A final meeting and status report, another payday, and then Buck Gardener would board a flight at Orlando International Airport and jump over to the Bahamas, and further destinations unknown.
SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA
B
ETH
L
EDFORD
HAD TO
leave her rented town house in Alexandria, Virginia, before dawn, but it still took an hour to get up to Glen Burnie, Maryland, in time to park in the long-term lot, then get through security and aboard the flight from the Baltimore Washington International Thurgood Marshall Airport to San Diego. She pulled a blue blanket and a small pillow from the overhead, and just after takeoff she was sound asleep, her head on the pillow against the window.
She awakened an hour later, went to the restroom to freshen up, then got a cup of coffee from the attendant’s station and returned to her seat. An egg-and-cheese croissant that she had made and left in the refrigerator the night before, then put in her bag that morning, had warmed during the flight, and she ate it slowly, enjoying the flavor. That drew a disapproving glance from the man beside her, who was making do with airline food, a combo bag of pretzels and peanuts.
As the sun rose behind the plane, Beth was alone with her thoughts, eagerly anticipating spending a few days with her mother, playing tourist in southern California. See the whale jump, shop in La Jolla, get some quality beach time by the cliffs in Del Mar, enjoy spicy Mexican food, and drive up the coast. After Pakistan, doing nothing but hanging out with Mom sounded pretty good.
The flight crossed the country and several time zones in only four and a half hours, touching down at Lindbergh at 10:50
A.M.
, Pacific, which was almost two o’clock in the afternoon back on the East Coast. It felt like she had been given three hours to live all over again, and she smiled as she came out into the California sunshine. The iPod stack she had chosen for the long trip was on the
Chicago
sound track, and while she gathered her suitcase and waited in the cab rank, she jacked up the volume for the incredible jailhouse tango number. How she would have loved to see that on Broadway. Her fingers tapped her luggage in time with the music.
Her private cell phone chirped, and she dug it out of her purse to look at the calling number. Mom. She softened the music and took out a bud so she could press the phone to her ear. “Hi, Mom. I just got in. Are you at the hotel?”
“Beth?” Margaret Ledford’s voice trembled, and her mom never got nervous. Something wasn’t right.
“Yeah, Mom?”
“Can anyone else hear this conversation?”
“Not really. I’m in line for a cab. What’s up?”
“You have to talk to this man. I’ve been, uh, kidnapped, and he wants to talk to you. I’m OK, Beth…”
Ledford tensed, and had to fight to not to stagger and fall.
Kidnapped?
The voice of a man took over, serious and calm. “Petty Officer Ledford, listen carefully to me and your mother will not be harmed. You are unaccompanied, are you not?”
“That’s right.”
“Don’t try to be a hero. You and Kyle Swanson did enough of that at the bridge in Pakistan.”
“OK. I understand. Who is this?” Someone got into a taxi, and the line moved forward. She shuffled along with it.
“I have been trying to find you for some time, but you and Swanson are quite elusive. Now do you know who I am? Do not say my name out loud.”
Undersecretary Curtis had rejoined the game, despite being the most hunted man in America. “Yes. I know.”
“Good. Then follow my instructions, and do not vary at all, because there will be no second chance for mommy dearest. For now, proceed to your reserved room at the Hacienda Hotel in Old Town. Do not contact law enforcement. I’ll call you there and give you more directions.”
“Let me speak—”
“You want to hear her? Listen.” There was the startling sound of a loud slap, followed by a woman’s scream. “Did you hear that well enough, bitch? Don’t even try to think you’re going to control this situation. I will call you at the hotel.”
The connection was broken, and Beth Ledford just stood there momentarily, staring straight ahead, listening to the buzz, before folding it up and putting it away. She stepped out of the taxi line and moved to a quieter zone, thinking hard while the tango girls sang low about how the men they had murdered had it comin’ and only had themselves to blame.
Well, Mr. Curtis, you should be careful of what you wish for, because you might get it. Lay a finger on my mother and your worst dream will come true.
She made a decision.
As a matter of fact, that nightmare will come true anyway.
Beth rummaged around in her purse and found the slightly bigger, more complex, and totally secure cell phone that Trident had issued her, scrolled to the frequent numbers, and hit the
SEND
button.
