Rogue Threat (17 page)

Represented on the map, the state of Virginia was a large triangular shape about the size of a mailbox. He could see cities, roads, and relief features indicated on the map. He saw the star next to the city of Charlottesville, and then his eyes followed Route 29 north to a small town called Ruckersville. He traced, intuitively, a road to the west to a small town called Stanardsville, which had been highlighted with a yellow felt-tip pen several times.

About the time he heard a noise coming from his left, Boudreaux noticed the word
kill
written next to the circle.

Then it all came back to him.

CHAPTER 22

The sound of a door opening in the dark alcove across the musty mineshaft did not give him time to contemplate the fact that he had suddenly realized his name was not Boudreaux.

He looked away from the map and stared into the dark corner from which the noise had come. He stepped slowly to the side, finding cover behind wood beams next to a plywood shelf that held a row of Internet switching devices.

His heart raced, pounding in his chest like a war drum. His memory had washed over him in a massive wave of recognition, but had left his initial purpose for being in the mineshaft clear, like a rock amidst the current.

The door opened partially and then stopped against something on the floor. He saw that the body of the guard he had just killed was blocking access to the mineshaft. He raised his M4, sighting along the crack between the door and the frame. The outline of a head looked down at the body long enough for “Boudreaux” to fire a shot from his silenced weapon. The head kicked back from the force of the bullet and led the body to the floor.

He kept the weapon sighted along the door, expecting others to come streaming through.

But his expectation was unrealized.

Chasteen tossed his
cigarette aside about the time the guard tumbled back toward him.

“Quit screwing around, eh?” Chasteen said, pushing him aside in irritation. The body slumped to the floor. Lifeless. “Sloan?”

Bending down, Chasteen lowered his face toward Sloan and in the dim light noticed the bullet hole squarely in the center of his forehead. Expert shot from an expert marksman. He wondered whether one of the radio operators had killed him or if someone else had infiltrated their hideout.

Chasteen pulled his Glock from its holster and stepped carefully toward the door. Hearing a slight rustling behind him, he stalled.

The cold steel pressed against his neck made him freeze. He started to bring his hands up.

“Visitor,” Ballantine whispered in his ear.

“Shit, you scared me,” Chasteen said, dropping his hands and sighing in relief. “Sloan is dead. Probably the others in the shaft as well.”

Ballantine seethed for a moment, long enough to refocus his mind.
Who was this intruder attempting to disrupt my part of the plan?
He knew that everything else hinged on this phase of the operation.

“You cover the front door. There’s only one other way in, the satellite shaft. Did you have that covered?”

Chasteen dropped his head. “Never occurred to me.”

Ballantine’s heavy gaze fixed on Chasteen, who knew he had made a critical mistake.

Eating his anger, Ballantine immediately went into planning mode. “You stay here and move into the front in about a minute. I’ll drop down through the shaft.”

“Right.”

Ballantine circled around the hill to the small opening where he figured their attacker had entered. The camouflage had been disturbed and the access screen removed. The intruder had entered through this approach.

Lowering himself into the hole, Ballantine kept his eyes focused on the lighted area around the corner. Upon getting his footing, he raised his pistol as he slowly moved to the edge of the wooden support beam to view what was waiting for him inside.

The man who
knew his name was not Boudreaux heard the noise from his left, but perhaps a bit too late. He saw the door move again and now had to contend with possible threats from two locations.

The first bullet whipped past his head before he heard the sound of the pistol explode in the cavernous mineshaft. Going low instinctively, he knelt on the floor, finding himself thinking it odd that they would have AstroTurf inside of this place.

He saw three naked florescent lights suspended from a beam and felt absently for the night-vision goggles hanging around his neck. Remembering he had four full magazines stored in his outer tactical vest, he quickly fired a single shot into each light, shattering the thin glass and bringing on near darkness. The televisions behind him cast a flickering glow across the mineshaft, making it more difficult to detect movement. To remedy that situation, “Boudreaux” snapped off five more rounds, one into each television, leaving him to deal only with the dim liquid crystal displays from the Internet-switching devices and radios.

“Are you here to kill me or all of my equipment?” a voice called out.

“Ballantine?”

“Yes, I’m here,” Ballantine said, a faint hint of recognition registering in the back of his mind.

“Then I’m here to kill you.”

“Well, I count four bodies already, so I presume you are very good at what you do.”

“That’s why they sent me. Seems you’re a bad man, Mr. Ballantine.”

Boudreaux felt the first drop of sweat trickle down his forehead and fall onto the dusty, green grass beneath him. A radio behind him squawked, causing him to turn.

“Signal base, this is Viper. Operations in zone two ready to begin.”

A second shot from Ballantine’s Glock nicked his shoulder, drawing blood. He winced in pain, disappointed in himself for becoming distracted, losing his focus.

“Did I get you, my friend?” Ballantine asked.

He knew he had been close. But he was taking his time because he was trying to place the voice. He had heard that voice before.
But where?

“Just a scratch. It pales in comparison to what I’ve already done to your televisions, not to mention your friends,” Boudreaux shouted across the room.

“Who sent you? The Americans? The Canadians? Who?”

“I wish I could remember,” Boudreaux quipped, half-jokingly.

Chasteen was moving slowly along the interior wall of the mineshaft perpendicular to Boudreaux’s line of sight. Ballantine used two quick strobes of a small flashlight to gain Chasteen’s attention, indicating to him to slow down. Ballantine wanted to develop the situation a bit before they killed the intruder. The voice was from a distant past. It was an unpleasant reminder of something, but he wasn’t sure what.

