Blown Coverage (26 page)
Authors: Jason Elam
FRIDAY, MAY 22, 11:30 P.M. MDT SILVERTHORNE, COLORADO
Covington Runs for the Hills
by Whitney Walker
FOX 31 SPORTS
DENVER—
For a man who is already a riddle
wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma, the
bizarre tale of Riley Covington just keeps getting,
well, bizarrer. After suffering an Achilles
injury—
an incident which seems more likely
to have originated in Roy
Burton’s
fertile
imagination than from Covington
“
missing
a
stair”
at
home—
anonymous sources tell us
that our own homegrown superhero has fled
town to go into hiding in the mountains.
“
If
[the authorities]
can’t
even protect my family,
how can they possibly protect
me?”
Covington
allegedly said.
Meanwhile, sympathy and sorrow continue to
be the order of the day at makeshift memorials
both at the home of Riley
Covington’s
parents
and at the end of his own street in Parker.
Cards and flowers cover the corner.
“
It’s
just so, so wrong. Who does something like
that?”
one weeping
fan said holding a candle.
“
It just shows that none of us are safe
anymore,”
said a mother
who had driven from Pueblo so that her two children could leave
homemade cards for Covington.
“
Riley has been such a role model
for my boys that we felt we had to support him in his time of
need.”
Supporting our hero in his time of
need—
that was a common
theme heard throughout the Denver metro area. Wherever
you’ve
gone, Riley Covington, this town wishes you well.
“Thanks, Whitney, I owe you one,” Riley said to himself. The reporter had certainly done her job—maybe a little too well.
As Riley scanned the comments posted by readers after the online article, he knew she had dug herself a pretty deep hole.
Fans were calling for her head because she had done exactly what Riley had asked her to do—get the word out that he was heading
for the mountains.
Gonna
have to make sure I make that right.
Hearing about the memorials put a slight crack in Riley’s defenses. For the past twelve hours, he had been working hard at
locking all his emotions behind a strong wall. A couple times he’d even gone a full half hour without thinking of his dad.
Feelings were simply not something he had the luxury of dealing with at the present moment. People’s sympathy—while he appreciated
it for what it was—did not help the matter at all.
Focus, buddy.
Before shutting down the computer, he quickly checked the
Denver Post
and
Rocky Mountain News
Web sites. Both had their own versions of the story, which they had either ripped off from Whitney or gathered from their
own Mustangs sources.
Riley got up from the desk in the bedroom and felt his way through the pitch-black room to the front door, where Skeeter had
situated himself. Skeeter had shunned the deep leather armchairs that sat just behind him in the small den in favor of a wooden
chair from the dining room. Simmons’s “cabin” was less an actual cabin than it was a mini mansion placed in a woodsy setting.
A steep path led from the driveway to an elegant wood and glass front door. The structure itself was two stories with a finished
basement. It was beautifully decorated in mountain chic—lots of logs, leather, and antlers.
Why
couldn’t
this be an old, run-down, one-room log cabin? Then
I
wouldn’t
feel so bad if the place gets blasted into tiny pieces.
Skeeter turned as Riley placed his hand on Skeeter’s shoulder. “You doing okay?”
“Mmmm,” Skeeter grunted with a nod, turning back to the outside. As his eyes began to adjust, Riley could see the night-vision
goggles that the big man was wearing.
The goggles were just one part of a “care package” that Scott had asked the ops guys at FRRT to put together for them. Although
Riley and Skeeter had been halfway to the Eisenhower Tunnel when they got Scott’s call, they’d gladly turned around to pick
up their little box of goodies. Thanks to Scott, they now had two pairs of night-vision goggles and a series of ten trip flares
that surrounded the perimeter of the property. As far as weaponry, Scott had equipped them with both fragmentation and stun
grenades, neither of which Riley hoped they’d have to use. If they did, it would mean that things had deteriorated far beyond
what he had hoped.