29 PALMS, CALIFORNIA
It was late morning on Range 400 at the sprawling Marine Corps Air Ground Combat Center in 29 Palms, and Kyle Swanson lay sprawled on his belly, slowly taking in the slack of the trigger, bringing it straight back. The big Excalibur was resting on a bipod, trailing lines of wires that linked it to sensitive computer-monitored data collection gear lined up on a small table. Seated in a chair was J. Horace “Verify” Wellington, a short, bespectacled man buttoned up in a scientist’s white frock coat, with thick earmuffs to protect his hearing. He looked like a clockmaker, had never served in the military, and still was recognized as the best gunsmith in Great Britain. In the old days of swords, a blade forged of Birmingham steel was considered the ultimate weapon. In the modern day, a rifle bearing Wellington’s imprint had the same value. He was called “Verify” because he tested and retested and retested before clearing anything on which he worked. The Excalibur 3GX had not yet earned his stamp of approval, although he had been on the project from the start.
“Ready,” said Swanson.
“You may fire,” replied Verify Wellington, and Kyle finished the trigger pull. The big gun bucked with a burst of high energy as it spat a .50 caliber round downrange. Swanson took the big recoil but did not reposition the gun. Instead, he moved away as Wellington approached with more measuring instruments.
Kyle removed his soft utilities cap and wiped his brow. He had chosen Range 400 on a weekend when there were not too many other people about, but had to piggyback on a previously scheduled live-fire exercise. Rifles, heavy machine guns, and mortars all banged away at targets.
Private Jerry Hubbard punched an elbow into Private K’Shan Lincoln. “Hey, K, ain’t that the Ghost over there?”
Lincoln squinted. “I think so. Look at the freakin’ gun he’s got.”
“Holy shit, dude, did you hear the sound of that thing? Sounded like a cannon!”
“Let’s go say hello. The LT won’t mind, and we’re on a ten-minute break anyway.”
The two young Marines moved before they had second thoughts and trotted the twenty-five yards to where Kyle Swanson was watching Verify do his thing. They stopped, came to attention, and gave sharp salutes. “Gunny Swanson? Privates Lincoln and Hubbard, sir.”
Swanson returned the salute. “Don’t call me sir, privates, I work for a living. And I don’t like being saluted.”
“Aw, c’mon, Gunny; you’re a living Medal of Honor winner. Even the commandant has to salute you.” Lincoln smiled broadly. “Wow, man, this is an honor.”
Kyle had won the nation’s highest award for bravery by saving General Middleton from terrorists in Syria, but Middleton insisted that Kyle was just lucky—it was an accident of fate, and he had been about to escape all by himself when the sniper showed up and ruined everything. The general knew that wasn’t the way it happened, of course, but he felt bound to needle Swanson at every opportunity.
The Medal could at times be a heavy weight to carry, and Swanson felt a duty to play the role when necessary. This was one of those times that he had to be an ambassador, take the opportunity to teach some young Marines about respect and the meaning of the Corps. They were good kids, and since Verify was still probing and measuring and taking barrel temperatures, Swanson walked with them back to their group, shook hands all around, and talked for a while about the big Excalibur without revealing its secrets. They would have to graduate from Scout Sniper School before they could ever touch that weapon.
When his cell phone rang, he gave them a wave and a Semper Fi and went back to his position. He recognized the number. “Beth,” he said. “Wassup?”
CARLSBAD, CALIFORNIA
Bill Curtis checked Margaret Ledford’s bindings once again. A strip of silver duct tape covered her mouth, and flex-ties were on her ankles and wrists. “Sorry about the slap, but I had to make sure that your daughter understood that I was serious,” he said.
It had not been difficult to take her as a hostage. A knock on the door of the big red-roofed hotel in Old Town that morning, a pistol jammed into her ribs, and a quick trot to the van in the upper parking garage. No one noticed them. Finding a truly isolated area was just as easy, for Californians hugged the coast, paying to get as close to the Pacific Ocean as they could afford. He drove up to Carlsbad, then bent inland twenty miles, and he was soon parked off of a twisting side road in the dry mountains, beside a forgotten grove of gnarled manzanita trees.
