DEAD BEEF (Our Cyber World Book 1) (34 page)

“Chana?” a familiar male voice greeted her.

“How did we spend that hot afternoon in Tiberias?” she asked.

“On the roof, naked and unashamed,” he said.

“Albert,” she replied. “It’s good to hear from you.”

“Are you on the ground?”

“In place and awaiting events.”

“Good. Wish I could say the same about my teams,” the president said.

“Caught out of place?”

“Some distracted. Some on the move and arriving shortly, but listen. I need your help.”

“Of course.”

“We have some fresh intel about the attack. It will be aerial, using UAVs, estimating 256 of them, to execute a Cyberattack on missile installations. Based on the intel, I’m getting the sense they intend to do more than disrupt.”

“Detonate? Launch?”

“Conjecture at this point. I’m assuming worst-case, which is launch, and I’m assuming that the capability and intention to reroute missiles to locations of their choosing.”

Chana gasped, and against her upbringing, she heard herself saying, “Jesus!”

“That’s right,” he said. “I wouldn’t doubt in that worst-case scenario, a handful don’t head your way.”

“Tell me what you need.”

“I’m not confident in my team. They just don’t seem to be delivering. Other than Spencer and his folks, the rest seem to be several steps behind at every turn.”

“I can sympathize,” Chana said.

“From me to you, and I will call the prime minister to confirm, you are cleared-hot to intervene by force.”

Chana felt her heart racing. “Understood.”

“Listen, Chana. This isn’t just about a girl you lost years ago. Not even about a boy you once loved. Let’s think bigger and beyond ourselves on this one. We have to stop this, and right now Spencer and his team are all I got.”

“You trust Spencer.”

“I do. If this is really going down, he’s the only one that can stop it. And right now, you’re my only backup for him. My best backup.”

“Do you want me to bring more resources to bear?”

“You are cleared-hot,” is all he said.

“Understood.”

“Spencer and team are en-route, should be there in six to eight hours. Until he gets there, keep your eyes open, and if you see anything that sounds like what I’ve described to you, take action.”

“Understood.”

“When Spencer gets there, you will be his muscle, you understand? You will work with him and you will protect him at all costs. At all costs, Chana. All other agendas take a distant back seat. They don’t even get a back burner. Is that clear?”

“You have my word.”

“Thank you. I will call the prime minister right away to get his concurrence. If I know him, you should assume that’s a done deal.”

“I believe you are correct.”

“After that I’m calling Spencer and ordering him to work with you. He has secure on-the-go connectivity. I’ll direct him to call you and coordinate.”

“I’m standing by to hear from him,” Chana said.

“Good. God speed.”

“Shalom.”

The line went dead and she thought about that last word,
Shalom
, how it was in such short supply. A sharp stabbing pain in her abdomen stopped her breath for a few seconds. Then she thought of her quest to find Sasha Javan, and of twelve bodies added to the ledger of regrets and mistakes. She felt ashamed, and she knew then that her purpose in these few days she had left needed to be less dark than the cancer eating away at her womanhood. She had a mission now, a pure mission to protect her people and her people’s friends.

Chana dialed a secured number in Tel Aviv and when a familiar voice came on the phone, she said, “The President of the United States is at this moment contacting the prime minister on an urgent matter. You will soon receive confirmation from him.”

“OK,” the voice replied. “We will stand by—”

“No, you will start acting now. Identify every team you have in the U.S. and Canada and Mexico and other nearby locations. I need them in Cheyenne, Wyoming immediately, without delay and urgently to address a matter of survival for the State of Israel. Do I have your attention?”

“You do.”

“You bring them in any way you can and as fast as you can. If you have to toss them out of planes in parachutes, do it. You understand?”

“Yes, we will start preparations and await confirmation from the prime minister.”

Chana hung up and started dialing her team.

Martin hung up the phone, and Sasha said, “Wow, Martin. Yes, sir, Mr. President, yes, sir, yes, sir. How many times did he say it, Rod? I lost count.”

Ochoa said, “Sounds serious.”

“I think we scared the president with our last communique,” Martin said.

“I told you to keep those Koran quotations out of it,” Sasha said. “People get spun up when God speaks.”

“The president is very concerned and wants to get us additional help. Help he can trust,” Martin said.

“I’m not liking the sound in your voice, nor the way your face has gone pale white,” Sasha said.

Martin turned to her, placed his hand on her neck and massaged it. He then kissed her on the forehead and whispered in her ear, “We need to talk.”

Chapter 44

Chana Bauman sat in a gray Suburban she had parked under the shade of a tree. She had stayed there now for the better part of two hours while she waited for the phone call to come. A computer laptop sat on her passenger seat; its screen, now long gone black, stared back at her.

Chana pressed a key, and waited until the screen displayed a map of the Wyoming, Nebraska, Colorado tri-state area, or WNC.

She sighed. “All quiet on the western, eastern, southern and whatever fronts,” she murmured with all the bitterness she could muster. She zoomed out and panned the map to show more of the west. All clear there. Too clear, and completely clear, she thought with more bitterness.

It was then that she saw a red dot light up, just east of Salt Lake City, blinking as it moved west along Interstate 80. Her phone rang.

“Thank you for calling back, Mr. Spencer,” she said without hesitation. “I take it you received my e-Vite?”

Silence on the other side, followed by, “Congrats on the clever trace, Chana. I am marginally impressed.”

“I will pass word along to my team,” she said. “As you can see, I also enjoy the company of those versed in the Cyber arts. I trust you received a call from our mutual friend?”

“I did.”

“And like a good soldier, you saluted.”

“You can see I am making good progress toward your location,” he said.