“You feeling good about the defenses?”
“Best we could do with what we’ve got,” Skeeter replied.
Riley stood next to his friend and listened to the stillness of the night. All was quiet except for the incessant barking
of a neighbor’s dog. The dumb thing had been barking when they arrived. It had barked while they set up the trip flares. It
barked now that they were back in the cabin. Earlier, Skeeter had hiked over to see the dog. He reported back that it was
a large Rottweiler that just seemed mad at the world.
“Whitney got the article out saying we’re in the mountains. You thinking it’ll be enough?”
“We’ll see.”
Riley nodded. “Yeah, I guess we will.”
Silence again. Riley’s eyes continued to allow him more details of the man next to him.
“Skeet, can I ask you a question?”
“Mmmm.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but why’re you here? You are good enough to have any gig you want. Jim even offered for you
to head up his whole ops team, didn’t he? That’d be a perfect situation for you. Or you could be bodyguarding for the rich
and famous—pretty little starlets who don’t have people trying to kill them. Instead, here you are hiding out in the mountains
with
hajji
-enemy number one.”
Silence descended back into the room. Skeeter shifted, the dog barked, Riley waited. In the midst of the quiet, Skeeter spoke.
“My mama was a great woman. Never was a person alive who loved with more sacrifice and devotion. My daddy ran off when I was
three. From that time on, Mama worked to make me something. She never took another man; she never even dated. I was her life.
“We never had much, and Mama felt that by her going to the doctor she would be taking food out of my mouth. So by the time
she finally had to go, the cancer had spread through most of her body. I guess the blessing was that there was no long, drawn-out
death.
“I was thirteen when she passed.” Skeeter paused. “I can still remember one of the last things she said to me. She said, ‘Skeeter,
you want to know how to make your life mean something? You find one thing you believe in, and then you give yourself to it—I’m
talking everything you got.’ Then she took my hand and said, ‘You’re my one thing, boy. And it’s because of you that my life
has meant something.’
“I struggled for a lot of years after her passing. But then I met you in Afghanistan. I saw your principles. I saw your commitment.
I realized you reminded me a lot of my mama. Before I knew it, I realized that I had found my one thing I believe in.”
Riley stood silently, waiting to see if there was more. But Skeeter was done. A wave of melancholy swept through Riley—an
emotion that had its genesis in the personal knowledge that he was not near the man Skeeter and others had built him up to
be.
In fact, if they
knew what I was really like, way down deep,
they’d
be out of my life in
a heartbeat.
“Why don’t you get some shut-eye? I’ll take first watch,” Riley said as he picked up his night-vision goggles from a side
table. “I’ll wake you at three.”
“You won’t need to wake me,” Skeeter replied, making his way only as far as the couch in the family room, avoiding the comfort
of the bedrooms.
Riley knew it was true. No matter how soundly Skeeter slept, he would be awake and relieving Riley by 2:45 a.m. at the latest.
“Don’t want to see you before three, Skeet. I’ll send you back to bed.”
“Mmmm.”
Riley exhaled deeply as he adjusted his goggles. He shook his arms out, then leaned his head first left then right until he
heard the pops.
Time to empty the mind and focus.
Picking up his Micro Tavor, he checked his clip, flipped off the safety, and sat down to begin what he prayed would be three
hours of absolute nothingness.
SATURDAY, MAY 23, 4:00 P.M. GMT
OVER THE ATLANTIC OCEAN
Where does all that hate come from?
Scott asked himself as he set his copy of Vikram Chandra’s
Sacred Games
on the seat next to him. He stared out the window at the seemingly endless blanket of clouds far below him. The story was
a fictional account of religious riots in Bombay, India, long before the city went through its name and culture transformation
to become modernistic Mumbai. Hindus were killing Muslims, and Muslims were killing Hindus.
