and had no personal photos on her desk. She never talked about her family, either, so I had no idea whether she had a husband or boyfriend, or children, or siblings. The only mention of a friend had been the name of the no-show, Anna Duke, who was supposed to have transported her home the day of surgery.

I knew from her job application that she’d graduated from a nursing school in Texas, but I didn’t know if she’d been born and raised there or moved there from somewhere else. When I was opening the surgery center, I’d been so busy that I’d hired Keyes without checking references and after only a ten-minute phone interview.

During the two months she’d worked for me, prior to Dr. Carey’s murder, she had done an excellent job and was always cordial to me and the rest of the staff. But she’d never formed a personal connection with or socialized outside the office with any of us. Now, here I was in her apartment …

Who is she?

Swallowing, I said, “Elizabeth, you know all about me, but I know nothing of you.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Well, for starters, where are you from?”

“Texas.”

I waited for some elaboration. None came, so I asked, “What were your parents like?”

Keyes carefully laid down her fork and sat there staring at her plate for a long minute. When she finally raised her head, her facial expression was cold but her eyes were like red-hot lasers boring through me. “What if I’m an orphan?”

“Are you?”

“What difference does it make to you?” she snapped.

“Um, none, I just, I was just . . .” I stammered. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“No, I’m sorry. It’s a long story, and opening that book just opens up old wounds,” she said. “I’d rather talk about how I can help you to clear your name.”

“That’s kind of you, but why are—”

“You helped me, now I’m helping you.” Her smile returned as suddenly as it had disappeared.

Before I could respond, the dusty grandfather clock in the corner chimed six times and Keyes sprung out of her chair.

“Gotta run!” she said. “I’ll be back in a couple hours. Just make yourself at home. When I get back, we can talk about your case.”

She rushed out of the apartment, grabbing a leather backpack from a hook by the door on her way out.

I sat there in a daze while a cacophony of thoughts prayed on my mind. By midnight Keyes was still not home, and I was exhausted. I stripped to my boxers and climbed into bed, falling into a deep sleep, seconds after my head hit the pillow.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Washington, DC

10:00 pm

THE TWO CIA CASE officers took the expensive cab ride to the Naked Monkey Bar, a DC hot spot where Omar Farok was known to mingle when he was in town. If everything went according to plan, Farok would soon be in their custody.

But his bodyguards were always by his side, and they were brutal. Recruited from the Republic of the Congo, they came from the ranks of the rebels who’d fought in the Second Congo War, where they’d treated their prisoners with extreme cr
uelty. These were trained and experienced torturers. They knew how much injury they could inflict on a human body without killing their victim, frequently removing the victim’s organs and eating them, a ritualistic practice reflecting their tribe’s cannibalistic past. Torture of Farok’s girlfriends was a common thing.

At midnight, Farok slipped out of the Naked Monkey Bar, and headed back to his rented townhouse. He walked briskly toward his destination, only four blocks away. He didn’t notice the two CIA operatives who were following him until he was within two blocks of the townhouse. He rarely went anywhere without bodyguards, but that night, he’d felt confidant. He’d misjudged. He’d been a fool to send his guards away.

Farok rarely used his cell phone because there were too many electronic ears listening, waiting for him to slip up. But this was an emergency. He pressed “1” on his speed dial, and made an immediate connection.

“I have company. Two of them,” he said quietly. “I’m two blocks away, on M Street by Connecticut Avenue. Take them before they take me.”

Four men in black suits and starched white shirts without ties raced from their room to a limo parked at the curb for quick departure. Within a minute, they were behind the two CIA operatives trailing their boss. The limo slowed. Two of the bodyguards jumped from the car, crept up behind the CIA men, and slammed ten-inch jambiyas into their backs, just left of the spine. The attackers thrust upward and then sideways, carving gaping holes into the aorta and heart. As the agents fell forward, the Congolese killers grabbed them under their arms and dragged them to the limo. They shoved the bodies into the back and jumped in.

The limo sped down the street until it caught up to Farok, then it slowed almost to a stop alongside him. The front passenger door swung open and Farok jumped into the car. While the car raced to a parking garage two blocks away, the rebels removed the cell phones from the pockets of the dead men, wiped off the blood, and handed them to Farok. “We’re leaving tonight,” Farok said in a quiet voice. “I want to be closer to the target when Celena locates it.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Keyes’ Apartment

Jackson City, North Carolina

7:45 am

I WOKE IN A cold sweat, heart racing, disoriented. It took me a minute to get my bearings. I pulled on my clothes and walked down the short hall to the bath
room. The door to Keyes’ bedroom was closed, but I could hear her snoring softly inside.
Must’ve been a late night.

After getting cleaned up, I went to the kitchen to make some coffee and breakfast. Except for a few bottles of water, some condiments, and a moldy cantaloupe, the refrigerator was pretty much bare, so I walked to the corner market to pick up a few groceries.

