Extreme Faction (25 page)

Jake started to leave, but Tully pulled him back by the arm. “Wait, Jake. I haven't told you everything. Some things have happened that might be related. The cluster bomb that was stolen from Johnston Atoll. It was used just hours ago in Houston.”

Jake settled down into his chair slowly. “How?”

Tully glanced sideways at Quinn and then back at Jake. “There was an assassination attempt on former president Bush while he was golfing. Our guys cut the terrorists off, but they apparently turned their airplane toward the Astrodome and dropped a number of bomblets through the roof onto the playing field. A few hit the stands.”

Quinn added, “The Astros were playing the Mets at the time.”

“God. How many dead?”

“Twenty-five so far,” Tully said. “But that'll rise into the hundreds possibly. Some were trampled while trying to escape. One of the Mets outfielders died within seconds. It could have been much worse, but a technician turned off the fans, giving people a chance to escape. Also, we had a few decon units in the area. The carbon units.”

“What about the plane?”

“It crashed in a little pond a short distance from the parking lot.”

“That was lucky,” Jake said. “Probably helped dilute the nerve gas.”

“Right,” Tully said, exhaling a puff of smoke. “You do know your chemical agents.”

“So the pilot was killed?”

Tully shook his head. “No. He bailed out and drifted into the panicking crowd.”

“Damn. I hope the Agency is hot on the trail.”

“Yeah, from what I hear the officer in charge, Steve Nelsen, is blaming himself. He's totally pissed. A man obsessed.”

“Nelsen?”

“You know him?”

“We had a run in a few years back,” Jake said. That was putting it lightly. Words had actually turned to full-fist blows. When they were finished, each had lost enough blood for a transfusion. “He's a very determined individual. He likes doing things his way, or not at all.”

“That's what happened in Houston,” Quinn added. “It was his plan. Right or wrong. Some want to hang his ass out to dry, from what I've heard.”

“The MEO wouldn't have it, though,” Tully said. “In fact, Nelsen is on his way to this region. Turkey actually. Which brings us full circle back to you, Jake.”

“What do you mean?”

“You understand these nerve gas agents better than any one of us,” Tully said. “Hell, you even smelled the chemicals at Tvchenko's apartment, just before we were almost blown to bits. You've also spent a great deal of time in Turkey, and Kurdistan in particular.”

“But—”

“Let me finish. That friend of yours. The Brit. Sinclair Tucker. He was sent to Kurdistan by his government this morning, after the death of MI-6 director, Sir Geoffrey Baines.”

“Baines is dead? How?”

“Murdered in his home last night. Along with his housekeeper.”

“I was wondering why Sinclair wasn't around today,” Jake said. “That's good. Tuck knows the area as well as anyone. In fact we used to work there together on the verification team.”

Tully lit another cigarette from the first, took in a long drag, and then let out a deep breath of smoke.

“What's wrong?”

The station chief hesitated, searching for words. “Tucker's helicopter was shot down by Kurdish guerrillas.”

Blood rushed to Jake's head. “Tucker? Is he—”

“The Brits aren't sure,” Tully answered. “The pilot was left at the scene dead. But the co-pilot and Tucker are listed as missing. That's all they know.”

Jake knew Tucker was a survivor. If there was a way, any way for him to be alive, then he was. “I think you were setting me up for a Turkish vacation before Tucker came up. What exactly did you have in mind for me?”

“Well—”

“And remember. I'm a private citizen now. I do have a business, however precarious, to get back to in Portland.”

Quinn was watching his boss with great interest, as if studying how he would someday maneuver as a station chief.

Tully drew a letter from inside his jacket. It was folded in thirds. He handed it to Jake.

The letter was actually a plain paper fax from the Agency headquarters in Langley, Virginia, on Director of Operations letterhead. It was a formal request that Jake Adams be reinstated as an Agency officer. Signed by Kurt Jenkins himself.

When he was done reading, Jake folded the letter and handed it back to Tully. “How can I be reinstated to something I had never been part of? Remember, I worked for the old Agency.”

“A technicality.”