And
it’s
not just there. In the Balkans, you have
Orthodox Christians and Muslims killing each other;
in the Middle East,
it’s
Jews and Muslims; in Nigeria,
it’s
Muslims and Christians; in Sri Lanka,
it’s
Hindus
and Buddhists.
Growing up in a pluralistic, religious melting pot
like America, we
don’t
understand that kind of deep-seated
hatred. And
that’s
to our disadvantage, because
we end up giving too much benefit of the doubt to those
who just want to kill us because we are us.
Scott leaned his head back and closed his eyes.
Lecha Abdalayev kills for
money—
that’s
a concept
we can at least sort of grasp in our capitalistic
culture. So what are the ramifications of his motivation? First, his men
are not zealots. One who is not a zealot is more easily broken. Second, it
is possible that even Abdalayev may have his
price—
although judging by
his dossier,
that’s
a much longer shot.
A shout and a cheer broke Scott’s concentration. He popped his head over the back of his seat to a poker game that had been
going on for two hours now. A huge pot had just been taken, and everyone was either congratulating Kim Li or razzing Ted Hummel.
As he scanned the laughing faces, a good feeling spread through Scott’s body. Most of the team from the operations following
the Platte River Stadium bombing had accepted Jim Hicks’s invitation to relocate to Denver to become part of the Front Range
Response Team. Only Kyle Arsdale had declined the offer in favor of becoming a cop in his hometown of Albuquerque. Over the
past few months, Matt Logan, Kim “Tommy” Li, Jay Kruse, Carlos Guitiérrez, Ted Hummel, Steve Kasay, Chris Johnson, and Gilly
Posada had become like family to him—the brothers an only child like him had always longed for.
“Hey, Scott, you want in?” asked Guitiérrez as he shuffled the cards.
“Nah, I’ll just watch. I don’t have the jing to play with you high rollers.”
The group laughed as six hands were dealt out. Scott was bored, but he wasn’t in the mood for a game. He was looking for someone
to gab with.
He looked past the game and saw Posada in the back row of the C-37A Gulfstream V, reading through Abdalayev’s file. Next to
him sat a stack of at least six more thick files.
Across the row from Posada was Chris Johnson. Since coming to Denver, Johnson had begun taking courses at the University of
Denver’s Graduate School of International Studies in hopes of getting his masters in international security. As a result,
he rarely was without a book in front of his face—today’s fare was
Globalization and War
.
Across the aisle from Scott was Hicks. He had his MacBook out and was examining a map of Prague.
Perfect,
Scott thought with a smile. He leaned across and pointed to an area by the Vltava River. “Hey, I heard there’s a place down
here by the Charles Bridge that serves a mean stroganoff—you know, the kind with a real sour cream and wine sauce.”
“I’ll see if I can work it into our agenda,” Hicks said without looking up.
“Really?”
“No.”
“Come on, what’s the fun of going to a country to shoot people if you don’t take time to experience the culture? I was thinking
we’d go into town, snatch Abdalayev, throw him in the trunk of the car, and then stop by someplace for a big dish of stroganoff
or some roast pork and dumplings. We could even grab a box of
kolache
for the trip back.”
Hicks shook his head and closed his computer. “Okay, Scott. I know you well enough to realize that you aren’t going to let
me get any work done. What’s up?”
“Nothing really. Just thinking of the motivations behind Abdalayev and people like him. You think you’ll be able to turn
him?”
“I doubt it. Abdalayev may not be a fanatic, but he’s got a lot of hard history behind him. He’ll take his silence as a point
of honor.”
“So what’s your plan?”
Hicks put his computer in the seat next to him and stowed his tray into the armrest to give himself room to stretch out. “I’m
hoping we can get some of his team. If so, we’ve got a better shot of getting some information about al-’Aqran. The problem
is, we’re not even sure whether anyone’s with him.”
