The Missile Game (The Dr. Scott James Thriller Series Book 1) (5 page)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Kandahar, Afghanistan

9:30 am

MAJOR GENERAL AHMAD KAHN of the Afghanistan National Air Force flew by helicopter from his headquarters in Kabul to the airfield adjoining the
American drone hangars on the outskirts of the city. The hangars were iso
lated on the perimeter of the Afghani Air Force facility, which was home
base for Russian-
made Mi-15 and Mi-24 helicopters, as well as Russian
Antonov cargo transports.

One of Kahn’s spies had told him the drones
were being moved to a base in Iraq.
After the copter landed, a waiting jeep took Kahn to the American commanding the drone operation, Colonel Edwards. Without a word of greeting, the two men shook hands coldly.

Kahn was abrupt in stating the purpose of his visit. “I forbid you from
moving your drones without my permission!”

“The first time I reported to your fuckin’ office about bringing two of
our drones, the Predators, to Kandahar, the Taliban put a fuckin’ IED in the
hangar we were assigned to,” Edwards said. “It killed two of my men.”

“I don’t care. I order you to keep the drones here!”

“Well, old buddy, the rules have changed,” Edwards said, putting his
hands on his hips. “I’m not moving them back.”

“But the leaks have been sealed. There are no more spies in my office.”

“Bullshit!” Edwards snapped. He then turned on his heel and walked
away.

On his way back to the helicopter, Kahn sent a text message to Kahlil in Damascus.

Damascus, Syria

3:05 pm

For 150 years, Ambuda Kahlil’s family had been making and selling oriental rugs near the Bab Tuma (St. Thomas’s Gate) in the old, walled city of Damascus. Kahlil had followed in his father’s footsteps. With his good eye for selecting and weaving the highest quality rugs, his business had expanded, as had his bank account. Recently his friends in ISIS had convinced him to become an important financial contributor, and along with sending a cash donation, he’d also begun using his business to secretly relay messages between ISIS allies.

Kahlil felt the Blackberry in his pocket vibrate. The incoming text read: AMERICAN DRONE BASE LEAVING KANDAHAR. MY CONTACT SAYS MOVING TO IRAQ

Upon receipt of the message in Damascus, Kahlil forwarded it to a courier for delivery to Jorad Hormand.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Jackson City Hospital

1:15 pm

THE BATTERY OF NEW tests ordered for Elizabeth Keyes was extensive. Her Valium level dropped precipitously, but her deep sleep continued. By the next day, she was somnolent but responsive. Detective Harris paid a visit to her bedside.

“Missus Keyes,” he asked, “do ya
have any old boyfriends, a husband in your past, or any people that threatened or wanted to hurt ya?”

“No. All my relationships have ended cordially.”

“Do ya have anything ya want ta tell me? Like about you and Dr. James?”

“What about us?”

“The
Chronicle
says you two were lovers.”

She lifted her head and gave a weak laugh. “That’s a crock. Some reporter with a vivid imagination must have written that. Dr. James is a straight arrow. That guy only has eyes for his beauty queen wife. Everybody knows that.”

Jackson City Police Station

Jackson City, North Carolina

2:30 pm

Harris had taken a half a dozen calls from the Mayor and City Council members, all asking about the murders. He was taking a swig of coffee when the phone rang yet again. It was Herb Waters, the top dog at Jackson City Hospital.

“James is guilty as hell. Do not let him out of jail!” Waters barked.

Harris said he was busy and hung up the phone.

Harris fiddled with the cords of his string tie while he sifted through one of the filing cabinets confiscated from James’ office. As he’d expected, he was coming up empty—just folder after folder filled with charts and photos of happy patients hugging Dr. James.

Harris drank his coffee and paced around the office before returning to the files that James kept. He was intrigued by a file labeled “Jackson City Hospital.” Inside was a newspaper obituary of Cabot Barnes, a Jackson City Hospital board member from 1997 until his death in July 1999. Harris read the obit, as well as a news clipping that pictured the forty-year-old computer programmer/entrepreneur, and reported his death by drowning at sea, 35 miles off the Oregon Inlet. Barnes had been with six buddies at the time, aboard his fifty-five foot, Viking sport-fishing boat.

Barnes was a local hero. He’d been the captain of the high school swim team. He’d led Jackson City to a championship his senior year, then received a full scholarship to a state college. Barnes married his high school sweetheart, was a father of two children, and became the favorite coach of the local youth soccer teams.

Harris suddenly stopped reading.
A champion swimmer drowns near a boat with six other men aboard and a stock of life preservers and throwing buoys?

Another folder contained brief notes about another Jackson City Hospital board member, Quinton Jolly, who’d died a few days after Barnes. Jolly was found in a hospital call room with a plastic bag wrapped over his face. The coroner had ruled it a suicide.

Harris shivered.

