The Omega Command (26 page)

What did that leave him with?

The
Sting
still rode the waters gracefully, as if unaware of its mortal wound. The spill of the chopper’s spotlight caught its shattered dashboard, and something red caught Blaine’s eye. He grasped for it and touched metal under the steering wheel. He yanked it free and saw it was an emergency kit complete with flare gun. He undid the latch with one hand while he controlled the
Sting
with the other.

The flare gun fit neatly into its slot. Beneath it lay a single flare. Fired properly into a vulnerable area, it was as good as a hand grenade.

McCracken could take no chances. He pulled the flare from its slot and held it low on the deck to soak up some of the gasoline. This would increase its explosive properties.

The chopper roared overhead again, unleashing more rounds at the boat, which had begun to lose speed and sputter.

McCracken popped the flare gun open and slid the flare home, snapped it shut, and tested the trigger. He would get only one shot. It would have to be good. The
Sting’s
engine sputtered, caught, then sputtered again. As its speed faded, Blaine aimed it toward the ice-crusted shore. The slowing boat made a more welcome target for the chopper, which came in slower, sensing the kill.

McCracken played with the wheel. He darted left and right to put up a good front, the flare gun grasped tightly in his right hand.

He didn’t raise it until the machine-gun fire raged dangerously close and the helicopter loomed straight overhead. At that point it took barely a second for him to bring the gun up and aim it, even less for him to press the trigger.

The flare sped out toward the chopper with a pop.

The half-darkness of the approaching dawn was shattered by the fireball, a single orange sphere that belched black smoke and coughed steel. Only the
Sting’s
last burst of speed saved him from the killing shower of shrapnel and debris. The engine lasted until he was wading distance from shore and conked out at the same moment the chopper’s smoking carcass hit the water to start its slow sink.

Blaine hurled himself over the
Sting’s
side and patted it like a loyal pet. He was in waist-deep water and moved toward the shore, above which stood a huge mansion converted into condo units. The climb up was steep, handholds available but difficult to manage with the ice.

Just as the sun’s first light found the bay, McCracken pushed himself over the edge and found himself staring at a hot tub bubbling away with two couples starting the morning, or ending the night, inside.

Blaine started toward them, fatigues heavy with water already starting to freeze. He was shivering, but he knew a smile had forced itself out on the face he could barely feel.

“Care to join the party?” asked one of the women in the tub, obviously drunk. All the inhabitants had allowed their drinks to float away from them on the steaming water.

“Don’t mind if I do,” Blaine said, plunging in with all his clothes on.

“Were you in that plane that just crashed on the water?” one of the men asked.

“What plane?” McCracken returned, and then he tucked his head under the water.

The female occupants of the hot tub took turns telling Blaine where he had ended up. This was the Manor House, they explained, the most exclusive condo complex of the exclusive Bonniecrest Village. They had bought their unit for $200,000 and already it was worth twice that. Wasn’t that something, they wanted to know.

Blaine said it was.

Time was foremost on his mind now, time and the fact that Wells wouldn’t be giving up the chase for the loss of one helicopter. He might try to barricade the entire area to close in on his quarry once and for all. But it was morning now and residents of this Newport community would soon be on their way to work. Wells had his work cut out for him if he expected to find McCracken in all the activity.

After forty minutes in the hot tub to get his circulation going again, Blaine accepted a bathrobe and change of clothes. Before donning the undersized garments, he swabbed and bandaged his shoulder wound. It had proved to be merely a scratch. These people were being most hospitable and he made a mental note to return the favor someday. He could begin by leaving the condo as soon as possible. First, though, a phone call was necessary. He hadn’t reported in for almost two days now. He had plenty to tell Stimson, enough for the Gap to move on Sahhan and Krayman, and to start looking for the mercenary troops scattered across the country.

Sahhan’s troops would strike at the innocent and the mercenaries would strike at the troops with Krayman the force behind them both. The why of it all eluded Blaine, but he knew that was only because there was something he wasn’t seeing yet. Krayman was a pragmatic man. This plan had been in the works for years at least. Nothing was being left to chance.