“I can see you are a bit slow on your wheels, actually. By now I would have expected you to be closer, oh, say, along Highway 40, approaching Steamboat Springs?”

Much to her disappointment, he answered swiftly, saying, “Your imagination is far sharper than your teammate’s mastery of the Cyber arts.”

Just then, the blinking red dot disappeared. It reappeared a second later just north of Silverton, Colorado. It blinked off and on again, now showing a location around Colorado Springs. Chana balled her free hand into a fist, feeling her sharp nails dig into her palm.

“You are a master among initiates,” she allowed herself to say. “Are we on speaker, Mr. Spencer? Can my daughter hear me?”

“She does not want to speak with you.”

“Tell her that in spite of it all I’ve always loved her as my own.”

“The daughter you could never have,” he said.

“Something like that, but deeper.”

“Perhaps you should be content with the son you could never have, but which you nonetheless took in a rather carnal way, your adoptive son in the White House.”

Chana winced and said, “I see your mastery extends beyond the Cyber arts.”

“Enough witty games, Chana.”

Without her commanding it to do so, a Web browser filled her laptop’s screen with the Google maps page. A second later, driving directions traced a route from her current location to Buckeye Road, just south of Hamilton Reservoir in Colorado.

At the bottom of the screen, scribbled text appeared. “Hope you like this, mommy,” it read.

“Are you by St. Peter’s because you know the first Pope was Jewish?” Martin asked her. When she didn’t answer because her teeth were too tight shut to allow any words to exit her mouth, he added, “You have 45 minutes to meet us there,” Spencer said. “As you can see, Google maps says it will take you approximately 56 minutes from your current location at St. Peter Parish, Wyoming. But I hear you were cleared-hot, so I’m sure the local cops will let you speed a little to make up the time.”

Remembering at once why she’d always hated all this hacker crap, Chana slammed down the laptop’s lid and turned the ignition.

“See you there, Martin,” she said.

“Come alone,” he replied. “Though judging by your teammates’ current locations, you don’t have much of a choice if you want to be punctual.”

The line went dead. The hacker outplaying the spymaster, she thought to herself. How the world had changed.

Forty-four minutes later, Chana was speeding toward her final destination. She passed a dull gray Toyota truck by the side of the road and noticed seconds later that it was following her. Up ahead, a large SUV was approaching fast on the wrong side of the road, aiming straight at her.

“Arriving at destination,” her GPS unit said. Chana calmly pulled by the side of the road and placed both hands on top the steering wheel.

The SUV came to a hard stop, just inches off her front hood. The pickup truck did likewise, just inches off her rear bumper, fully trapping Chana’s Suburban.

“That’s how pro’s do it,” Chana muttered to herself.

A tall lanky woman exited the passenger seat of the SUV, a Land Rover, she could see now. She took two sideways cat-like steps and leveled an AK-47 at Chana.

“Get out of the car,” she said in an even voice. “Slowly.”

For a brief moment, the lanky woman’s olive skin and face reminded her of a Palestinian operative Chana had killed in a hand-to-hand struggle, long ago. How long ago and for what reason she could not remember.

Upon exiting her car Chana eyed the truck’s passenger side and saw an Uzi sub-machine gun aimed at her and behind it a woman of lighter complexion. Cynthia Spencer, Chana recalled in a flash.

“It’s been a long time, Cynthia,” Chana said.

“Legs spread, hands on the hood,” Cynthia said once Chana slowly slinked out of her Suburban. The second woman searched her, while the Palestinian lookalike kept the AK trained on her.

“I appreciate the same-sex search,” Chana said.

“We don’t work for the TSA,” the lanky woman said.

When she was done with the pat-down, Cynthia squeezed into her, shoving her onto the hood of the Suburban to whisper in her ear, “If you so much as look at Martin or Sasha the wrong way, I will rip out your kidneys and squeeze your urine into your mouth. And that will be just the start of the fun.”

Cynthia Spencer pulled her up and shoved her toward the Land Rover.

“Easy, Cynthia, that’s not how we treat our friends,” Chana heard the Land Rover’s driver say. “Mrs. Bauman, please join me in the passenger seat.”

Chana complied, eyeing the lanky woman climbing into the back seat of the Land Rover. She had traded her AK-47 for a 9mm Beretta.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Bauman. Hang on. This will be a short drive.” With that, he gunned the engine in reverse, made the SUV spin 180 degrees and switching to forward drive, turned onto a dirt road and sped due south. Up ahead Chana could make out a curve in the road, and just to the right of the curve, a Jeep-looking vehicle. The Land Rover slid into a sideways stop.

“Get out, walk ahead,” the Driver said with a faint smile.

“You run a tight ship,” Chana said.

“Only our best for you,” the man said.

“Nice to see you again. Agent—”

“Agent Ochoa. Somewhat nice to see you again. You would get a higher score were it not for twelve goons of yours plus two helicopters, now diseased and shot-up, respectively. In case you’re wondering, the chick pointing a 9mm at your head and I split the carnage fifty-fifty.”

Chana looked him up and down. Unarmed, she decided, leaving her without a chance to steal a weapon. Now more than when she’d met him a few days prior, he struck her as the kind of man that didn’t need a weapon because he could kill you with his thumb and index finger.

“Congratulations,” Chana said, wishing she had more men like him working for her.

“Out,” the lanky woman said. She was now standing outside, her Beretta aimed at Chana’s head. Chana complied. She snuck a peak back toward the road and saw her Suburban blockading the entrance into the dirt path. Closer in, the pickup truck pointed north, toward the road, its two occupants standing sentry.

Feeling a sudden weight come over her, each step a push against a cruel head wind of her own making, Chana made her way down the path. She could now make out Martin Spencer, and a few feet behind him, Sasha Javan.