The Missile Game (The Dr. Scott James Thriller Series Book 1) (18 page)

CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

Watson Farm

Chapel Hill, North Carolina

4:01 pm

THE LAUNCH AND FLIGHT of the Silkworm were plotted by Perkins’ people, and within moments the UH-60 Blackhawk helicopters were in route to the Watson peanut farm.

The lead helicopter landed two miles fr
om the farmhouse, where the terrorists were still celebrating the first strike on American soil by a Chinese Silkworm RBS-15 missile.

A second Blackhawk landed, and the U.S. combat teams assembled on the road, then moved in quietly to surround the farmhouse. Four squads of infantry breached the building at two doors. Just two captives were taken.

At the barn, where the Silkworm was launched, Michelle hid now behind a farm tractor, with two of her soldiers. Five more missiles rested in rectangular cradles on a flatbed Mack truck, with camouflage paint.

Troops entered the barn within a minute of landing.

As they advance, the two men of Michelle’s group cautiously stepped out from behind the tractor with their hands out in front of them.

Michelle had other plans. “Fuck you!” she said as she leaned out from behind the tractor and fired her M-16.

The U.S. troops returned fire. It was five to one. The bullets from the U.S. guns flattened the tires of the tractor, blew off the seat and both fenders, and tore apart the fuel tank.

As Michelle lay dying, her final words were, “Allahu Akbar.”

CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE

CIA Field Operations Command

Camp Peary, Virginia

7:00 pm

UPON ARRIVING AT CAMP Peary, Keyes and I were taken immediately to a large conference room. There were no smiles or congratulations. We were debriefed by fifteen interrogators. All were serious and to the point. For mor
e than an hour, we were bombarded with questions. Finally, the room fell silent, except for the sound of a small balding man in a general’s uniform drumming his fingers on the table.

That has to be the ‘Perkins’ who was Pete Harris’ friend.

He stared at Keyes a full minute, his eyes steely as he studied her. He clasped his hands together and said icily, “Ms. Keyes, you are an illegal alien and you’ve been associated with known members of Al Qaeda and ISIS. As a terrorist, you pose a threat not only to the United States but also to the world. You are in trouble, big trouble, in this country. We show no mercy to terrorists. You face imprisonment for a long time, perhaps fifty years or more, depending on what charges we bring and your level of cooperation.”

Keyes looked down and did not respond. I suppressed the urge to reach out to her.

“Do you have an answer to that?”

She looked into the eyes of her inquisitor. “But you haven’t asked a question yet.”

One member of the panel chuckled. The red-faced man pounded the desk with his fist and shouted, “Don’t be coy with this panel! I demand you tell us all you know about Omar Farok and his terrorist organization!”

Keyes looked first at me and then at the floor. After a moment, she lifted her head and made eye contact with several of the panel members as she spoke. “Before today, Farok was pretty good to me. But like every other man in my life—with one exception.” She glanced at me before continuing. “Like the others, Farok used me. And then he planned my death. I see now that he intended to kill me all along, from the time he programmed my phone until he gave me that watch.”

The interrogators asked dozens of questions about Farok, but she remained mute. They quizzed me, but I knew as little about the man as the panel members did.

Finally, Keyes spoke. “I’ll tell you everything if you give me and Dr. James full immunity from prosecution.”

Perkins responded by pressing the intercom. “Please take our visitors to their quarters.” Then, he turned to Keyes and me. “We’ll break for dinner now. We’ll summon you when we’ve made a decision.”

Two soldiers arrived and led Keyes and me to separate rooms, where we spent the night.

CIA Field Operations Command

Camp Peary, Virginia

9:15 pm

During the closed session, the panel members discussed Keyes’
involvement with the terrorists. She was just a courier. ISIS used her to
find the drone site, nothing more. If Keyes, indeed, had the photographic memory that was attributed to her, she had a wealth of information to divulge.

Immunity was a good thing, if she would talk.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR

CIA Field Operations Command

Camp Peary, Virginia

7:00 am

THEY BROUGHT US BACK in. To my relief and surprise, they promised us full immunity. The only condition being that Keyes had to be perfectly forthright in disclosing inf
ormation. If Keyes withheld something, or if she lied, the immunity would be revoked immediately.

I was taken to a private room while Keyes faced her interrogators.

She took a deep breath and began telling them all she knew. “Omar Farok planned this entire mission. He is the son of Ismael Muhammad Farok. He was born July, 17, 1970, in Damascus, Syria, and has five brothers and six sisters.” She proceeded to give them the full names, birth dates and birthplaces, and even the last known addresses, complete with mail codes, of each member of the Farok family.

