Blowout (42 page)

But that had been before Kast had telephoned on the encrypted Nokia with news of yet another failure at the Initiative, this time the Venezuelans screaming for blood, and to strongly suggest the meeting in Mashhad.

“If I were in your shoes I would transfer as much of my money out of the U.S. in the next few hours as I possibly could, because the feds will be knocking at your door any minute,” Kast had warned.

“Not to Iran.”

“No, nor Venezuela. My advisers tell me that Turkey would be a safe bet, since most of your derivative funds are tied up in the Middle East oil fields.”

“A contractor giving financial advice to a fund manager?”

“Let's just say that I have a vested interest in keeping you out of jail and your wealth accessible. You owe me seventy-five million and I want to collect it.”

“Why Iran? You can't be very welcome there.”

“I've closed down operations in South Carolina, and moved everything to Mashhad because I was made an offer that I couldn't refuse.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Sanctuary, D. S. You should think about it.”

The phone at his elbow chimed and Wood answered, it was Captain Kellogg on the flight deck.

“We've been given clearance to land.”

“No questions about invading their airspace?”

“No, sir. They were expecting us,” Kellogg said. “But once we set down we're going to be pretty much out of touch with anyone in the West.”

“Nothing to worry about, Bob. We're only going to be on the ground for a little while. Shorter than our Havana trip.”

Kast had briefly explained that the Iranian government had offered him the chance, including financial support, to build a training base for Venture Plus in the mountains outside of Mashhad. Totally free of U.S. law, he would get help with the recruitment of enough men to form a force of at least battalion and possibly brigade strength who he would personally train for missions anywhere in the world that would never involve shooting at American servicemen.

“Same thing Erik Prince did with Blackwater,” Kast said.

“But he set up in Abu Dhabi—not an enemy state,” Wood had countered. “And one that's certainly a hell of a lot more stable than Iran.”

“I couldn't be a chooser,” Kast had said. “Neither can you be.”

And Kast was right, of course. After Maggie's call, Wood had begun to feel the walls closing in on him, the cell door slamming shut, his assets frozen.

“We need to talk in person,” Kast had said. “You can see the setup for yourself.”

“What if I'm taken into custody, as a spy or something?”

“It'd be the first thing the Iranians did that Washington would actually agree with. Solve a big headache for them. So it won't happen.”

Wood had always gone by the motto that if something didn't sound or smell right it probably wasn't. But he was stuck.

“Just come and take a look. If you don't like what you see, your jet will be refueled and you can be on your way. Back to Havana, if you want.”

But Havana was out, of course, because Cuba was one of Venezuela's strongest allies. Still left a lot of more desirable places than Iran. He figured that with his money he could probably make a case for political asylum in Switzerland or maybe even Monaco or Lichtenstein.

Within a few hours of talking with Kast, Wood had made a two billion USD transfer to a Trent account in the Central Bank of Turkey, where it would be safe in the short term, and had ordered Kellogg to gather the crew and prep the aircraft for an immediate flight to Moscow with a refueling stop in the Azores.

Less than two hours after that they'd been airborne, but not to Moscow, rather to Ankara, then to Ashgabat, the capital of Turkmenistan, where they'd been given permission to turn southeast and enter Iranian airspace for the one hundred and forty mile hop to Mashhad.

Captain Kellogg called again. “I think you should come up to the flight deck, Mr. Wood, there's something you need to see.”

“I thought we were about to land.”

“We just started our downwind, but I don't think we want to land here.”

“Coming,” Wood said, his heart in his throat.

Tammy, the flight attendant stood in the galley, her eyes wide, obviously frightened.

Wood stepped onto the flight deck, the airport directly out the left window. “What's wrong?”

“Look to the end of thirty-two left, the main runway,” Kellogg said.

Wood looked out the window, but at first he wasn't sure what he was seeing, except that what looked like a convoy of some sort was parked about a hundred yards or so beyond the end of the runway. “What is it?”