Blaine used the phone in a bedroom to dial Stimson’s private number. A beep sounded, followed by the whining drone of a tape unspooling.

“
The number you have reached is not in service at this time.
”

Silence followed, replaced swiftly by a dial tone.

Blaine searched his memory. Could he have dialed the wrong number? He tried again.

“
The number you have
—”

Blaine replaced the receiver. Stimson’s private number rang wherever he was: car, home, office, anywhere. McCracken considered the worst ramification of the line’s disconnection and dismissed it because it was the one thing he could not afford. The idea of Stimson being dead was unthinkable. Certainly there was another explanation.

Blaine dialed the normal Gap emergency exchange. Another tape-recorded voice greeted him.

“Please leave your number. Your call will be returned immediately.”

Blaine read the number listed on the white Princess phone into the receiver. It rang not thirty seconds later.

“Your name,” a dull voice requested.

“I need Stimson.”

“Your name,” the voice repeated.

“Look, you bastard, I’m not going to bother giving you my name because I’m not on your active list. I’m sanctioned by the chief directly and I’ve got to speak to him.”

“Do you have an operative code or designation?”

“No, goddammit, it was cover clearance. Nine-zero coding.” Blaine slapped his forehead. “No, that’s not what you boys call it. I don’t know what you call it.”

“I’m going to terminate this line unless I receive a proper designation immediately.”

“All right. Just tell me if Stimson’s still alive. I’ve got to know.”

The phone clicked off. Blaine dropped the receiver.

He was completely isolated. Stimson’s plan had backfired. The unthinkable had happened. Someone had gotten to the Gap chief and Blaine had no contact. Equally bad, the call-back procedure he had followed would allow Gap personnel to trace the unauthorized call into their most sterile of exchanges. They would investigate. A unit would be dispatched almost immediately, a unit that would see McCracken as an enemy.

He had to get out of here. But to where? Who could he take his story to?

The CIA. He would have to make do with them. …

The Company was still his official employer. And he could reach them because this time he would have the proper codes. He would give an alert signal and they would make arrangements to bring him in. Never mind the business with Chen and possible Company complicity in all this. The involvement of Krayman could account for everything he had previously blamed on his official employer. They were his best bet at this point, his only bet.

McCracken pounded out a new exchange.

“Box office,” a voice greeted him without benefit of tape-recorded greeting.

“I’ve lost my ticket.”

“Status?”

“Nine-zero coding.”

“That is a discontinued exchange.”

“Check my clearance, dammit! Gallahad, six-zero-niner.”

“What is your designation?”

“Triple-X ultra.”

A pause.

“I’m sorry, that file is no longer active.”

The phone clicked off. Blaine slammed the receiver down.

I’m sorry, that file is no longer active.

How could he have been so damn stupid? Of course his file wasn’t active anymore; the Company thought he was dead. Another element of Stimson’s plan to seal his mission. Well, he was sealed now, all right, sealed off from every potential safe harbor in the government. A black revolutionary army and a mercenary resistance force were about to clash in the streets of American cities just for starters, and there was no one he could report it to. All the emergency numbers stored in his head were of no use because each of the operators would request the same information and he could satisfy none of them enough to be passed on to the next level. They regarded him as dead. Because of that, ironically, he might soon be.

He had to get out of Newport immediately and buy himself some time elsewhere. Wells’s men were no longer his only concern. There were Gap and CIA teams to consider as well, drawn to this area by an uncleared caller’s breach of sterile security lines.

Blaine’s mind drifted back to the fronton, back to a fact that had slipped away during the frantic chase that followed: someone had arranged for the lights to go out and then freed him from Wells’s manacles. For some reason someone wanted him to stay alive.

But more people wanted him dead.

