The Ghost Pattern (22 page)

“Yeah, hi, I need to speak with Henrietta Marino. This is an emergency.”

A few seconds later, a woman’s harsh voice answered, “Marino.”

“Ms. Marino, not sure if you remember me, it’s Alex Hoffmann.”

“Oh…I don’t have time for this. I’m hanging up.”

“No, no, please don’t hang up!” Alex pleaded. “Listen, I found flight XA233. In Russia.”

“If this is another one of your crazy theories, I promise you this time you’ll go to prison and do some serious time,” Marino replied dryly.

“No, listen, I am here, right now, in Russia, with the passengers of XA233, about 450 people. We need exfil, now. We’re desperate.”

The line went silent for a few long seconds.

“Hello?” Alex said, afraid Marino had hung up after all.

“You better be for real,” Marino replied. “What do you need?”

“We need a warship rerouted, the
Okinawa
, so we can all go home.”

“Send me details, some proof—a picture or something, and hang tight,” Marino replied, her voice sounding a tad warmer. “I’ll text you my number,” she added and then hung up.

“Whew,” Alex exhaled. “Now let’s hope this works.” She checked the clearing sky again, then added, “We need to hit the road, and we need some backup.”

“I think I have that covered,” Lou replied. “Remember the recon drones we used to get pictures of the silo? Their operators are willing to fly them in here, armed with Hellfire missiles, as air support. They’ve cleared it through channels using NanoLance connections. The drones are inbound as we speak, but it will take them a while. They’re flying in from Hokkaido.”

...61

...Tuesday, May 10, 11:19AM EDT (UTC-4:00 hours)

...The White House

...Washington, DC

The cabinet of the United States was in session. The members were assembled in the west wing of the White House, in the Cabinet Room, and running behind schedule. President Krassner liked his meetings to start on time and end on time, yet the cabinet members were constantly veering off the agenda.

Twelve people sat around the grand mahogany table, with President Krassner sitting at the center of the table, his back toward the large, arched windows that faced the Rose Garden, flooded in the sweet light of a clear-sky spring morning. The cabinet members had been served coffee in small, delicate china cups, and the staffers had since left the room.

The secretary of commerce frowned, looking disapprovingly around the table, where several sidebar conversations were in full flight, while the president finished flipping through the pages of a brief. As soon as he put down the brief, she cleared her throat.

“We’re ready to proceed, Mr. President.”

The room, brought to order, fell silent. The only sounds heard were the occasional paper shuffle and the clinking of china, as coffee cups were set back on their delicate saucers.

“Good morning, everyone,” Krassner greeted them in his usual manner. “I have one agenda item for today, and that is unemployment reporting.”

Krassner, famous for his direct, engaging, blunt style, looked straight at the secretary of labor before proceeding. The man shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

“So, what is it, really?” Krassner continued. “Is it 5 percent unemployment, or only 5 percent of the eligible population drawing unemployment benefits? If we’re going to revisit our immigration policy, I want to know first, how many Americans are truly unable to find work. How many have given up searching, but would gladly rejoin the work force if given the opportunity. Is it five million, or fifty million? I’m definitely not supporting this ridiculous race to undercut the American worker in favor of cheaper workers brought on temporary visas, only to benefit corporate greed. Bring me data, data that makes sense.”

Krassner stopped talking, waiting for the secretary of labor to answer.

“Ahem…Mr. President,” the secretary of labor replied, “our numbers indicate—”

The Cabinet Room door opened, and an apologetic staffer made his way quickly to the secretary of defense, then whispered something in his ear.

Everyone held their breaths when an urgent message was delivered to the secretary of defense, interrupting a cabinet session no less. Only bad news could be that urgent.

The secretary of defense turned toward the staffer and whispered, “Are you sure?”

The staffer put several photographs printed on glossy paper in front of him, and he reviewed them in less than two seconds. Then he stood abruptly, and approached Krassner.

“Mr. President, if I may…”

“Go ahead,” Krassner invited him, intrigued.

“Flight XA233 has been found. In Russia. CIA Director Seiden is on the phone for you. He needs to speak with you immediately.”

Murmurs, whispers, and gasps took over the Cabinet Room as the president stepped out, followed by the secretary of defense.

Within seconds, Krassner entered the Oval Office, sat down, and picked up his phone. The secretary of defense continued to stand.

“Director Seiden,” Krassner said.

“Mr. President,” Seiden greeted him with deference. “We’ve found Flight XA233, somewhere in eastern Russia. We have a battle group in the area, the USS
Okinawa
, engaged in training exercises with the Japanese Navy. We need your approval to reroute the
Okinawa
to extract the passengers and crew, and the team who found them. We need the
Okinawa
to enter Russian territorial waters and airspace for a couple of hours. We also need permission to open fire if fired on.”

“What’s your theory?”

“Terrorist attack, Mr. President. We have proof.”

“Congratulations to your team, well done!”

“Umm…sir, it wasn’t my team. They are a private investigations team hired by Blake Bernard, whose wife was aboard that flight.”

Krassner remained silent for a brief moment.