“I’m just hoping that my Russian is good enough for me to talk with these guys. I know my Arabic’s not, and I never saw the
need to study Chechen. Woulda been nice to have Khadi along.” As he talked, Scott stood up to stretch his legs. It had been
five hours since they had taken off, and it would be another five before they landed.
“I know it. But we had room for ten, so it was either you or her.”
Scott leaned forward into Hicks’s row and said quietly, “Tell me the truth, Jim; did you bring me for my skills or for my
looks? If it was for my skills, I’ll respect your decision. If it was for my looks, then I’ll just feel used.”
Hicks gave Scott his “shut up, you sick freak” look, then reached to the other seat for his computer. But before he could
open it up, Scott began talking again. Hicks set the computer back down.
“Only reason I’d want to still be back there is for Riley and Skeeter. I can’t remember the last time I felt so helpless in
a situation.”
Hicks heaved a sigh. “I’ve been thinking about them too. I have to tell you, Scott, I still don’t know if I agree with you
about letting them go rogue. We could have them in a nice, secure building right now.”
“Yeah, but like Riley said, other people might be dying instead to draw him out. Besides, could you imagine dealing with them?
They’d be a nightmare. And you know they’d find a way out.”
Jim chuckled. “They probably would. And then we wouldn’t know anything about where they were. No, I guess I don’t know what
else we could have done differently. Hopefully, if they get in enough trouble, they’ll be smart enough to call FRRT so Khadi
can send in some backup.”
“It’s funny. When I told her she was going to be staying behind, reminding her about Riley was the only way I could keep her
from running up to your office and chucking a chair through your door.”
Hicks rolled his eyes. “Believe me, she was still ticked—and she let me know it.”
“Don’t sweat it. She’s had plenty of time to think it through. I’m sure she’s over it by now.”
SATURDAY, MAY 23, 10:15 A.M. MDT
DENVER, COLORADO
Let’s
see, we have a female who has lived in Europe and has excellent
language skills and extensive urban ops experience. Then we have a male
whose greatest asset seems to be his ability to belch the entire chorus to
Michael
Jackson’s
“
Billie
Jean.”
So, whom do they choose? Oh yeah, I
forgot to mention, Belchy the Clown is best buddies with the boss.
Khadi knew she wasn’t being fair. Scott and Hicks would go do their thing, and when they came back everything would be fine
between them and her. But for now, it still hurt to be the one left behind.
“Hey, Khadi, I’m sending you something,” Evie Cline’s voice called out through the Room of Understanding. “Didn’t know if
you’d seen it yet.”
An envelope popped up on Khadi’s computer screen. She double-clicked it, and the message opened. In the right corner of the
masthead was a peace symbol wearing round John Lennon glasses. Below, Khadi read the words
All we are saying . . .
and again wondered what Evie was doing in a job like this.
Turning her attention to the message, Khadi saw that Evie had sent her a link. She clicked it, bringing up the Fox 31 News
Web site and a story headlined “Covington Runs for the Hills.” Immediately her hackles were raised, and by the time she had
finished the article, she was out for blood.
A reporter running a story about Riley’s “recuperation trip to Costa Rica” had almost gotten them all killed just over a month
ago.
Don’t
these idiots know that the bad guys read the paper too?
Seeing that Whitney Walker had written the story, Khadi did a quick search in a database and found her private cell number.
She endured four rings, then a pert, happy little message. Khadi’s message was not quite so happy.
“Whitney Walker, this is Khadi Faroughi with the Counterterrorism Division of Homeland Security. You have exactly thirty minutes
to return this call before I send someone out to pick you up and drop you into an interrogation room.” She left the callback
number, then hung up the phone and resisted the urge to slam it on her desk.
Bringing back up Evie’s e-mail, Khadi hit Reply and typed, “Find out what you can about this bimbo and get back to me.” By
the time she hit Send, her telephone was ringing. Khadi looked at the number—
Ah, apparently Miss Walker screens her calls.
“This is Faroughi.”