Chapter 21

FRANCIS DOLORMAN’S BACK
was hurting so horribly Tuesday morning he could barely shift positions in his chair. Getting in and out of it was an agonizing experience for him, no less agonizing than the latest report from Wells.

“So McCracken is still alive after all,” was his only comment to Verasco.

“Solely due to interference from the rebels this time,” Verasco noted. “Wells had McCracken in Newport until one of them freed him.”

“Not like Wells to let his own people be infiltrated.”

“It may turn out to be a blessing,” said Verasco. “One of his men, the rebel, we assume, has disappeared. Wells is in the process of retracing his movements, and undoubtedly the investigation will lead to his cohorts.”

“Tell Wells to concentrate his energies fully in that direction. I’ll handle McCracken.”

“How?”

“Alone he can do us no harm. But if he were to reach receptive ears in Washington … We have the contacts in place to insure his continued isolation. They will be alerted. I want all these distractions cleared up before Omega is activated. Let’s review the timetable.”

Verasco opened a folder perched on his lap. “We will fly tomorrow to the airfield in Maine and make our way to Horse Neck Island for final preparations.”

“All perfunctory at this stage, of course. And the mobilization of Sahhan’s strike force?”

“Nine P.M. eastern standard time. That means six o’clock on the West Coast.”

“Darkness in both instances.”

“According to plan.”

Dolorman nodded, obviously satisfied. “And when does phase two go into effect?”

“Exactly four hours after Sahhan’s troops are mobilized. It will take sixteen minutes for our friend in the sky to pass from one coast to the other, insuring our goal of total paralysis at the optimum time. Phase three entry of mercenaries will begin twelve to sixteen hours later.”

“I thought we had agreed on twenty-four.”

“A slight alteration to obtain maximum visibility at the peak of panic. Their heroic response must appear irrefutable, but it must also seem vague. The rumors and obscure reports will work to our advantage.”

“I assume the preparations for phase four are complete, then.”

Verasco nodded. “All equipment is in place and functional on Horse Neck Island. Construction of all communications and broadcast facilities was completed yesterday. The testing has gone magnificently. Of course, the activation of phase four will be a give-and-take matter. We must be flexible. The timing will be difficult, public sentiment difficult to gauge.”

“They will be our public by that time,” Dolorman assured him. “They will feel what we want them to.”

“But not until after Christmas Eve and your interview with Sandy Lister is scheduled for barely an hour from now.”

“Your tone indicates you feel I should cancel it.”

“I see no good it can do us so close to activation.”

Dolorman eased himself forward. “She has seen people, talked to people. It would take only one receptive ear in the wrong place to do severe damage to Omega. By remaining cooperative with Miss Lister, we assure ourselves that she will have no reason to seek out this ear. We are fairly certain, based on her movements and correspondence, that she hasn’t looked for this ear yet. But that says nothing for the others she has made contact with. One of them still might know the right numbers to call, in which case immediate action on our part would be called for.”

“You don’t expect her to come out and tell you, of course.”

“Knowledge is her only weapon, so I expect her to reveal much of what she knows. The what will lead us to the who.”

Verasco looked unconvinced. “She’s a celebrity, Francis, a star in her own field. It’s
her own
connections I’m most worried about.”

That drew a smile from Dolorman. “But the most important ones have been severed. I think we can relax.”

Sandy Lister rested her shoulders against the elevator wall and tried to still her trembling. The doors slid closed and the compartment began its descent from Dolorman’s office toward the lobby.

The interview was over.

And Dolorman had beaten her. She had not been up to the task. Desperation had worked against her, stealing her poise.

She had come straight to Houston from her meeting with Simon Terrell and arrived Sunday night. Monday morning first thing she dialed T.J. Brown’s exchange at the network.

The voice that answered was not his.

“Who is this?” she demanded.

“I’m sorry?”

“This is Sandy Lister. I’m calling for T.J. Brown.”

“Oh, Miss Lister,” the strange voice responded, “someone upstairs mentioned you might be calling. I just moved down from my office. Your assistant is on vacation.”