“I see. All right, I’ll give the order. Tell them to hang tight, we’re sending in full support. Thank you, Director Seiden.”

He hung up the phone and pursed his lips, the short-lived look of disappointment on his face quickly replaced by anger.

“Get me the
Okinawa
, let’s bring these people home, right now. I’ll deal with the Russians later.”

“Yes, sir,” the secretary of defense replied.

“Who’s the commander?”

“It’s Captain Kevin Callahan, sir,” he replied, after briefly checking the notes brought by his assistant.

Krassner’s frown deepened. He loosened his tie and took off his jacket, then rolled up his sleeves. He shook his head in disbelief, and then continued, swallowing a sigh of frustration.

“After we reroute the
Okinawa
, can you please find out how the hell the entire world is looking for XA233’s wreckage in the middle of the Pacific, and a bunch of civilians find it on mainland Russia? Open everything for this mission, all available support. Reroute satellites.”

“Umm...yes, sir. They already have satellite support,” the secretary of defense replied, after checking his notes again. “We’re tapped into their feed.”

“Who the hell are these people?”

...62

...Wednesday, May 11, 2:24AM Local Time (UTC+10:00 hours)

...Abandoned ICBM Site

...Near Naikhin, Russia

Every few minutes, Alex looked up at the sky, more and more worried. One after another, myriad stars became visible, as the heavy clouds moved away. A moonless night, pitch-dark, and, within minutes, direct satellite line of sight would be opening up right above them, as the last of the clouds disappeared fast.

The Russians had to have a satellite or two monitoring the operation; one doesn’t pull off that kind of endeavor, and then decide to ignore it. It made sense. V would definitely keep his eye on the silo and the status of his op; he was a logical, thorough, resourceful strategist. They were about to have company, she could bet on that. V wasn’t going to give up his operation without a fight.

Her radio crackled to life.

“Alpha, Tango One ready for departure.”

“Copy that, Tango One, on my way.”

That was the code name for the first truck in their escape convoy. Numbered one through nine, the trucks were loaded with people and ready to leave, hotwired by the Bravo teams and driven by passenger volunteers. Each truck had at least one Bravo team member riding in the back, ready to open fire on any attacker. Tango Nine, the last of the convoy, had three Bravos at the back of the truck, and Lou rode with them.

Alex had the passenger seat in Tango One, from where she could help Tango One’s driver navigate. She headed there fast, satisfied that all trucks were loaded and ready to leave.

They had found an escape route toward the coast, a curvy, narrow, mountain road meandering forty kilometers or so toward the coastal town of Vanino. Of course, they would never get to Vanino; they couldn’t risk it. Vanino, being a coastal town, had to have Russian Coast Guard forces. They couldn’t risk being seen and captured. A convoy of nine military trucks loaded with people was not that inconspicuous.

No, they would cross the mountains on the road to Vanino, then veer off that road heading south, taking a road hardly worth being called a road, just to get out of swamp territory and onto hard terrain, where rescue helos could land. The so-called road was more like an unpaved trail, not even visible on maps. But the satellite feeds from DigiWorld confirmed it was there, barely wide enough for the trucks.

Then the trucks would take them to the clearing they had identified via satellite, just about ten kilometers after leaving the paved road to Vanino. She had given those coordinates to Henri Marino as a landing zone for their extraction. It was wide enough, and the terrain was flat and firm. No one had confirmed those coordinates yet, but she couldn’t wait any longer. No one had confirmed the exfil mission had been cleared either, but she couldn’t afford any doubt. She had to believe they’d be there.

She knew she was asking for a lot…rerouting a US Navy vessel into the territorial waters of Russia was crossing the point of no return to what could potentially read in tomorrow’s papers as the start of WW III. Nevertheless, the USS
Okinawa
and its fleet of Super Stallion helicopters were their only chance of survival.
Go, Marino go! Make it happen, girl!

It wasn’t going to be easy. They’d found 434 survivors; 7 people had been killed since XA233 had been hijacked, including the flight’s captain. Those trucks held 434 men, women, and children in very poor shape, some wounded badly. There were 434 people who counted on her and the team to take them home safely.

They needed to get going. The sky was almost completely clear.

Satisfied they had everyone loaded on the trucks, Alex hopped into the passenger seat in Tango One and radioed, “This is Alpha in Tango One, ready to go.”

One by one, all Tangos confirmed.

The trucks set in motion, going east, their lights on low beam. Their convoy, moving slowly on the curvy road, seemed eerie to her, like moving though an alternate reality. She felt a pang of fear, thinking just how vulnerable they’d be once they entered the stretch of curvy, narrow, mountain road, with no place to turn or take cover if things got ugly. It was the perfect place for an ambush.

She shook her dark thoughts away, and turned toward the back. Through the opening between the truck’s cabin and the cargo hold, she reached out and touched Sam’s hand. He lay on the gurney covered in dirty blankets, in and out of consciousness, barely alive. His skin felt ice cold and damp. He was going into shock.

She squeezed his hand.

“Sam? You holding on? We’re moving, see? Just a little while longer. Just hold on. Promise me you’ll hold on.”

