Act of Terror (28 page)

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Authors: Marc Cameron

BOOK: Act of Terror
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WEDNESDAY
October 4
C
HAPTER
F
IFTY-SIX
Afghanistan
 
T
he hollow chirp of a teakettle dragged Quinn out of a dead sleep layer by painful layer. His body glowed with the painful warmth of someone who'd suffered from extreme cold. A mound of heavy quilts pressed him against a hard hair mattress that smelled of alcohol, dried yogurt, and sweat. The pungent odor of smoke from a yak-dung fire mixed with a greasy smell of spiced meat that pressed against his empty stomach like a fist.
His mouth felt full of chalk. His head pounded from what he knew was severe dehydration. The clatter of metal pots and pans felt like kettledrums played against his ear.
Quinn knew he carried vital information, but he couldn't get his mind around it. He remembered the labyrinth of mountain caves, the English-speaking boys. They'd mentioned the name of a man who ran the school ... a doctor. Dr. Badeeb. That was it. He and Garcia had to get the information back—
Garcia! The memories came flooding back.
He pushed himself up on one arm, shrugging off the quilts. It took a long moment for his eyes to become accustomed to the harsh lantern light inside the yurt. The events washed back over him in a crashing wave. Dizzy, he got to his knees.
Ainura, the Kyrgyz woman, stood beside her propane stove chatting with the female CIA agent they'd rescued. A rack of white yogurt balls dried on a tray above the stove.
“Ronnie,” Quinn croaked, swallowing.
Ainura brought him a chipped cup of butter tea. He slammed it down like a man coming in from the desert. Nodding in thanks, he handed her back the cup.
“The other woman I was with.” His eyes played around the interior of the yurt. “Is she all right?”
Karen Hunt knelt on a pile of felt cushions beside him. Patches of pallid, frostbitten skin covered her swollen nose and cheeks. Her lips were cracked and scabbed.
“She's alive,” Hunt said, a grave look crossing her battered face. “For now. I'm afraid if we don't get her out of here soon ...” Her voice trailed off in tight-lipped silence.
Quinn crawled to the mound of quilts nearer the stove. The warmest place in the yurt. He gently drew back the top blanket.
The Kyrgyz of the High Pamir were accustomed to treating injuries and illness without the immediate aid of a doctor. Ainura had rolled felt pads and cushions to prop Garcia up on her side. She'd been stripped her down to her long-john bottoms, but the Lycra sports bra was left in place to protect the chest catheter. Thick tresses of black hair matted to Garcia's gaunt cheeks. Her chest shuddered with each labored breath.
She stirred, moaning softly when Quinn picked up a hand. She was reactive—that was a good sign—but her nail beds were tinged a chalky blue. She was getting some oxygen, but not enough. He pressed an ear to her breastbone and heard what he'd feared he would—a wheezing, high-pitched rattle.
Exertion and cold from the extreme altitude were filling her lungs with fluid. He'd plugged the wound in her back, but a tiny bit of air aspirated from her punctured lung into her chest cavity each time she drew a breath, creating a pressure strong enough to press against her already-struggling heart. The catheter let the air escape, but it couldn't keep up.
Quinn kept his head against the warmth of her chest, listening for a time, thinking over his options. There were few. When he sat up, Garcia's eyes flicked open.
Chapped lips parted into a wan smile when she saw him. It vanished as quickly as it appeared. Her eyes shot around the room as if seized by a sudden realization. She opened her mouth to speak but managed little more than a breathy croak.
“Relax,” Quinn said. “We made it out.” He smoothed a tangle of hair away from her forehead, letting the back of his hand trail down the soft skin of her cheek.
She grabbed at his sleeve, pulling him to her lips. Her voice was like the slow release of air from a punctured tire. “Tar ... Wesssst Texxxassss bih ... bit ...” Her eyes rolled back in her head and her hand fell away from his arm.
“You know what she means?” Karen Hunt stood off Quinn's right shoulder, a hot cup of tea in her hand. “She's been saying the same thing over and over. Something about Texas.”
He pulled the blanket back up around Garcia's shoulders. “No idea,” he said. “But we have to get her to a hospital.” He glanced at the felt-covered door of the yurt. “Is it still snowing?”
Hunt shook her head. “Stopped about three hours ago. Can I ask you something?”
“Sure,” he said.
“How many of these kids do you think there are in the U.S. already?”
“I don't know.” Quinn stared at Ronnie as he spoke.
“Seven attacks over the last couple of weeks. That's if there haven't been more since we've been off the grid. The haphazard stuff feels wrong though. Anyone smart and patient enough to put a school like this one in place is planning something bigger than a few shooting rampages.”
“I agree.” Hunt nodded slowly. “They're brainwashing those kids young so that no matter how good their experiences are in America, they never forget their hatred. It all adds up. One of the boys—the one they killed for liking me—said Americans killed his mother and sister. If you can make a child believe you somehow rescued them from the evil Americans, it's not a far cry to pushing them to vengeance.”
“Exactly,” Quinn said. “I'm sure there are some details to get worked out, but I believe that's the gist of it.”
He pushed to his feet with a long groan. He felt as if he'd been kicked in the head and rubbed down with heavy sandpaper. “My friends will be looking for me. I need to stomp out a distress signal in the snow.”
Hunt took a sip of her tea and grinned. “And just what do you think us CIA types do for three hours while we wait for you to wake up? Already done.”
Quinn collapsed back onto his quilts. He had to get the information back to Palmer about this Dr. Badeeb. The key to what was happening was sure to be with this guy. Quinn took a deep breath, struggling to remain calm. There was nothing to do now but wait and hope that Garcia could hang on.
C
HAPTER
F
IFTY-SEVEN
Washington
 