Keyes continued talking about Farok and his people and operation for almost an hour before the representative from the Advocate General’s office in the room said, “Okay, okay, I’m satisfied with your knowledge and memory.” He turned to the rest of panel. “If she keeps going like this, she gets immunity.”

Camp Peary, Virginia

Three Days Later

The CIA wasted no time putting Keyes’ revelations to use. Over a three-day period, forty arrests were made in the United States, and eighteen terrorists were taken into custody in Saudi Arabia, Yemen, and The Sudan.

Keyes gave exact instructions on how to apprehend Farok. If he did what he’d done in the past, he would direct his Learjet to fly toward the West Coast and over the Canadian border, to escape to Asia.

The Canadian Air Force was put on alert. Radar picked up the aircraft right where Keyes said it would be, and six Canadian F-35 fighter planes intercepted it and forced a landing in Winnipeg.

But Farok was not on the plane, a mystery that not even Keyes could solve.

After three days of separate questioning, Keyes and I were brought back together, and taken to the conference room. Perkins was there with two men I’d never seen before.

Perkins conducted the final debriefing. “Dr. James, I should inform you that Detective Harris’ body was found in the trunk of a car in the hospital parking lot. The car was traced to a rental car company in Raleigh, North Carolina. The “official” report was that his beheading was the act of Middle Eastern terrorists whom Harris had gone looking for the night he was murdered.”

“He was a friend of mine,” I said.

“Mine, too.”

Perkins looked down for a moment, then continued, with a smile growing on his face, “I should also inform you that the Jackson Police Department has dismissed the charges of murder in regards to Dr. Carey and Officer Wilson.”

I smiled. I was incredibly relieved … until Perkins continued. “Now, we found a Mercedes parked at an apartment complex with two bodies, both from the Congo. The gun that was in your possession killed both of the men.” The general lifted up a plastic bag containing the Browning pistol. “Dr. James, your fingerprints are all over this gun.”

He looked me in the eye. “With so many of your prints on this, I assume the pistol belongs to you.”

“It was just—”

“I have some advice for you, Dr. James,” he interrupted, silencing me with a stern look. “Be more careful with this in the future.”

He handed me the gun. Only then did he smile.

The other two on the panel laughed.

Perkins turned his attention to Elizabeth. “Ms. Keyes, somehow, you entered the country illegally, probably in one of Farok’s jets, but you never forged any false passports or financial or legal documents, or engaged in any fraudulent activities that we are aware of. Nor have you withheld information from this investigating body. In fact, your testimony has helped us greatly.

“I should tell you that coincident with the missile firing you witnessed, there was a car-bomb blast in Nice, France, yesterday, at one of the two residences owned by Herbert Waters. Three people were killed, including a woman identified as Mrs. Waters. There are no heirs listed in Mr. Waters’ will other than several charities, which will receive a lot of money from foreign banks.”

“But what about the hospital property?” I asked. “There’s strong evidence to support Waters’ ownership of Jackson City Hospital.”

“We sifted through your notes, which were in Detective Harris’ office. It does seem that through Waters’ manipulation of the hospital bylaws, he is the legal owner of the hospital and all its entities. But the citizens of your city still think they own it, so unless Waters resurrects from the dead and lays claim to it, there’s no one to challenge the city’s ownership of the hospital.”

He returned his attention to Keyes. “Ms. Keyes, you’ll be our ‘guest’ in D.C. a while, until we’ve had access to all your information. If you continue to cooperate, we will allow you to return to Great Britain, your only place of apparent citizenship. Of course, we’re fully aware that ‘Keyes’ is not your real birth name. But at this time, we don’t have enough information to locate your actual birth certificate, if there ever was one.

“As we see it, ISIS attacked our country, and the two of you—an American physician and an English woman—fought valiantly to protect it. But the press won’t get that part of the story. You will both be signing a mountain of confidentiality agreements. Prepare yourself for a case of writer’s cramp.”

Perkins smiled a little.

“The only thing the press needs to know is that American defense systems are operational and have outwitted ISIS.” Perkins chuckled. “Maybe that will help us when our next budget goes for Congressional approval.”

CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE

Jackson City

8:30 am

THE HOMELAND SECURITY AGENCY took complete control of the media coverage. They were ably assisted by the National Security Agency and the U.S. Air Force. We were sequestered at Camp Peary. All other witnesses to the events in Jackson City Hospital’s Emergency Disaster bus were dead, except for Colonel Edwards. No ISIS group stepped up to claim responsibility for the attack, so the American news makers had the privilege of telling the story as it best benefited the interests of the United States, a real triumph in the war on terror.