“Now let’s get you all set up,” he said and pulled a green tarpaulin from a large cardboard box. “I fixed all of this yesterday, Margaret, just for you and your pesky daughter. Got the vests from a sports equipment store. The stitching is a little rough, I admit, but an old construction hand like me never forgets how to handle dynamite.”
Her eyes grew wide in terror, and she struggled against the restraints as she recognized what she was seeing. The man was going to wrap her in a vest of explosives.
“I figured you were both about the same size, small, so that made things easier. See? Matching outfits.” Curtis opened the van door and pulled her outside, then cut the flex-cuffs, forced her arms into the vest, and put new plastic ties on her wrists. “Be still! Don’t make me slap you again, and there is no one around to hear you scream.” With a few more moves, he secured the vest tightly. Sticks of bound dynamite covered the back, the wiring was in the generous pockets, and a detonator was on her right shoulder. He put her back into the van and removed the tape from her mouth only long enough to give her some water.
Curtis climbed into the driver’s seat, turned on the ignition, and flipped the air-conditioning on high. It was noon, and the August temperature was climbing in the open chaparral country. “OK. Let’s go pick up Beth now.”
As he drove back toward San Diego, he kept the radio on, listening to the news from the Cape about the Mars rocket. The reporter, lapsing into space talk, said it was “T minus nineteen and counting.”
Curtis was satisfied, for things were in motion. Tomorrow would be a very Black Sunday for the United States, with simultaneous terrorism strikes on each coast. One would be payback for Raneen, and the other would be payback for the bridge.
32
DISNEY WORLD, ORLANDO, FLORIDA
“
I
AM ON VACATION
.
I am wearing a mouse-ears cap and a flowery blue Hawaiian shirt, baggy cargo shorts, black socks, and sandals. Why are you bothering me?” General Brad Middleton growled into his cell phone.
“Weren’t you going to watch the rocket launch before going to Disney World?” Sybelle Summers was in Washington and had not thought twice about interrupting Middleton’s schedule.
“My bug-dumb grandchildren made it very clear on the way down that they did not care about seeing any stupid rocket, which they can watch on YouTube if they ever want to. Now they are bankrupting me in this pleasure dome. Never mind. Why are you calling?”
“Undersecretary Bill Curtis is back on our radar, General. He apparently has kidnapped Beth Ledford’s mother, presumably with the intent of drawing Beth and Kyle into his web and taking them down face-to-face.”
“Then he is a stupid fellow. Why do you need me?”
Sybelle was smiling. “I wanted to touch base on whether to bring in the FBI or the locals.”
The general grabbed his grandson with one big arm and held him motionless. “What does Kyle want to do?”
“He wants to keep it within Trident. Let him handle it.”
“Well, I trust the skill sets of Swanson and Ledford more than those of the Feebs. Notify the White House chief of staff that we’re going after the bastard, and give Kyle permission to light him up.”
“Yes, sir. Have a good time.”
“I’m going to drive over to the Cape tomorrow morning for the launch. Leave the rest of them here with the rat. It’s my vacation, too, and I’m a general.”
“Now, now, sir. Think of the children.”
SAN DIEGO
Bill Curtis wrapped a colorful Mexican serape over the shoulders of Margaret Ledford, adjusted the front, and took her by the arm. “Scream or try to escape and I will shoot you dead where you stand,” he warned. “Now let’s go see Beth.”
The small woman and the tall man pulling a little suitcase left the parking garage aboard an elevator that took them up to the top level of the Hacienda Hotel. The hallway was empty except for a service cart at the far end, where two Mexican room attendants were finishing up a room. It was two o’clock in the afternoon, and most of the new guests would start checking in about four. By then, the huge hotel would sparkle.
Curtis stopped at a door, knocked, and called out, “Beth! It’s us, dear. Open up.”
The white door opened quickly, and he shoved Margaret inside, into the arms of her daughter, and shut the door as they stumbled back. A pistol was now in his free hand. “Hello, Beth,” he said. “I’ve been waiting a long time to meet you. You have caused me a great deal of trouble. Before you try to do anything, look beneath the serape your mother is wearing. You will find a vest filled with dynamite, and I have the trigger.”