M
ujaheed Beg lay flat on his back on a piece of cardboard he'd found in a nearby Dumpster, staring up at the grimy undercarriage of his target vehicle. He much preferred killing people to killing cars.
Somewhere up the quiet street, beyond the CVS pharmacy, a dog barked in the darkness.
Over his years in America, he'd found he truly liked motorcars and cringed when he was forced as a last resort to shoot out a window or plant explosives under a hood. Badeeb had sent him to do a little mischief—make some necessary modifications as insurance. The problem with Congressman Drake would not solve itself.
Holding a penlight between his teeth, he inched his way deeper under the car before reaching up with a small Leatherman multi-tool. As always, it fell to Beg to take care of the doctor's problems.
Once he was finished, he slid out from under the car and brushed the dust of his jeans. He ran a comb through his thick hair and walked into the darkness singing “Love Me Tender” under his breath.
C
HAPTER
F
IFTY-EIGHT
Afghanistan
 
Q
uinn's eyes snapped open at the familiar sound. He pushed back his quilts and was outside in an instant to watch the huge Boeing CH-47 Chinook settle into the whirlwind of snow. He raised his arm in front of him to ward off the flying ice and snow crystals from the twin rotors' hurricane-force winds.
Karen Hunt came up behind him and put a hand on his shoulder as a crew chief bailed out the forward starboard door and shuffled his way toward them in the deep drifts. His voice became clearer as the helicopter's engines wound down to a low, idling whine.
“You Captain Quinn?” he shouted, nearly falling on his face.
Jericho waved, relief washing over him. “I am. My partner's got a pressure pneumothorax. You got a medic on board?”
“We got a field kit,” the kid said. He was close enough now Quinn could see the tab on the chest of his green Nomex suit that identified him as Crew Chief Jorgenson. “No doc on board though.” He took off his helmet and held it in the crook of his arm. He looked like a young Viking with his longish blond hair blowing in the cold breeze.
“You're to accompany me, sir,” he said, all business. “We're supposed to get you back to Asadabad ASAP.”
“I wouldn't have it any other way, Chief,” Quinn said. “I need to get my friend stabilized.”
Jorgenson nodded grimly. “We're on a quick turnaround, sir, due to weather. You'll have to do it on the bird.”
 