“Three of those mobile units are Russian SA-2 SAMs.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Russian surface-to-air missiles,” Kellogg said sharply. “Portable units that can be set up anywhere to shoot down an airplane.”

It struck Wood all of a sudden what had happened; what a colossal blunder he had made purely out of fear of going to jail when there'd been other more viable options for him. He'd dropped everything on Kast's suggestion and had run like a stupid, panicked woman.

“Get us out of here, Bob,” Wood said. “Right now.”

“They'll be expecting us to land.”

“They won't shoot us down, it'd cause too big an international incident. Turn around and get across the border by the shortest possible route.”

“Fifty miles,” Kellogg said. “Go back to the cabin and strap in, I'm declaring an emergency.” He immediately made a hard right turn out of the downwind leg. “Squawk 7500,” he told his copilot, Kelly Bragg. The transponder code was an automatic emergency signal that the aircraft had been hijacked. Every air traffic controller in the world understood it.

Tammy was already strapped in as Wood made it back to his seat in the main cabin and cinched his seat belt.

His seat was on the left side of the airplane, so all he was seeing was the star-filled sky; a foreign sky that made him realize how many regrets he had—how many regrets he should have had.

They made the turn to the north, the 737-700's two engines spooled up to maximum thrust, and for thirty seconds Wood convinced himself that they would make it across the border into Turkmenistan, when Kellogg shouted something from the flight deck.

Wood was about to pick up the phone, when the jet banked sharply to the left as it dove for the ground. Seconds later the plane banked sharply to the right, when something thumped hard into its belly. A huge fireball seemed to rise up from behind the left wing, and a few milliseconds later his world ended.

 

Badlands Ranch
That Same Day

THE FIRST THING
that Egan became fully aware of was pain in his legs and hip, and then warmth. It seemed that he had been cold for a very long time with an angry buzzing in his head and a hard jostling, at times almost impossible to bear.

But slowly waking up now he realized that he was lying in a bed, still mostly dressed except for his boots and camos and trousers, and it was still night. He was in a very small room, no light coming through the window. And listening hard he thought that he was hearing someone talking. But no one replied. So far as he could tell it was a one-sided conversation.

It came to him suddenly that someone in the other room was talking on a radio or cell phone. In Spanish. Rodriguez.

He pushed the covers aside and sat up slowly, the grating pain making him wince. But he'd felt worse. Especially the time his daddy had come home in a drunken haze and beat him practically to a pulp, cutting up his face, breaking his nose, and cracking three or four ribs. It had hurt like hell just to take a shallow breath, and of course he'd not been taken to see any doctor lest his old man be hauled off by the cops. It was a tough old world. Always had been.

Getting to his feet, his head spun off in all directions and he fell down, slamming his shoulder into the floor.

The door opened and Egan managed to raise his head as Rodriguez, dressed now in jeans and a western shirt, came in. There was no light behind him.

“Take it easy,
comp,
or you're going to start bleeding again,” he said, and helped Egan up off the floor and sat him down on the edge of the bed.

“Where are we?”

“The Badlands Ranch. But we're getting out of here within the hour.”

It was nothing short of amazing to Egan. This was where Toby had killed the rancher and the guests. “No cops?”

“Long gone,” Rodriguez said. “How do you feel?”

“Like shit. How the hell did we get here?”

“It was part of the mission plan. We thought it was possible that something would go wrong, and that at least you and I would have to get out of the power plant through a storm water drain at the north side of the main building. It ran all the way beneath the fence, and from there we had to walk nearly two miles to where an ATV was waiting for us. From there it was just a matter of avoiding the Ellsworth team. But they were so busy mopping up inside that they didn't think to check their perimeter. Arrogant bastards.”

“Why wasn't I told?”

“No need if we'd taken Dr. Lipton or the general's daughter.”

