Iron Triangle: A Jackson Pike Novel (Book One of The Iron Triangle Series) (3 page)

5:00 PM- Friday,
September 8
^th

Washington, D.C.

The Carmike Industries' board members stood up almost
simultaneously as the rotund and balding man who had sat at the head of the
table pushed his high backed leather chair away from the long mahogany table
and began to collect his belongings. The homogenously dressed group of white,
Ivy League educated men exchanged uneasy glances as they processed the
information they had just received.

The Chief Financial Officer's words continued to hang in the
air of the stuffy board room. "In summation," he had concluded after
a lengthy discussion of the company's financials, "our business model
needs to fundamentally change if we are to sustain growth moving forward. But
regardless of the speed with which we adopt the recommendations in my report, I
see the company losing money over at least the next eight quarters."

The predictions were dire. So dire, in fact, that an air of
desperation and failure hung in the well appointed boardroom.

The company had experienced a rough third quarter. Of that,
there could be no doubt.

But the predicted numbers that the CFO had quoted were
beyond dismal. If they came to pass, they could prove to be the death knell for
one of the largest publicly traded companies in America.

As the members of the Carmike Industries Board of Directors
continued to collect their belongings from the uncommonly quiet boardroom, CFO
Steve Yeager could feel the uncomfortable level of tension in the room.

He picked up his briefcase and stood up. "Thank you,
gentlemen for your attention. Have a good afternoon." He nodded graciously
and turned towards the door.

He could hardly believe the numbers himself. If something
didn't change soon and change drastically every man in this room, Yaeger
included, would be looking for a new job.

Steve Yaeger stepped from the table and turned immediately
towards the heavy wooden doors which lead to the long carpeted corridor of the
Washington, D.C. headquarters of Carmike Industries. His hasty steps towards
the door belied his desire to escape the depressing confines of the stuffy
boardroom.

He made it exactly two steps before a voice stopped him in
his tracks.

"Steve." The deep voice came from behind the
balding CFO and could have only belonged to one man. Of all the men who had
attended the meeting, only Michael Carmike called Steve Yaeger by his first
name.

"Yes Michael," replied the nervous Steve Yaeger,
turning away from the door as drops of sweat began to form on his upper lip and
the pallid skin of his balding forehead.

"Walk with me for a moment." It was not a request.

Michael Carmike's plastic smile did not touch his eyes as he
stepped towards the pale Chief Financial Officer of the multi-billion dollar
corporation that Michael's Grandfather had built, and that his father had grown
one of the largest corporations in the world.

As the CFO of the corporation, Steve Yaeger was not a man
accustomed to taking orders. But despite Michael Carmike's youth, the
thirty-five year old heir to the Carmike fortune and current CEO of Carmike
Industries was an imposing figure, not to mention Yaeger's boss.

The young CEO was a statuesque figure, with a jaw line which
seemed to be chiseled from solid rock, and black hair which was always combed
meticulously. The skin beneath his handmade suit was unnaturally tan, like that
of a man accustomed to working long hours outdoors, rather than eighty hours a
week behind the CEO's desk of a multi-billion dollar industrial conglomerate
and defense contractor.

The handsome young CEO stepped to the side of the pudgy and
balding Yaeger and placed a broad and tan hand on the stitched wool of the suit
which covered the shorter man's shoulder. The hand guided the chubby CFO from
the boardroom and into the hallway outside.

The two men stepped together in silence down the soft blue
carpet of the wood paneled hallway in the Carmike Industries headquarters
building in Washington D.C.

As they walked, Michael Carmike's hand continued to rest on
the shoulder of the much shorter Steve Yaeger's suit, a clear assertion of the
younger man's authority.

The afternoon sun flooded the hall with light as the men
paced in uneasy silence past the picture windows that framed breathtaking views
of the nation's capital.

"Steve," said Michael Carmike, finally cutting
through the quiet of the hallway, "I'm extremely disappointed in your
assessment of the company's fiscal situation." He paused. "Since
World War II, Carmike Industries has been the lead government defense
contractor." There was a hint of true disappointment in the young Mr.
Carmike's voice. It was coupled with something Steve had not heard in the young
man's speech before, a tone that Steve Yaeger could only describe as a blend of
determination and malice.

The tone of Michael's voice had put the balding financial
analyst even more ill at ease. "But, Michael" began Steve Yaeger, his
lips quivering as he bit on his words. He began anew, "Michael, we can
weather the drawdown in Afghanistan the same way we have in past conflicts. We
will need to reorganize, restructure the company, and focus more on ancillary
services. Where we lose in weapons manufacture we can win in supply of contract
security, in consulting. It will just take some time."