An hour later, I was lifting one of my specialties, a veggie frittata, out of the oven when Keyes walked in. Laughing, she said, “You clean and cook? What more could a girl want?”

“It’s the least I can do.”

I looked into her sparkling eyes. They were inviting. I wanted to touch her, but controlled myself and forced my thoughts back to business mode. Keyes seemed sincere, and God knows I could use an ally.

After breakfast, Keyes gave me a lift to Jackson City Hospital. I still had a license to practice medicine and hospital privileges. I just needed a space to operate and to have access to special equipment for wound care for my post-op patients. I dreaded having to go there because to do so I had to get Herb Waters’ approval. It would have been tough enough even before I was accused of murder, but now it would be next to impossible. With everything at stake, I had to give it a try.

Herb Waters ruled the hospital with an iron fist. I went directly to his sixth floor Penthouse office.

In what little spare time I had, over the previous few months, I’d done research on Waters and the Jackson City Hospital. My research concluded with a half-page op-ed piece that was published in the
Daily Chronicle
, the city paper. In my article, I accused Waters of negotiating to sell our community not-for-profit hospital to the large for-profit conglomerate, American Hospital Systems (AHS). AHS bought and managed hundreds of hospitals all over the United States.

I’d written the piece because the concept of charitable medical care was near and dear to my heart. The purpose of a nonprofit hospital was to provide medical care to all who needed it, not only to those with good insurance or loads of cash in the bank, as was the standard practice at for-profit hospitals. Most physicians had, as I did, a few indigent patients they treated for free, and they relied on the community hospital to accept those patients who needed in-hospital services.

Waters had written a three-column rebuttal to my article. In his piece, which appeared on the front page of the newspaper a few days after my letter was published, Waters repeatedly stated that, “this hospital is not for sale to anyone.” Further, he claimed, “Dr. James’ letter was written with no knowledge of fact.”

I knew that to be a lie because I had personally talked with an AHS executive in Houston four times during the previous month. Waters had never accepted criticism well, and he was beyond livid about my op-ed piece in the newspaper.

Until our recent falling out, Waters and I had been close friends, going back to our freshman year in high school. These days, our relationship was rocky, at best. But I had no choice but to ask for his help.

Herb Waters’ office, occupying one-fourth of the roof space of the sixth floor, looked as if it had been dropped from the sky on top of an otherwise functionally well-designed hospital. It was planned by his advisers, who felt he should be physically present at the hospital and not several miles away in the Hanover building, where his office was formerly situated. Hospital employees gave the office the name, “Penthouse,” which by common usage became the official title of the structure.

The Penthouse’s appearance was questioned by professional builders and designers, even though it was drawn by the best architects in the southeast. Passersby thought that the odd structure was the top of the elevator shafts or the ventilation system. With the Penthouse addition, Waters moved, permanently, from the Hanover building to the hospital, and his title was changed to President of Jackson City Healthcare Systems Inc.

The hospital elevator only went as high as the fifth floor. This was because Waters didn’t want to see any of the doctors, and made it difficult for us to reach his office by distancing himself from the hospital complex with a flight of stairs. I took the elevator to the fifth floor and ran up the stairs, bounding into the Penthouse.

I walked into Waters’ office reception area. No one other than his private secretary was allowed in Waters’ Penthouse.

I surprised the secretary, Shirley Moss. “I need to see your boss.”

“Dr. James, please … I’m not sure if ... ” was her tentative response. She looked at me and continued, her voice, now firm, “He’s busy. You’ll have to make an appointment.”

I just smiled, lifted the phone, and put it in her hands. “Shirley, can you please make an appointment for me—
now
?”

Waters heard the demand through the closed door and lifted the phone before it rang.

“Dr. James ... is here ... to see you,” the receptionist said.

“What? Does he want to kill me now, too?” He yelled so loud that I could easily hear him. “Tell him I’m busy!”

I shouted through the wall, “You have her block for you now? Be a man, Herb—open the door.”

Waters threw open his office door and marched to within two feet of me.

I leaned toward Waters, our faces nearly touching.

Waters towered over me. “What the hell are you doing here?”

I looked into the black searing eyes of the man. “My OR will be closed for a few days and I need space to see follow-ups and perform scheduled surgery.”

“Goddamn it, Scott. You almost kill your own employee, so then you take out your anesthesiologist and now you want me to let you into my hospital. It’ll be a cold day in hell before you work here again.”

“I’ll pay your exorbitant hospital costs.”

“Yeah, right. You’re not seeing any of your patients in my hospital. Tell your patients you’re going to Hawaii for a week.”

“My patients need hospital services. You don’t own the hospital and you have no authority to refuse them.”

“Oh yeah? Watch me.” He lifted a phone to call security.

My cell phone rang. It was Pete Harris. “I’d like you to come over to my office as soon as possible,” he said. “I want to talk to you about hospital finance.”

I hung up, then said, “No need to call your henchmen, Herb. I’m leaving.”