Strike Force Charlie (35 page)

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Authors: Mack Maloney

BOOK: Strike Force Charlie
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At the same time this was happening, a convoy of base admin cars, Humvees, and ambulances also arrived at the CL-215 crash site. They were followed by four firefighting trucks that immediately began spraying flame-retardant foam everywhere, including all over the four ghosts. Suddenly it looked like it was snowing in the hot Nevada sun. Many civilian spectators were running towards the crash site as well.
The four foam-covered ghosts looked up at all these people with twin expressions of relief and confusion. “We should get paid for this,” Fox cracked. “We're the hit of the entire show … .”
The armed men from the Osprey immediately sought to take command. Turning their guns on everyone from the base
admin people to the firefighters and the civilians, they tried to surround the four ghosts, keeping everyone else away.
“You guys are coming with us!” one of them barked from behind his mask. “Those are the orders from Washington … .”
But at that moment, another base admin car arrived with a screech. It was Captain Audette. He'd seen what the ghosts had done back at the RV holding area; he was one of the few people involved who had any idea what had really happened.
“You're not taking these people anywhere!” he yelled at the black-suited gunmen. “They just saved a few thousand lives back there.”
One of the men in black got in Audette's face.
“
We
are in charge here!” he insisted.
But instinct told Audette these guys from the Osprey were bad news. “By whose authority?” he demanded.
“Ever hear of General Rushton?” the man in black replied snidely. “We are under his orders to take these people with us.”
Audette fired back, “Take them where?”
The man in black was suddenly stumped. He had no good answer for that.
Several hundred civilians had reached the site by this time. They were taking phone-photo images and videos of the bizarre scene, something that made the men from the Osprey very uncomfortable.
Meanwhile, many of the planes from the veterans' flight were still screaming overhead. The earsplitting whine of the C-5 especially made any kind of coherent dialogue impossible; the huge plane went right over, touching down on an auxiliary runway not far from the crash site.
All this time, the four ghosts just stayed where they were, on the ground, still stunned, listening to the two sides argue back and forth. And out on the periphery, one man in a black uniform and helmet stood apart, watching it all, his body language indicating some confusion. It was Captain Pershing Nash. And for what seemed to be the thousandth time in the past few days he muttered again, “What the hell am
I
doing here?”
The man from the Osprey who was doing most of the talking barked out an order above the scream of jet engines. His men started for the four ghosts on the ground. But then Audette yelled a similar order, and his men—air techs and Air Police mostly—closed in on the ghosts as well. A melee broke out as the two sides pushed each other around for about thirty seconds, this while the ghosts continued to watch it all with dark amusement.
“Who knew we were so popular?” Puglisi asked drily.
In the end it was the fact that so many civilians were on hand, with so many recording devices, that caused the men in black to back down. They'd been under strict orders not to be photographed, not to be seen at all, but that aspect of their mission to capture and eliminate the ghosts had gone overboard a long time ago. Audette was still pushing the lead man in black, asking him for papers, IDs, anything that would show he had more authority over the four ghosts than someone actually based at Nellis.
Finally, Rushton's guy backed down. Their cover was already blown, and he could see there was no way they could do anything with the four rogues, not with such a crowd around. But he was not going quietly.
He barked at Audette, “Well, what the hell are
you
going to do with them?”
Audette had to think a moment. He was just a public affairs guy. There were many other officers at Nellis who outranked him, and he didn't want to do the wrong thing, not with so many eyes watching him. So, he went by the book.
“I'm going to have them arrested,” he pronounced suddenly. “And put into protective custody.”
This seemed to stun everyone, including the men in black.
“Arrested?” the lead gunman said. “For what?”