Most of the documents in the file related to a lengthy article Dr. James had written and sent to the
Daily Chronicle
, where it was published in the “Letters to the Editor” section. The article referred to the alleged pending sale of the non-profit Jackson City Hospital to AHS, a large conglomerate of for-profit hospitals. James pointed out that hospital costs would increase even higher than they already had, resulting in the reduction or elimination of charitable care. Of even more significance, Jackson City Hospital had in escrow over $200 million dollars from its profitable ventures. James raised the question of where all that money would go if the hospital were to be sold.

James had done his research and even quoted sections of the hospital’s original charter. James contended that selling a hospital with a longstanding charter as a nonprofit facility to a for-profit group would be a violation of its charter. James emphatically stated that the city could rightfully claim ownership of the hospital. The money used to start up the hospital in 1931, and to build the new hospital in 1975, had come from fundraisers and city appropriations. This bound the hospital to ownership by the community.

Harris went through the minutes of the hospital board’s actions, starting in 1995. James had circled sections of the minutes in red ink and had made extensive notations. Over a fifteen-year period, the original charter of the hospital was amended several times. On November 10, 1999, the hospital bylaws were amended to specify that the hospital’s chief executive officer was solely responsible for appointing the hospital’s Board of Directors. James had made a note on the margin: “The Board appoints the hospital’s Chief Executive? A Board appointed by that
same
Chief Executive?”

Scratching his chin, Harris wondered how many people knew of this flip-flop in the appointments of the directors and the chief administrator. His question was answered, at least in part, when he read the minutes of a 1999 hospital board meeting, minutes that James had circled in red: “Cabot Barnes and Quinton Jolly questioned the circular appointments of the board members and administrators.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Near the Iraqi-Kurdistan Border

12:08 pm

TWO OBSERVERS HID IN a mountain ridge a quarter mile from the drone hangar, where six American drones had been delivered in covered trucks a week before. Although the observers wore military boots, they were dressed in traditional Arab garb.

Over the previous days
, from their hide-out, the two Iraqis had caught glimpses of men in American Air Force uniforms assembling drones—four MQ-9 Reapers and two RQ-4A Global Hawks. These were the largest drones employed by the U.S. government, much larger than the MQ-1 Predator. The Reaper weighed nearly two tons and the Global Hawk twelve tons. They carried payloads of 3,800 pounds, more than triple that of the Predator.

Now, inside the hangar, American crews loaded Hellfire and Sidewinder missiles onto all the drone aircraft, while on the ridge one of the observers sent a message.

Damascus, Syria

12:19 pm

Kahlil felt the Blackberry in his pocket vibrate. Excusing himself from an Australian couple shopping for an antique Tabriz rug in his shop, he went to the back room and read the message: AIRCRAFT ASSEMBLED AND READY FOR COMBAT.

Kahlil slipped into a closet and uncovered his radio equipment. He sent a coded message: MY INFORMANT SAYS YOUR AMERICAN IS PREPARING DRONES. TARGET MUST BE ISIS.

Washington, DC

9:00 pm

Omar Farok read a text message on his cell phone: ARIANA TO HORMAND: PRODUCT NEAR COMPLETION. NEED GUIDANCE SYSTEMS. $1 MILLION EACH. PLEASE MAKE DEPOSIT.

Farok was a filthy rich thirty-five-year-old prince from the Sudan who traveled around the world, sponsoring terrorism. Small and thin, he had a finely featured, clean-shaven face, framed with black hair, large almond-shaped brown eyes, and ribbon-like lips that barely moved when he spoke, which was always in a soft, silky voice. Farok owned a fleet of Learjets that carried him to whatever country would allow him to enter. Although he’d been suspected and even accused of terrorism, there had never been sufficient evidence to prosecute.

A year earlier, the United States had managed to ban his entry into the country on a technicality. But that was purely a formality for a man of his means. Now, here he was—in the nation’s capitol. If he got caught, he’d be deported or detained. He’d have to be clever and stealthy.
Not so much
, he thought, sniffing arrogantly as the corners of his mouth curled up in a stiff smile.
So stupid, these Americans.

Watson Farm

Chapel Hill, North Carolina

Noon

Sandra
had become one of twelve “soldiers” when Nicole
Banzar had recruited her from the Chicago Al Qaeda splinter group. She
was an attractive twenty-one-year-old with long, wavy,
bleach-blonde hair. Her assignment for the three days prior to the killing of the farm owner, Billy Watson, was
to hide in the woods nearby and simply observe. Nicole wanted to be
certain her soldiers would not be burdened by Billy’s friends or curious
neighbors.

During the observation period, no one turned into the driveway, and only six cars, other than the daily passing of the mailman, even drove past the property. This was what Nicole wanted—total isolation to do her work. Billy Watson’s farm was the perfect setting.

Sandra, like the rest of Nicole’s soldiers, was now dressed as a farmer. She was sitting on a tractor beside the road when a beat-up Chevy Camaro pulled into the dirt driveway. Sandra started the Ford 8N tractor and drove to block the passage of the visitor.

“Can I help ya?” she called out to the driver.