There was true and unbridled malice now in the young Michael
Carmike. He whipped his head to the side, looking the short and sweaty Steve
Yaeger in his eyes and squeezing his shoulder tightly as the two men stood
before a picture window on the north end of the building, far out of earshot of
any of the other men continuing to file from the boardroom.

"Time," responded the handsome
CEO,
"is a resource that we do not possess. And fundamentally changing our
business model at this stage is not an option. What we need," he said,
pausing momentarily for effect, "is another war."

The two men stood in uneasy and pregnant silence as the
gravity of Michael Carmike's words seemed to echo through the otherwise silent
hallway. Together, they peered through the picture window of the Washington
D.C. office building, the Capital Dome neatly framed in its glass aperture.

Steve Yaeger had never been this uneasy. His rotund body
quivered with fear and anticipation as he stared at the everyday bustle of the
nation's capital below.

5:00 PM- Friday,
September 8
^th

Sumner, VA

Jackson didn't bother with his waiting helmet and gloves.
Instead, he shoved them off the bike and onto the asphalt below.

With a nameless murderer in hot pursuit, he twisted the key
to his Harley-Davidson. The engine growled to life, and Jackson straddled the
metallic beast, twisting the throttle harder than he ever had before.

The machine accelerated viciously, the front wheel of the
bike lifting off the pavement for a moment as Jackson accelerated towards the
guard house of the chemical storage facility.

Something was very wrong here, he thought to himself. Not
only was there a murdered woman lying in the chemical storage facility, but the
guard house that he had passed every day during his tenure at Carmike Chemical
was still empty.

It was never empty.

Gunfire erupted behind Jackson, interrupting his train of
thought and shattering the window of the guardhouse as his black motorcycle
screamed through the parking lot.

He had to find a telephone, a police car or some way to
notify the authorities.

As Jackson's motorcycle sped past the deserted guard house,
the wind whipped at his auburn hair and scruffy beard.

Jackson glanced behind him and saw the car.

The black Mercedes from the warehouse was accelerating
quickly after Jackson, its powerful six cylinder engine rapidly closing the
narrowing gap between the two vehicles as Jackson pled with his bike for more
acceleration.

Jackson opened the throttle of the sport bike as far as it
would go, sending a rush of gasoline into the engine of the black motorcycle.
The engine roared once more and the bike sprung forward, but Jackson wasn’t
getting the appropriate acceleration.

As Jackson sped recklessly down the scenic access road, he
had no time to enjoy the idyllic scenery or soft Chesapeake breeze.

He was just trying to stay ahead of the black car approaching
rapidly from behind.

Jackson's right knuckles began to turn white as he
maintained the bike's throttle fully opened. He could only hope that the
Mercedes would not catch him before he could access the interstate.

He pled with the bike for more speed until he realized one
of the stray bullets must have punctured his rear tire. The bike was never
going to gain on the car.

At least, not today.

His heart pounded in his chest, and beads of sweat were
beginning to form on Jackson's forehead, but his mind was clear.

Jackson was no stranger to adrenaline. His SEAL training had
ensured that he could respond to the most difficult circumstances on earth, and
his combat experience had tested this ability to its limits.

As mentally calm and clear as Jackson was as he hurtled down
the deserted road, he knew he wouldn’t make the interstate.

The black sports sedan was too fast, its driver's purpose
too evil to be thwarted by the still hung over ex-SEAL on a broken motorcycle.

Jackson heard the growl of the vehicle’s engine only seconds
before he felt the black convertible impact his bike. The front bumper of the
vehicle narrowly missed Jackson's left leg, instead hitting the flat rear tire of
the formerly pristine bike.

In an instant, Jackson and the bike veered off the road.

Jackson fought to control the bike as it swerved dangerously
towards a copse of trees ahead. Somehow, he was able to regain control of the
bike. He continued riding at top speed in the grass beside the road.

He could see only one option for escape.
The
river.

Jackson caught the steel bridge of the river crossing in his
sights ahead as his bike bumped along the grass on the side of the road. His
pupils narrowed and his breathing quickened. His calloused right hand once more
twisted the throttle of his sports bike. The powerful bike responded, rapidly
accelerating through the grass that led to the water's edge.

The warm green water approached rapidly in Jackson's vision,
and the former SEAL briefly wondered if he would regret his decision to make
for the algae green water as the love of his sport-bike briefly clouded his
judgment.