Audette looked at the four ghosts and then at their smoldering airplane.
“Trespassing,” he said. “And unlawful operation of a civilian aircraft above a military installation.”
With that, Audette gave a signal to the Air Police. Four of them walked past Rushton's guys, got the rogues to their
feet, and led them to one of their waiting Humvees.
As they were passing by, one of the men in black intentionally bumped into Bates.
“You haven't seen the last of us,” the man growled.
It had not been a good 24 hours for General Rushton. Spooked by the near hit at the Oak House two nights before, he'd quintupled his force of Global Security bodyguards, both near his home and in his traveling entourage. But even his closest friends were indicating now that so many armed men surrounding him were becoming an embarrassment and, even worse, way too visible. Enough was enough. Even the President was taking notice, and
no one
wanted that.
This did little to help Rushton's demeanor. He was paranoid anyway and growing more so by the hour, afraid that he had bitten off more than he could ever chew. Grand plans, counterplans, deceptions, deceit—it was all becoming too much for him. In a strange way, he longed for the “old days” just a few months before, when he was simply the military whip on the NSC, cleaning up messes and barging into the President's office anytime he wanted.
Maybe it was all those trips to the Oval Office that had got to him. Maybe that whiff, so close to power, was what did it. But whatever the cause, he was in very deep now. Too deep to get out. Too deep to turn back. Too deep to do anything but complete the plan.
It was now almost 5:00 P.M. He'd been holed up in his secret office near the top floor of the EOB ever since the assassination
attempt
He'd gone to the Oak House club that
night
to sign up more allies in his plan, a necessary trip, he had believed. But as it turned out, most of the members he'd wanted to speak to were not on hand, scared away that night by all the security Rushton was towing around with him.
This was not good. These people, the
real
power brokers in D.C., knew the score more than the President or anyone else at the top of the Washington political hierarchy. They knew that the rogue team had escaped from Gitmo and that these escapees were crazy and that once they had you in their sights you became crazy, too—whether you were an Al Qaeda operative or a Saudi Prince. Or an
uber
-ambitious general. While they still supported Rushton and his grand scheme—which they secretly referred to as the May 7 Plan—that support could slip away at any moment, should one more wrong move be made.
Which was just one reason Rushton was feeling so low. Things were looking shaky across-the-board. He knew about the events in West Texas, at Stinky Valley, and now at Nellis. He knew that his hit squad had arrived too late to do anything but watch the rogues be carted away by the Air Force. How he wished he'd just killed them all after he rounded them up in the Philippines. They were ghosts all right, and they'd been haunting him ever since he'd first become aware of their existence. And now they were after him—or at least someone was.
That
was the feeling that had got under his skin.
So here he was, just short of arming himself, waiting for the minutes to tick away before the Big Event—the
really
big event—was to happen. The anticipation was killing him. That's why when the telephone on his desk started ringing he nearly flew out of his chair and took cover on the floor. The damn ring was so loud! And as he'd been using mostly cell phones lately, it had been a while since he'd heard this landline come to life.
He recovered somewhat and checked the caller ID. The call was coming from the phone on the secretary's desk right outside his office door.
Rushton hesitated a moment, wondering what new hell this might be. Finally, though, he picked it up only because he wanted the ringing to stop.
“What is it?” he snapped into the phone.
“There's a young lady out here who insists on seeing you,” a voice answered. It was one of his bodyguards.
“Who is she?” Rushton wanted to know. “How did she get in?”
“She won't give us her name,” the bodyguard said. “But she is showing us an ID badge—security level eight.”
Rushton thought a moment. That was the highest security classification he knew of, at least when it came to agencies and departments working with the NSC.
“Well, who is she with?” he asked. “Who does she work for?”
“The DSA,” was the reply.
 