Sam didn’t reply, didn’t even open his eyes. Dr. Adenauer, still by his side, shot her a worried glance as he placed two fingers on Sam’s right carotid, feeling for a pulse.

“Please hang on, Sam, please,” she whispered. “We’re almost there.”

Next to him, lying on another gurney, Blake was conscious, although pale and wincing at every bump in the road. Adeline sat crouched next to him, holding his hand with both of hers, while her big, round eyes searched Alex’s with unspoken fear glinting in them. The doctors had patched Blake’s wound enough to help him survive the journey, but not much more. She locked eyes with Blake, trying to encourage him. He nodded slightly. He was holding on.

A third gurney held an unconscious man; Alex had learned he was a doctor, and the Russians had smashed his ribs to make a point. He was heavily sedated, his vitals monitored closely by an American doctor, Gary Davis.

A short vibration coming from her phone caught her attention. A text message from Tom. It read, “We have you on satellite, from DigiWorld. Godspeed and be safe!”

Her heart swelled. They were not alone. She opened a comm on her radio.

“Lima, this is Alpha.”

“Go for Lima,” Lou’s voice replied, with a little static in the background.

“Lima, Father has visual, says hi.”

“Copy, Alpha. Tell him to look wide.”

That was a good idea. If the DigiWorld satellite would zoom out a little, they would be able to see if anyone approached their convoy, by air or by ground, and give them the heads up.

She texted Tom. “Will try. Go wide with visual, keep us posted.”

The truck was slow, going sixteen, maybe twenty kilometers per hour. The road was bumpy, making the wounded in the back groan in pain.

She craned her head out of the window and looked back at their convoy snaking through the wooded mountain road. The other trucks were holding close, none had straggled. She checked the sky again; it was all clear. If Tom had eyes on them, so could anyone else. So could V. Their headlights in the perfectly dark forest made them easy to spot from above, even with the dense tree foliage cover.

She felt adrenaline hit her gut. Something was wrong. Behind them, the sky was slightly less dark. At times flashes of light ripped through the hazy darkness, sending long shadows everywhere. Something, someone was coming.

Her phone chimed again, at the same time Lou’s voice came alive on her radio.

“Alpha, this is Lima. We have company.”

She checked the new text message from Tom.

“Multiple armored vehicles approaching fast from behind. Five Ansyr, two BTR-80 armored personnel carriers, two trucks carrying troops.”

She pressed the radio button fitted on her wrist and replied, “Copy, Lima. Get ready. We have nine miles left to go until we turn south. Multiple armored vehicles inbound, Ansyrs, BTR-80s, troops. We can’t outrun them.”

Ansyr was the latest Russian assault vehicle. It was bad news. The Ansyr was an armored vehicle that could go a maximum of 120 kilometers per hour for 800 kilometers without refueling, and could carry three troops and a heavy-machine gun. The vehicles would have no difficulty catching up with the trucks. There was nothing on those trucks that could stop an Ansyr.

“Copy, Alpha. Ready to engage,” Lou replied, not a trace of hesitation in his voice.

“Bravo teams, we have company,” she added, although all teams had heard her exchange with Lou.

“Tango Two ready,” she heard Martin’s voice confirm, followed by the rest of the trucks.

Yeah, ready
, she thought, clenching her jaws.
As we’ll ever be.
A bunch of people armed with MP5s, Tavors, and handguns, maybe a couple grenades, against Russian armored assault vehicles, and who knows how many soldiers. Not a fair fight, but she wasn’t going to shy away from it. They’d come here to do a job, damn it, and they were going to do it. They were going to take these people home, no matter what.

Their only strategic advantage was the narrow, mountain road. The assault vehicles could only approach them one by one if they kept on moving. With a little bit of luck and some decent gunmanship from the Bravos in Tango Nine, they could take them out one by one. Or at least she hoped so, considering the Ansyrs were fully armored.

“Step on it a little,” she asked the driver. The man nodded and increased the speed.

Alex looked behind her, at the people riding in the truck. They were scared, packed closely together, the way gazelles gather when lions are circling the herd. Most of them had their eyes on her, looking for hope, for safety, for a way home out of that dark, endlessly miserable hell. She had to say something to them.

She took a deep breath, and then spoke into her radio, while maintaining eye contact with the people on her truck.

“All Tangos, this is Alpha.”

“Go for Tangos,” Lou replied.

“All Tangos, please repeat my message to your passengers.”

She cleared her voice, then continued.

“Things are going to get a bit ugly,” she started saying, cringing at the way it sounded. “The Russians are catching up with us. Please know we’ll do everything it takes to get you back home to safety. We have air support on the way, and we
will
make it. This is my promise to you, to all of you.”

She checked the back of the convoy, and noticed the sky was lighting up closer behind them. The Russians were getting near.

She spoke into her radio again, while her right hand clutched the Tavor’s handle tighter.

“Lima, this is Alpha. ETA on air support?”

The radio went silent for a little while, and then static picked up before an unfamiliar voice chimed in.

“Alpha, this is Firefly Nest. ETA is sixteen minutes. We have you on remote visual. Hang tight.”