Despite his misgivings, Jackson continued towards the wide
expanse of algae colored water that was laid out like an uncoiled snake across
his path.

The black car continued to match pace with Jackson as it
approached the sandy shore of the Sumner River. Amazingly, Jackson maintained
control of the bike until the very moment his front wheel impacted the warm
water of the slowly flowing river.

Jackson took a deep breath and closed his eyes tightly as
the front wheel of the bike impacted the green water of the river and he was
ejected from the
black
seat of his beloved Harley.

Almost immediately, the warm water of the lazy Sumner River
enveloped him and his eyes opened. His world was algae green and wet as he
exhaled through his nose and watched the air bubbles rise towards the surface
of the water. His head throbbed as he sought his bearings beneath the water.

Most people would have been disoriented by being ejected
from the seat of a motorcycle not to mention the rapid impact and submersion in
the murkiness of the algae colored water. Jackson was not.

Jackson was admittedly disoriented. But it was by a sudden
sharp pain and slow, silent throbbing of his head.

He must have hit his head on something when he entered the
water, he realized as his hands sought the soft silt of the river's bottom in
the murky opaqueness.

Despite his head injury, Jackson fought to remain oriented
beneath the water. He forced himself to recall his SEAL training. He knew that
the surface could be found by following the bubbles. So he swam in the opposite
direction, diving deeper into the warm green water of the peaceful Sumner
River.

Jackson was grateful for his training as he dove deeper
under the water, equalizing the pressure in his ears, his hands seeking purchase
on the silt of the soft river bottom.

He recalled the drills. He remembered the seemingly endless
course of training in salt, fresh, and brackish water to which the SEALs had
been subjected. He reflected on the long days and nights that the men had been
submerged and partially submerged while forced to perform challenging tasks
blindfolded, disoriented and half drown.

Thanks to this training, Jackson was able to maintain
orientation and situational awareness in the water. But he had a limited amount
of time. Although he could hold his breath for an impressive three minutes, he
needed to act quickly.

Not only was the man in the black Mercedes undoubtedly
searching the banks and surface of the river for Jackson, but Jackson could
feel his own mental clarity rapidly deteriorating thanks to an acute lack of
oxygen and the softly aching dizziness of his injured head.

Jackson knew he needed to remain submerged and hidden from
sight, leaving him with only one escape option. He'd have to swim to freedom.

Jackson's hands thrust forward in the green water and
propelled his body through the murk as he sought the cold currents of the
river's depths. He swam towards the center of the lazy river, his hands hugging
the softness of the river's bottom as he allowed the downstream current to put
distance between himself and the murderous stranger above.

As he swam, Jackson knew that the farther he could get
down-stream, the less likely the man would be able to see him through the thick
wooded glade of American chestnut trees that lined the river's north shore.

He pushed himself beyond all physical limitations as he frog
kicked through the murky water and let the cool current of the river's depths
propel him further downstream.

Jackson's record for holding his breath during SEAL training
had been three minutes.

He was certain that much time had elapsed. His lungs
screamed for air, and he began to gag involuntarily, his body aching for oxygen
as he pled for his arms and legs to propel him through the water for just one
more stroke.

After what felt like an eternity, but was closer to four
minutes, Jackson's head emerged from the water of the lazy river and he gasped
for air as his eyes immediately searched his surroundings for his assailant.

The man, his vehicle, and the bridge leading to the chemical
storage facility were nowhere in sight.

As Jackson had hoped, he had made it around the nearest
river bend and the thick green foliage masked him from sight. He turned his
gaze to the south, grateful to find the interstate highway just across an open
field.

A soaking wet Jackson stepped from the shallow and murky
water of the river's edge and walked unsteadily up the south bank of the Sumner
River towards the interstate ahead.

As his steps fell on the grass of the overgrown field that separated
the river from the interstate, the sound of passing vehicles reminded Jackson
of the roar of the ocean during a gale. He smiled unevenly at this thought as
he stumbled forward.

His steps became progressively more staggered as he walked
towards the four lane highway. He became aware of a warm fluid dripping from
his forehead and down the side of his face.

Jackson's hand unconsciously wiped the fluid from his face
and came away stained with a thick red fluid. Apparently he was injured worse
than he had thought.

He stared at the bloody hand before his eyes, confused as
his peripheral vision darkened and he stumbled forward. He was only around
fifteen yards from the interstate when his vision darkened completely and the he
collapsed.

As he lay prostrate in the grassy field, Jackson's blood
stained the cool earth while he slept peacefully for the first time in years.