Li walked into the office a few seconds later. She'd been rudely frisked, twice, but that made no difference. She'd left her firearm at home.
She was carrying only her laptop and had dressed in her most attractive business suit, hoping for once her looks would work for her.
Even in his state, Rushton's eyes went wide when he first saw her. He tried to turn on the charm, bowing slightly and shaking her hand. That was his first mistake.
“I don't seem to recall ever meeting you before,” he began. “Miss … ?”
“Mary Li Cho,” she replied, showing him her DSA badge.
He studied it for a moment. “I didn't think there was anyone left down at DSA,” he said cautiously, indicating that she should have a seat.
But Li remained standing.
“I'm the last one, at least here in D.C., sir,” she replied.
Rushton sat on the edge of his desk. He was taken with her—anyone would be. But any mention of the DSA made him understandably nervous.
“I'm a bit busy,” he said. “And these are strange times, as
I'm sure you know. But you were able to get in, past my little army out there, so I assume this must be important. Especially on the Fourth of July.”
“It is important, General,” she told him. “I've uncovered information on the people who are trying to kill you.”
Rushton's face dropped a mile. He was stunned, but just for a moment. He recovered quickly and asked, “And how did you do that?”
Li lifted her laptop cover. “It was all on here,” she replied. “My job at DSA was traffic coordinator. I saw everything going in and out. I still do, though I've been working at home. I began receiving some very strange e-mails lately. It took me a while to sort them out—but I believe now that I have. And frankly, I'm very disturbed by what I've seen.”
Rushton still couldn't take his eyes off her.
“Well, please, then,” he said, “show me … .”
Li set up her laptop and immediately opened both the “Fast Ball” and “Slow Curve” files. Rushton was shocked upon seeing them. Of course, he was familiar with the information contained in both, but he didn't let her know that. Where the files came from he had no idea. But in a way, he was impressed that she had this sort of bombshell information in her possession.
But there was more. She showed him a file that was almost a minute-by-minute, blow-by-blow account of the ghosts' activities since the day they'd escaped from Cuba: Their landing at Cape Lonely, their sneaking into her house. The split team heading out west to track down the first bus terrorists, the east side crew chasing Ramosa and finally Rushton himself. She told him everything about the night he was almost shot at the Oak House, plus how the west side team knew about Denver, the bus on the Texas highway, and the second bus at the air show.
She gave him names, times, dates, locations. She made clear the connection between Fox and Ozzi and the rest of the team. She essentially told him everything she knew about the rogues—and that was a lot.
Rushton collapsed into his seat after he heard it all. All this running around, with bodyguards, armored limos, his family in the line of fire—and here, before him, in the figure of this beautiful Asian-American girl were all the answers he'd been seeking.
“So you were pretending to be in thick with them?” he asked her. “Gathering information on them all this time?”
She nodded. “That was my job,” she said. “That's what I'm paid to do.”
Rushton was impressed. “And do you know the location of these assassins?”
“I do,” Li replied.
“And you can lead me to them?”
“I can,” she answered without hesitation.
Rushton reached for the phone, intent on calling his security detail on the other side of the door. But Li suddenly put her hand on his and stopped him.
“You don't want to do that, General,” she said. “Because I have one more file to show you. Something else I intercepted.”
She finally sat down and drew her chair closer to him. “Is it wise to be talking here?” she asked him.
Rushton thought a moment and then replied, “Yes—I think so.”
Li took a deep breath. “All this goes back to when these people escaped from Guantanamo, do you agree?”
Rushton nodded blankly.
“And I believe it's still a mystery just how they were able to pull it off,” she went on. “I mean, it was quite an escape—but obviously they must have had inside help.”
“Again, I agree,” Rushton said.
She displayed another file on her laptop. “I couldn't get much information on who might have helped them switch themselves for the Iranian prisoners,” she told him boldly. “Even my former colleagues were tight-lipped about that. But I did come up with something very interesting concerning the airplane that carried them out.”
Rushton's brow furrowed deeply. “The airplane?” he asked. “It came from Iran. It was being piloted by people from the Iranian military. I know that for a fact.”
Li nodded and smiled, just a bit.
“This is true,” she said. “But I was able to trace it back even further than that.”
Rushton shook his head. He wasn't following her.
“Did you know that the airplane in question was actually
leased
to the Iranian military?” she asked him.
Rushton thought a moment and shrugged. “Not an unusual situation,” he replied. “Many governments around the world lease aircraft for their military. It's cheaper that way. Even our own Air Force is leasing tanker planes from Boeing. Or at least they're trying to.”
“Exactly,” Li said. “But I found out just who the Iranians leased this particular airplane from.”
She began banging on the laptop again. As Rushton watched intently, she displayed a list of company and corporation names. There were many addresses, contact numbers, and so on, all of them related in some way to the Iranian Transall cargo plane.
Finally she got to the bottom of the list—to the name of the real entity that had leased the plane to the Iranians.
She turned the laptop screen around so Rushton could see it.
It read: “Global Security, Inc.”
The same people who'd been serving as his bodyguards for the past month. The same people who were just outside his door.
Rushton froze solid, his face draining of color as he weighed the implications of this.
“My God,” he breathed. “Are you sure?”
Li nodded slowly. “It's my job to be …” she replied. “I'll stake my life on it. They never mentioned this to you, I assume?”
Rushton numbly shook his head no. He'd gone completely pale. Li said: “General, if they supplied the plane and never
told you, I don't think it's too great a leap to assume they were somehow connected to the rogue team's escape.
And,
that there are probably many other things they're not telling you.”
In a weird kind of way, it made sense to Rushton. All this security, yet someone gets close enough to almost take a shot at him. All his attempts to stop the rogues, yet they'd beaten him to the punch every time. He remembered that old, worn-out phrase: Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean that they're not out to get you.
Suddenly it seemed meant just for him.
He began to say something, but Li stopped him by pressing her finger against his lips.
She leaned in to him and whispered, “General … we've got to get you out of here …
now.”
 
The door to Rushton's secret office opened a minute later.
The six bodyguards in the outer hallway snapped to—sort of. Most times they saw Rushton only for the time it took to escort him from the office door to the open elevator, where he would disappear, usually in the care of his aides or plainclothes Secret Service men, or their fellow bodyguards.
This time was different. The woman who had gone in to see him a few minutes before now came out with him—on his arm.
Rushton looked weird, or weirder than usual. He was smiling broadly, though his face was very pale. He was carrying his own laptop, too, a first. The woman, however, looked as gorgeous as she did when she first went in.
“Leaving just for a few,” the general told them, giving no indication that he wanted them to form a phalanx around him as they had so many times in the past week. “Be right back … .”
But the head bodyguard stopped him.
“General?” he said sternly. “If you have no other protection, we
have
to go with you, at least two of us. That's what it says in the contract … .”

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