“What does Jenkins want me to do?” Jake was skeptical, and probably for good reason. He didn't want to be hung out to dry in Turkey. He'd end up in some Draconian prison as a play toy for sadists.

“You'd be fully sanctioned.”

“That's not what I asked, but it's nice to know. What will I do there?”

Tully hesitated again. “Meet up with Nelsen. That's all they've told me. It's need to know only.”

“Great.” Jake leaned back contemplating his options as if he really had any. Another unofficial jaunt into the frontiers. “And if I'm picked up by anyone who gives a shit?”

“Like I said. Fully sanctioned.”

Jake was a little concerned. He had no diplomatic passport, no official papers saying he worked for the U.S. government. Perhaps that was their intention. If things got harry, which they usually did, then the government could deny any involvement. He had to admit he was beyond pissed off. Somewhere closer to a hit below the belt. He was sick of being shot at, but that seemed to follow him wherever he went. And there was the point of Sinclair Tucker. He hoped that Tucker would come looking for him if his chopper went down in a guerrilla enclave. He'd like to think he would.

“What's in it for me?”

“The satisfaction of a job well done.” Tully smiled.

“Right. I don't put my life on the line for nothing. Not anymore.” Jake knew he was bullshitting himself. He had already done that watching Petra. But he justified that by knowing he was still under the retainer MacCarty had given him. It was a loose association, but something to ease an already tainted conscience.

Tully brought the tip of his cigarette to a bright red. His left eye was closed, keeping the smoke away. “The owners of the New York Mets and the Houston Astrodome have put up a hundred thousand bucks as a reward for the capture of the terrorist who dropped the nerve gas.”

“A hundred thousand?”

Tully grinned. “Government agents can't collect on that.”

“What about pseudo government agents?”

“That's different, I'm sure.”

Well, the incentive was there. Besides, he had run out of ideas in Odessa. Tvchenko was dead. Petra was dead. Petrov had closed any possible deal with MacCarty's company. And, strangely enough, the GRU and Ukrainian intelligence had been non-existent. He had a feeling that the Kurds had only stuck around in Odessa long enough to tie up loose ends, and were probably long gone. That's what he would have done. The money would be nice, but it wasn't really needed. Jake would have gone to Turkey after his old friend anyway, or even to vindicate his former boss's death. There was also the issue of some undesirable elements with a deadly nerve gas formula that could easily be put together now by a half-assed chemist. He had nothing against the Kurds. In fact, he thought they should have a free and independent Kurdistan, but not at the expense of innocent people.

“All right,” Jake said. He started to leave.

“One more thing,” Tully said.

Jake glared back at Tully.

“There was a German killed the other day in Berlin. Gerhard Kreuzberg.”

“The former foreign minister?”

“Yes. And witnesses said a few Turks had been at the scene. By the time Jenkins sent us the fax asking for your help, the Kurds had finally made a move. They called in responsibility for the German's murder. The same with the MI-6 director. The Brits got a call minutes after his death. The Kurds say they want the United Nations to step in on their behalf to negotiate an autonomous Kurdistan.”

“Or?”

Tully hesitated. “Or they'll show the world how powerful they really are.”

“Which means?”

“They were pretty specific about using the most deadly nerve gas ever conceived,” Tully said solemnly. “They didn't say where they'd use it, but they did say it would be soon.”

“Shit.” If the Kurds were involved at Johnston Atoll, in Odessa, in Germany, in England, then they had come together in a unified effort. Over twenty million strong. It was only a matter of time before they would take no more pushing and shoving. Now they were bargaining from a position of strength. Jake was partly impressed that they had come so far so soon, but he knew that their resolve was never really in question. It was never if, but only when and how.

Jake left Tully and Quinn at the cafe. He had some thinking to do before his flight to Turkey. Walking off through the Privoz Market, Jake could hear thunder off in the distance heading toward Odessa. It reminded him of artillery fire and bombs dropping on dark, obscure night targets.