Egan lowered his head, a nearly infinite weariness coming over him. He'd failed once again, and there would be no other chances. No other missions. No payday.

“You were shot in the back and legs. Even so you managed to walk the two miles pretty much on your own.”

“How'd you know about the storm drain?”

“My boss briefed me.”

Egan really looked at Rodriguez. “How'd the ATV get out there?”

“One of our operators put it in place.”

“Operators,” Egan mumbled. “What's next?”

“The aircraft will be waiting for us in Rapid City four hours from now, and our transportation should be here in less than an hour.”

Egan looked toward the open door. “You were talking to him on a radio?”

“Encrypted satellite phone.”

Egan nodded. He'd never really been in charge of this operation. It had been Rodriguez from the start. “Where are you taking me?”

“Cuba.”

It was not what Egan expected. “Havana?”

“Too many CIA there. We're taking you to a military hospital in Camagüey, where your injuries will be tended to. It's safer.”

“You're not Mexican, you're Cuban military?”

“Actually SEBIN. Venezuelan intelligence.”

Egan laughed, not a bray because it would have hurt too much, but a good laugh in any event. “Why bother stitching me up when you're just going to shoot me?” The Beretta he'd carried in a shoulder holster strapped to his chest was gone. Rodriguez had thought of everything.

“We're not done with you, Mr. Egan,” Rodriguez said without smiling. “One more mission, a personal one. Think of it as a vendetta.”

 

PART FOUR

CHECKMATE

Thirty Days Later

 

66

AT 4:00 P.M.
sharp the president of the United States walked into the James S. Brady Press Briefing Room in the West Wing of the White House and took his place at the podium. Everyone in the packed auditorium got to their feet, and the president waved them back.

“Good afternoon,” he began.

The timing was perfect for the nightly news cycle that began at six eastern, giving the network reporters plenty of time to digest the bulky handout package that would be made available to them after the planned fifteen-minute briefing and file their stories.

That fact was not lost on the press corps, reinforced by the president's press secretary, Tom Albert, who'd walked into the press corps' workroom just down the hall from his office at noon to announce that the president would have something important to say.

“Have anything to do with Venezuela?” CBS asked.

“In a manner of speaking, yes. You'll be getting backgrounders, after the president's remarks, but I'm giving you a heads-up: this is a big one.”

“Lead story big?” ABC, who'd wandered in fifteen minutes earlier, asked.

“Bigger,” Albert said, and he walked back to the Oval Office where the president was talking to Nick Fenniger.

“What's the early word?” Thompson asked.

“Bob Bradley mentioned Venezuela as you thought he would.” Bradley had been given some one-on-one with the president just after lunch, for an update on the situation with the recalled ambassadors.

“What'd you tell him?” Fenniger asked.

“I promised them it would be big, and they'd be getting a comprehensive package. And Diane Sawyer wanted to know if this was lead story stuff. I told her bigger.”

“We got their attention,” Fenniger said.

“That we did,” Albert said, and standing now along the wall with the other staffers he waited for the president's bombshell to come, half wondering if the bulk of the press corps, and even the nation, would immediately grasp the significance of what they were being told.

“Six years ago a group of scientists came to the White House to bring me a warning of something extremely serious that was on our immediate horizon, but one that they felt had a solution,” the president said. “It concerned the emissions of carbon dioxide into the atmosphere not only by the United States, but by other industrialized nations, especially by China because of her size and increasing energy needs.”

Whatever the press corps had expected, this sort of an Al Gore environmental warning was not it. The science on the global warming issue was still not 100 percent; a number of highly respected scientists, among them astronomers, argued that climate changes, just like on Earth, were taking place on Mars, Jupiter, and Saturn. And it wasn't because of carbon dioxide emissions, but because of fluctuations in the sun's energy output, which had been growing over the past half century. But the overwhelming scientific evidence still put the blame for increased CO
2
emissions at mankinds doorstep.