The man was rough-looking: unshaven, homemade tattoos covering the visible parts of his skin, dressed in a dirty T-shirt and grease-smudged jeans. He looked Sandra over, top to bottom, and focused on her breasts as he spoke. “Naw, ya cain’t help me. I’m Earl. Jes goin’ ta see Billy. Sometimes he needs a little help ‘round here, an’ I need a little money for a carb’rator, so’s I’ll jes run on down.” Racing his engine, he drove around Sandra into the weed-overgrown field and sped to the house. He screeched to a stop, bounded out of the car, and strode up to the front door.

Nicole stepped outside and closed the door after her. “Billy’s sick. He ain’t seein’ visitors today.”

“I don’t want to talk ta you. I jes wanna see Billy.”

Pushing her aside, he opened the door and walked into the room—where a guy dressed like a farmer and carrying an M-16 immediately greeted him. The fake farmer aimed the rifle at Earl’s chest. Wide-eyed, Billy’s buddy raised his hands high over his head. Sweat broke out all over him.

“I don’t mean no harm,” he said. “Where’s Billy? Tell him Earl’s here. I jes need ta say sumthin’ ta him.”

Nicole rushed in behind Earl. “Don’t shoot!”

The soldier lowered his gun to his waist but kept it pointed at the man. “Hands behind your back,” Nicole barked.

She duct-taped his wrists and then his thighs and knees together.

Earl began to cry. “What’cha doin’ ta me? I don’t have nuthin’ ‘gainst ya’ll. I jus’ wanna see Billy!”

“You don’t always get what you want,” she said as she rolled out a large sheet of clear, heavy-duty plastic and shoved him onto it. While the male soldier held Earl down, Nicole folded the plastic neatly around him and taped all the open edges, making it airtight.

Earl kicked and screamed inside his sealed pouch. “Please let me go! I’ll jes go an’ say nothin’ ‘bout all this. Please don’t kill me!” His voice was muffled by the plastic wrap. The more he struggled and cried, the faster his oxygen was being used up. His voice grew weaker and weaker until he went silent, suffocated in his plastic cocoon.

Nicole turned to the soldier. “Stick him in a closet till midnight, then put him in his car and drive it into the Roanoke River outside Weldon. Make sure there’s no tape residue on his body or clothing, and don’t leave any fingerprints. Pour booze down his throat and make this look like a car accident.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Kirkuk, Iraq

1:00 pm

COLONEL EDWARDS HAD JUST received an urgent call. A Kurdish spy near Mosul had spotted a convoy of deuce-and-a-half trucks carryin
g forty ISIS troops. Shar al Sheikh was in the group. Charlie’s Global Hawk was still airborne and within ten miles of the target.

“Damn, they’re bold!” Edwards said. “They think Charlie’s still setting up his station in America and isn’t operational yet. They feel safe, and traveling in the open saves them a lot of time.”

As the drone closed in on the convoy, one of the forensics team watching the monitors stood and shouted, “There it is! What in the hell are they doing, exposing themselves like that? They know we’re looking for ‘em!”

Charlie was already in his control center when an excited Edwards called.

“Charlie! We have ducks on the pond! Four of ‘em, all in a row.”

“What’s the bounty?”

“On Shar al Sheikh, twenty million. But for a convoy, I’ll authorize another twenty, but only if you kill most of ‘em.”

Charlie flopped into his chair and activated the monitors. Screen one showed the convoy of four trucks on level terrain and out in the open. Screen two showed a close-up of the leader, sitting by the driver in the lead truck. The headcount was ten per vehicle.

“Is the identity of al Sheikh confirmed?”

“Yes, sir. His photos are exact matches for the Shar al Sheikh who helped plan 9-11. He’s all yours. There are four Hellfires in the tubes. Blast those motherfuckers to hell.”

Charlie got down to business. His heart beat fast and sweat dripped from his brow. He quickly placed the square on the front truck and centered the X. He wanted to kill all four, but there was one problem: The trucks were spaced fifty feet apart. The cloud of dust from the first missile explosion would obscure his view of the rest of the targets. The men could leave the trucks and disappear before he fired his second shot. He moved the sight back and forth along the path of the trucks and measured the distance between them.

“I’m going for a hat trick plus one,” Alpha Charlie said aloud to the forensics crew in Iraq.

He pushed the trigger button on the first truck and in rapid-fire succession fired the other three Hellfires as he moved the sights along the path of the road.

His forensics team all stood silent, holding their breath. None of the group, including Edwards, had ever seen this done before, and Charlie had done it only in video games. The first explosion would be in ten seconds. Charlie counted: 10, 9, 8, 7 …

When his count reached zero, a cloud of dust smothered the convoy. In the ensuing three seconds, the dust cloud enlarged in a long, linear path. Charlie’s fists clenched as he waited. Twenty-five seconds lapsed before he was able to see through the dust cloud. There were the four trucks, all bombed out.

A cheer arose from his crew in Iraq. Charlie half-smiled and gave a salute.