 
Quinn used the Chinook's medical kit on Garcia as soon as they were all aboard. A new needle and catheter helped relieve the pressure. He put her on oxygen and had Hunt watch her while he went forward to meet the pilots.
Jorgenson handed him a green headset.
“Y'all are a long way from home.” Quinn stood behind the cockpit watching the jagged, snowcapped peaks shoot by the windows in a vibrating blur.
“We could say the same thing about you, Captain.” The pilot nodded. “Rod Jones, Eighty-second Combat Aviation Brigade. Bravo Company out of Kabul. Had to use the Fat Cow to get us out here and back.” He nodded over his shoulder at the extended-range fuel tanks in the rear of the bird. “You must have some juice with someone for them to send us this deep.”
 
 
Two desert tan Humvees idled on the ramp in Asadabad. One bore the red cross of a medical vehicle. The other had a fifty-caliber machine gun on top and bristled with soldiers dressed in full battle rattle.
“They don't look very happy to see us.” Hunt's breath puffed a circle of condensation against the Chinook's round side window.
Quinn held Garcia's hand, studying the waiting men through a cloud of blowing yellow dust. The Humvees seemed absurdly small against the expanse of rock strewn landscape of desert and barren mountains.
Both vehicles rolled toward the rear of the Chinook as the rotors whined down.
“Can you remember a number without writing it down?” Quinn looked at Hunt as the helicopter's rear ramp began to lower.
“That's what I do.” Hunt smirked. Her face went slack as she looked up and realized he was serious. “What's going on?”
Quinn rattled off two phone numbers. “Jacques Thibodaux. He's one of the few you can trust back home. Tell him what we found out about Dr. Badeeb. If you can't get hold of him quickly, talk to Winfield Palmer.”
The ramp touched down on the desert floor and a squad of six men rushed forward, each with an M4 trained on the chopper's interior. A side glance out the window told Quinn the Chinook's pilots and crew had already exited through the front of the aircraft and waited outside to watch the show.
Hunt raised her hands. “The national security advisor? Why are you telling me all this?”
“Take care of Garcia,” Quinn whispered. He opened his mouth to explain more, but the twin barbs of a Taser struck him in the chest. He collapsed, writhing against the metal floor.
The voltage abated and his body fell slack. He was vaguely aware of the dark form of a soldier looming over him. There was a sharp pain in his neck—a rush of wind, then dreams.
THURSDAY
October 5th
C
HAPTER
F
IFTY-NINE
Near Gettysburg
 