AL-HAMADI AIR BASE
Near Kirkuk, Iraq

It was a hot, dry evening. Clouds obscured the entire compound, which was mostly at rest after a long day of preparedness drills. The front gate was manned by four men in uniform. Three had machine guns strapped over their shoulders, and the fourth had a 9mm sidearm.

Things had been extremely quiet for the past month. The planes that they so vigilantly guarded had taken off on only routine reconnaissance missions, nothing like the bombing raids to the north just six months ago.

Two of the men relaxed inside the guard shack, their outer shirts off, and sweat still showing through their undershirts.

The other two, as ordered, were outside the building, hoping their shift would end soon, but realizing it had just begun a few hours ago. They were the graveyard shift. Nothing ever happened at night.

When the sergeant of the watch first saw the headlights winding down the road, he checked his watch. It was probably just the crew of men who had left earlier to search for two men who had been reported missing while picking up supplies that morning. The timing was right. The base commander suspected the two men had deserted, and would do everything within his power to get them back and make an example of them. All the sergeant knew was he had never seen the commander so angry. Not since the war with the infidels.

As the headlights got closer, the sergeant could hear the engine roaring. It was coming too fast, he thought. And it wasn't the truck that had left earlier, but something far bigger. Maybe the missing supply truck and the two men. He got angry thinking of them. Unlike the commander, he didn't think his men had run off. They should have called and said what had gone wrong, though.

The lights bounced and flickered as the truck hit holes in the road. Yet it continued to gain speed as the driver shifted gears. It was now two hundred meters out, and nowhere near coming to a halt.

The sergeant got nervous. He grabbed his man by the shirt and pointed at the truck. “Shoot it,” he screamed.

The young man didn't know if he was serious.

The sergeant drew his hand gun, leveled it on the advancing truck, and opened fire.

The truck was at a hundred meters. Bullets planked into the hood.

Now the young man knew to open fire, and the other two inside the guard shack had responded, their weapons ready.

Fifty meters and closing. Bullets smashed through the windshield.

And the other three opened fire at full automatic. Hot shells flew from the breech. Flames cut through the darkness.

Out of rounds, the sergeant scurried toward the shack. Just as he dove inside, the truck hit the outer metal barrier, sending it flying toward the wooden shack. It continued on and crashed through the metal gate, flipping it to both sides like it was liquid.

One of the guards was killed instantly by a metal bar crushing his skull. The other two were on the ground, emptying their magazines. The sergeant had sounded an alarm. It was all he could do.

●

The truck continued toward the row of barracks. As it did, two men in the back in full chemical warfare suits with gas masks twisted the valve on 55-gallon drums. Liquid flowed through tubes into a compressor that was turning rapidly from a small engine. In seconds, the liquid was turned to a gaseous state and drifted off behind the truck.

Keeping the truck moving between the barracks, the driver twisted and turned the wheel frantically.

By now men were making their way outside, pulling pants up, disoriented.

Perfect.

The truck swept by, and within seconds soldiers were dropping to their knees, dying instantly. Others within the barracks were rubbing their eyes, holding their chests.

Twisted bodies lay twitching in the dirt, their faces grimacing with unknowing wonder. None of them had a chance. They had no weapons, no masks or protective clothing.

Inside the truck, the driver started pulling at his mask with one hand. Something was wrong. The filters were not working. He screamed into his radio that the filters were useless, but got no response.

Looking over his shoulder, he saw his two men lying next to the metal drums. Dead.

He panicked. He let his hand off the wheel and the truck careened into one of the barracks, smashing through rows of bunks, and settling against an oil heater.

A second later, the truck burst into flames and exploded the entire building, disbursing the remaining gas high into the air across the entire barracks compound.

CIA HEADQUARTERS
Langley, Virginia

Although he didn't know it, most of the details of Steve Nelsen's trip to Turkey had been worked out for him prior to his arrival in Washington. He would fly by C-5 from Dover Air Force Base to Incirlik Air Base, Turkey. From there he would meet up with a special forces unit on loan to the Agency. In the meantime, Agency officers would be watching every airport in Turkey for the pilot of that Beechcraft. Baskale.