“Tell me, what is your name?” Ballantine asked. “Please enlighten me before you dispatch me the way you did my friends here.”

Boudreaux thought for a moment, unsure of what to say, primarily because he knew that he had two names. It was an amusing interlude to an increasingly strange situation. He found himself recognizing the voice or inflection, or both, of his primary adversary. There was a slight French accent mixed with the more guttural Arabic tones. He knew there was another attacker inside the mineshaft and figured him to be working the wall, which Boudreaux could not see clearly. But it was the voice and the elusive cockiness of the man who had fired the wounding bullet that intrigued him.

“They call me Boudreaux.”

“Well, Boudreaux, you’re too late and unwelcome here in my camp. Things have already happened and there is nothing we can do to stop the rest of them now.” Ballantine laughed.

“So, then, what’s—” Lightning flashed through his mind as a board caught him hard on the head from behind, dropping him into the row of Internet switching devices, unconscious.

“Maybe we should go fishing, eh?” Chasteen said.

Ballantine moved quickly toward the fallen intruder.

“Was getting a bit concerned about you, boss. Thought you might invite this chap in for tea,” Chasteen said.

“I know this voice from somewhere.” Ballantine’s voice was distant, removed.

“Right, that was my next question. So, let’s see what we’ve got here.”

Ballantine knelt down, reaching forward with one hand while Chasteen leveled his weapon at the assassin’s head. Ballantine slowly rolled the body toward him, noticing the brown hair and strong angular jaw.

Recognition of the man was probably not the most surprising event of Ballantine’s life but it was certainly the one in which he felt the most good fortune. Suddenly, everything seemed possible.

“Chasteen, I believe we have struck gold.”

“How so?” Chasteen responded, still leveling his weapon at the motionless body.

Ballantine used his hand to lightly brush along the man’s strong face, caressing it softly like he might a favored pet. His eyes never strayed from him, as if to reconfirm over and over again that this was indeed who he thought it was.

“As you know, part of our operation here is to kill Matt Garrett,” Ballantine said.

“Yes, of course. We have rehearsed that part of the plan many times.”

Ballantine turned his head slowly, staring directly into the handsome Chasteen’s narrow eyes.

“Do you remember why I want to kill Matt Garrett?”

“Yes, for revenge. His brother killed your only brother. But he was killed, and Matt Garrett was the best remaining target.”

“Well, that has changed somewhat,” Ballantine remarked, a sliver of a smile growing at the corner of his lip. He turned his head back toward the unconscious body.

Chasteen hesitated, slowly turning his gaze toward Garrett, comprehension creeping into him like an Indian stalking a deer, ever so slowly.

“This can’t be Matt Garrett. . . .”

“No. No, Chasteen, this is none other than Captain Zachary Garrett.”

Chasteen smiled in recognition of what Ballantine was saying, even if he thought the Arabic man was a bit delusional. He reached down and pulled away Garrett’s woodland camouflage-pattern shirt, snapping the ID tags from his chest.

“
Winslow Boudreaux, 713-54-8245. O Positive. Catholic.
Nothing here about Zachary Garrett, boss.”

 Ballantine looked back at Chasteen, only inches away from him now.

“I don’t care what the fake tags say. This is the man who killed Henri.” He lifted his face upward, closing his eyes. His voice was a whisper cutting a crease into the silent mineshaft.

“I can see him now, on top of me, pistol in his hand, all in slow motion. Henri coming over the rise toward the wadi. Garrett lifting that pistol, firing it over and over into Henri’s face.”

Ballantine’s voice carried an iciness that spoke to Chasteen, telling him he should trust his boss and keep his mouth shut. Ballantine looked back at Chasteen, emerging from his trance.

“Help me cuff him and get him back to the cabin. Call Virginia and tell her she needs to come to the operations center. Let her know we’ve got casualties. We need to secure Garrett and then, once he awakens, I will interrogate him. We need to know who sent him.”

“Roger.”

They rolled Garrett onto his stomach, took a pair of plastic flexible cuffs from Garrett’s own gear, and used them to bind his wrists behind his back. Ballantine then swung the unconscious man onto his back.

“Take the Sherpa to Vermont at first light and check on the forward ground control site for the UAVs,” Ballantine told Chasteen. “I had planned on doing that, but I need to think about this new development. Swarming operations will commence soon, and I want to make sure we are set.”

“No problem.” Chasteen was an accomplished bush pilot of many years. He had flown fat-cat loggers into the deep forests to survey future cut areas. “I can be ready in an hour.”

Being careful not to step on the bodies littering the mineshaft, they walked into the morning dawn, weapons at the ready in case Garrett was working with a partner or the military had an automatic response cell. Neither appeared to be the case.

As Ballantine’s boots crunched into the morning frost, he considered his good fortune and the limitless potential for the new situation.

Yes, just as he knew the pale gray line to the east would be followed by an orange hue licking its way slowly across the terrain, bringing light and warmth, he knew that the cargo he now carried on his shoulders was none other than Captain Zachary Garrett.

Ballantine’s heart leapt, surging with love for his brother, Henri. Allah had delivered his prayer.

CHAPTER 23

Pacific Ocean, North of Kiribati Island

Admiral Chi Chen sat in his “captain’s chair,” watching the large terminal play for him the real-time full-motion video of a Predator unmanned aerial vehicle.

Chen’s assistant, Seaman Ling, rapidly moved the mouse of the computer that controlled the launch and connectivity of the Predators. The icons for five UAVs circled on another computer terminal display. Scaled numbers and target indicators showed that each aircraft was flying at 10,000 feet above sea level in roughly parallel orbits, each focused on a different island in this sparsely inhabited chain of atolls.