Q
uinn woke to nothingness. No light, no sound, no smell. He blinked, trying to clear his vision. Still nothing. Movement was hampered by some sort of harness around his waist. His arms were held wing-like by a similar strap, away from his sides. The faint taste of saline told him he was suspended in a warm-water bath—likely with Epsom salts to float him without effort.
A sensory deprivation chamber—an upright, coffin-like enclosure soundproofed and filled with enough warm water to leave only the victim's head exposed. He'd spent some alone time in one during training. Some in his element had fallen victim to hallucinations less than an hour after going inside the box. Their instructor had pointed out that the more well-adjusted they were, the more quickly they would succumb. Quinn had lasted almost six hours, three times as long as any other member of his training element.
Every prospective combat rescue officer was sent to SERE—Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape—training in at Fairchild Air Force Base near Spokane, Washington. As a trained interrogator, CRO, and OSI agent, he'd attended advance training at Fairchild and at the Navy's sister facility in Maine. Quinn was certain these two training cycles had taken at least a year off his life.
Having spent his youth in the wilds of Alaska, survival, escape, and evasion came easy to Quinn. There was little the enemy could throw at him during a pursuit that was more frightening than a nine-foot grizzly sow.
The R in SERE was a completely different story. The instructors had pointed out early in their training that the human mind was far more vulnerable to exploitation than the body. During times of extreme pain, the physical being simply shut down, in effect turning off its ability to feel inflicted stimuli.
Threaten pain and the mind takes over, filling in the blanks left by a skilled interrogator with all sorts of horrific details.
Quinn pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth, listening for the sound and feel of his own heartbeat. It was a technique he'd used to stay grounded when he'd been “captured” by PRONA—People's Republic of North America—forces during training. There was a lot going on inside the human body and, with the mind turned inward, it was a pretty interesting place to visit.
Quinn had no idea how long he listened to his heartbeat and the gurgling of his own gut before the lid to the box came off. Harsh light clawed at his eyes and the heavy thump of a bass note assaulted his ears. Coming from an environment with no stimulation, the effect was like sandpaper on the skin. Hands grabbed at each shoulder and he was hauled out the top of the enclosure like a slippery fish only to be dropped unceremoniously on the ground.
Angry male voices barked opposing orders.
“Be still!”
“ON YOUR FEET!”
“Why are you here?”
“SHUT YOUR MOUTH!”
The shouting, combined with the pounding beat of the music, gave the impression of dozens of other men in the room. Quinn believed there were four. He recognized one of the voices and made a mental note of its position in the room.
Naked, he sat on the floor and did his best to ignore the screaming. He saw nothing but blinding white light. He focused, working to control his breath.
The blaring music suddenly stopped. A deep, disembodied voice came across some sort of loudspeaker.
“SIT!”
Quinn scanned the room and found a gray metal chair directly in the center of the glaring pool of light. Before he could move, the voice boomed out again.
“I SAID SIT DOWN!” Without warning a shadow strode from the wall of light and struck him across the thigh with a length of rubber hose.
Quinn scrambled for the chair, his leg on fire.
“TELL US YOUR NAME!”
Quinn coughed. Arms on the chair, he hung his head. If they knew who he was, he wondered why they hadn't restrained him.
“You know my name.”
The rubber hose caught him across the left shoulder this time, coming from another direction. Quinn didn't even try to deflect it.
“YOUR NAME!”
“Jericho Quinn. Captain, United States Air Force.” He gripped the chair, swallowing hard as the nauseating effect of the blow seeped into his bones.
“See?” the voice said, normal now, without the aid of a loudspeaker. “That wasn't so difficult.”
Quinn nodded.
“Is this about Drake's list?”
He heard a shuffle in the corner.
“Normally,” the voice said, “you'd have been struck for unsolicited speaking. Consider this warning my gift to you.”
Quinn nodded again, catching his breath.
“Now,” the voice continued. “Let's get down to business—”
“Let's do,” Quinn said, unsolicited.
When the punishing shadow appeared again, Quinn was ready. He grabbed the hose and wrested it from the attacker's grasp with a quick flip of his wrist. Striking quickly, he felt the satisfying thud as the hose struck home. There was a heavy groan as the man collapsed into the pool of light.
Quinn spun, launching himself wildly into the light. He crashed into the wall, falling back to the concrete floor. A Taser crackled from somewhere behind him and his body went rigid as a board. Molten heat shot up his spine. Fingers clenched around the hose in his hand. Toes curled inward from the pulse of fifty thousand volts that coursed through his muscles.
When it came to being Tased Quinn had the advantage of experience. The moment the shock ended he rolled, sweeping the hose behind his back to break the hair-like wires that connected the barbed darts to the Taser itself. He scrambled to his feet, roaring as he heard another crackling sound to his left.
Muscles spent, the second jolt of electricity affected him exponentially more than the first. He fell forward, his rigid body bridged on forehead and the tips of his toes. His face slammed against the floor once the shock was over. Saliva and blood dripped from his mouth and onto the gleaming concrete.
Naked and exhausted past the point of caring, he lay still.
“Foolish, Mr. Quinn,” the voice said again from behind the light. There was almost a hint of pity in it. “I think this is enough for now. You should spend some time in the box.”
Black boots tromped toward him. Strong hands pinned his shoulders while someone slipped a black cloth bag over his head. Lolling from the two bouts of Taser therapy on top of his recent battle with the weather in Afghanistan, he put up no more resistance as they secured him back in the box.
They pulled off the hood before closing the lid. Scowling down at him was a bald man, a scorpion tattoo running up the side of his thick neck.
“I want you give you something to ruminate on,” the man said. “Before we turn out the lights, so to speak.
“We had a bit of a time locating Kim,” the man went on. “Until she made a phone call back to some friends in Alaska.” He grinned broadly. If evil had a face, this was it. “You should have trained her better than that, my friend. I am so looking forward to spending a little quality time with her and young Madeline. I know you'd like to stop me... . It must kill you that you're here ... powerless... .”
The box closed leaving Quinn alone, floating in the dark with the screams inside his head.

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