The President of the United States received strong commendations for his actions in dealing with the terrorist attack in Jackson City. Interviews and polls of the American public showed overwhelming support in the
handling of domestic terrorism with a great deal of praise for the administration, the performance of Congress, and the military complex, even though they had nothing to do with the outcome.

Throughout the next several days, foreign and domestic headlines alike read:

“America Thwarts ISIS Attack”

“North Carolina Hospital Bombed by Terrorists”

“American Military Captures Terrorist Missile Site Within Minutes of Attack”

“Terrorists Kill 5 at North Carolina Hospital”

“America Successful in Counter-Terrorist Strike”

No mention was made of either Dr. Scott James or Elizabeth Keyes.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX

Camp Peary Airfield

11:30 pm

ELIZABETH KEYES AND I said our goodbyes on the tarmac before she boarded the military transport to Washington. I held both her hands as we talked. She was headed to D.C. for an extended stay. Afterward, she would go home. She wanted to stay in America, and I wanted that, too, but immunity didn’t stretch that far. She was forbidden from ever entering the United States again.

“Well, Scott, I can’t say our time together was boring.”

“Hard to debate that.”

“Yeah.” She looked down. A tear rolled down her cheek. Then she lifted her chin, wiped the tears from her eyes, and smiled. “I check my e-mail now and then. Who knows? Someday you might need someone with my special talents … if you ever get in trouble again.”

“I don’t know what your e-mail address is.”

“I’m changing it. To the name and number you gave me when you resurrected from death. Just remember, I’m a ‘hot girl.’ You’ll figure it out.”

I wanted to take her in my arms and kiss her, and she looked like she wanted the same. As we moved together, a federal officer stepped forward and pulled her away from me. “What will you do now?” Keyes called back to me, as she was led away.

“Water my orchids. I think I can resuscitate most of them. If I don’t, they’ll die.”

“You can buy new ones.”

“I don’t want new ones. I’ve nurtured these for years. People think everything can be replaced. But that’s not so. There’s a value in things in which you invest your time, energy, and soul.”

CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN

211 Pin Oak Drive

Jackson City, North Carolina

IN OUR DIVORCE SETTLEMENT, Alicia made it clear that she wanted money, not responsibility. So I gave her a fat check and she gave me full custody of the kids. The kids and I moved into a small house close to the hospital, and we all trie
d to get our lives back on track.

My dream of a surgical practice was gone. I transferred all the orchids from the surgery center to my office at the hospital. The sunlight was too bright at my new office, so I bought special shades with my first paycheck.

The sale of my surgery center to a young plastic surgeon who’d come to the area from the University of Virginia erased all my debts. My new job as chief administrator of the Jackson City Hospital provided plenty of challenges in straightening out the huge financial mess, and returning the hospital to a workable, not-for-profit medical center.

For starters, I brought back free coffee for doctors and hospital employees.

Acknowledgments

To my mentor of the past three years, Richard Krevolin, who transformed a storyteller into a writer. Many times he had reason to think it was an impossible task, but due to his perseverance, this book finally can be printed. And he gives me hope that some of the dozens of other stories I have to tell might also be published.

My special thanks to Jeremy Fitzpatrick, a concerned citizen who discovered that the charter of a community hospital had been changed over the years, making it possible for the publicly funded hospital to be sold to a private entity, with potentially adverse financial consequences to the community. While it was not clear to him what the end result might have been at the time, the public opinion he generated in contacting local leaders and publishing a revealing letter to the editor of a local newspaper mysteriously seemed to stop the potential sale of the not-for-profit hospital. His revelations motivated me to investigate the matter further and to write this book.

To Steve Babitsky, whose SEAK courses for MD writers introduced me to other aspiring writers, accomplished authors, and publishers and opened the doors of book publishing.

To Paula Munier, who was kind to review my book and offer valuable suggestions about style that are included in it today.

To Lt. Col. Phillip Greasley, a retired Air Force flyer, who opened up to me the world of drones and military logistics and supplied references that allowed me to explore this fascinating subject.

Jim Williams, my medical illustrator for thirty years, who contributed to the original cover design.

Ana Magno, who created the original book cover and interior design.

To Colleen Sell, who did the edit on the original book.

To my son Glenn Jr., who has possessed mature writing skills since he was in the fifth grade—skills I will never have the talent to equal. But he encourages me to keep trying.

To my son Barclay, a computer geek, who kept me sane by pulling my story from the ashes of many computer crashes.

To John Hanson, who struggled through the reading of a half dozen of my earlier, primordial books and was kind enough not to criticize.

Thanks to John Haslett and Annie Biggs, who were very helpful in directing the book to its final form.