“Miss Faroughi, this is Whitney Walker. What gives you the right to leave threatening messages on my phone? I’ve a good mind
to go to your superior!”
Suspecting that Whitney’s indignation was mostly bluster, Khadi tried to keep the upper hand by remaining calm. “While I can’t
speak to the quality of your mind, I can tell you that my superior would agree with me. Besides, I wasn’t threatening you;
I was just explaining procedure.”
When Whitney responded, Khadi could hear hesitancy in the midst of her outrage. “You have no right to insult me, Miss Faroughi!
I am just responding to your request for a phone call. Now what is it you want? I have things to do.”
Khadi tried to keep control by counting backward from ten, but, by the time she reached seven, she launched. “You think that
was insulting? You haven’t even heard the beginning of insulting! I want to know what kind of brainless idiot posts a story
that gives the whereabouts of a person who has gone into hiding? You think terrorists don’t read the Internet or watch the
news? In your great quest to break a story, you very well may have led the people who have been hunting Riley Covington right
to his doorstep!”
“Wait a second. I thought I recognized your name. You’re Khadi. Riley told me about you.”
The use of Riley’s first name startled Khadi. “How do you know Riley?” she managed to say.
Whitney’s voice was much more gentle now. “We’ve gotten together for coffee a couple of times—just business, of course.”
Of course,
thought Khadi, who had seen Whitney’s picture on the Fox Web site and had read her bio. “If you really are friends with Riley,
that’s all the more reason why this story makes no sense.”
“I . . . I . . . Khadi, I don’t know what to do. Riley swore me to secrecy. Not only that, but I could lose my job—although
that’s looking very possible right now anyway. You’re not the only one upset about the story.”
Feelings of competition and of alliance were wrestling for supremacy in Khadi’s heart.
Put the jealousy stuff out of your mind
right now,
she chastised herself.
This is about Riley, not you!
“Whitney . . . can I call you Whitney?”
“Of course.” There was relief in Whitney’s voice at Khadi’s new tone.
“Whitney, I would never ask you to break a confidence or divulge a source. However, it feels like you have something you think
you should tell me. You need to know that whatever you do tell me, I will do my best to keep it under the strictest guard.
You have my promise.”
Khadi could hear the other woman breathing. Finally Whitney said, “Riley asked me to put out that story. He told me he and
Scooter were going into the mountains, and he wanted the people who were after him to find them there.”
The mispronunciation of Skeeter’s name told Khadi that Whitney and Riley weren’t too close . . . yet. However, she still felt
a twinge of jealousy that Riley would entrust his plan to this woman and not to her.
You were the one who needed some time apart, remember?
Deal with regrets later.
“Did he tell you where he was going in the mountains?”
“No. But I’m sure you could figure it out. Riley spoke very highly of you when we were together.”
The phrases “spoke very highly of you” and “when we were together” battled in Khadi’s heart. “Is there anything else you can
tell me?”
“No. I’m sorry, but that’s all he said.”
“Whitney, I owe you an apology,” Khadi said after a pause. “I thought you were using Riley to further your career, but it
turns out you were just sacrificing for a friend.”
Whitney laughed softly. “It’s fine. I have to admit, it feels good to know there is at least one other person who knows why
I posted the story. Everyone else thinks I need to either be jailed or loaded on the first plane out of town.”
“Well, if things get too bad for you, give me a call. We’ve got some pretty good resources around here. I’m sure we can find
a way to make things better.”
“Thanks, Khadi. Riley was right. You do seem to be a pretty terrific woman.”
Khadi smiled. “No, thank you. I needed to hear that. I look forward to meeting you sometime.”
“Me too. Bye for now.”
Khadi hung up the phone, rested her elbows on her desk, and put a fingernail in her mouth. Just as she was about to bite,
she remembered that she had given up that habit two years ago. Instead she grabbed a pack of Trident out of her purse and
popped a piece into her mouth.
