October's Ghost (33 page)

“You have a plane to catch,” Bud said as they emerged to the colonnade.

“Yeah. I hate these damn connecting flights.” Joe would be flying to Pope Air Force Base in North Carolina to link up with a plane heading farther south.

“Security,” Bud explained unnecessarily. “The DCI went down earlier in a pretty blue-and-white from the Eighty-ninth.” The 89th Military Airlift Wing was the unit that provided transport for the President and other government officials, the majority of its aircraft sporting the brilliant white-and-blue paint scheme and “United States of America” designation. “We don’t want to flood the Cape with too many suits.”

Joe looked at the NSA with some distaste for the remark. “I take exception to that, DiContino.”

Bud smiled as they walked. “I knew you would.”

They continued back into the West Wing. Joe Anderson went to a waiting FBI Suburban for the twenty-minute drive to Andrews. The NSA watched from his office window as the black Chevy carried the acerbic scientist off for...
the last time?
He pushed that morbid thought aside and picked up the phone. It was answered in the Pentagon instantly by a secretary and put right through to another secretary.

“Meyerson.”

“Drew, I need a few things.”

The Secretary of Defense recognized the voice, and possibly some urgency in it. “Shoot”

“Get a chopper over here and park it on the South Lawn. Use the off pad.”

“The off pad?” The presidential helicopter normally used an area on the South Lawn closer to the mansion than the auxiliary pad.

“Yes. Don’t use Marine One. Use Crown Helo. It’s smaller.” And more appropriate, Bud though to himself. Crown Helo was a heavily modified command-and-control variant of the VH-60, the VIP version of the UH-60 Blackhawk helicopter used by all the military services. Marine One—the designation of the VH-3 when the President was aboard—was a much larger bird that would draw attention if kept ready and waiting on the White House grounds. It—there were actually three identical helicopters—was normally based at Anacostia Naval Air Station when not in use.

Crown Helo?
“No problem. I’ll have it sent over. And...”

“Get Kneecap ready.” Kneecap—or NEACAP—was the National Emergency Airborne Command Post, the President’s plane to be used as a secure base of operations during extreme national emergency. “Ready” was a relative term for it. It was always in that state, but the NSA’s words were meant to ensure that the secretary of defense would make certain that there was nothing that would delay its use.

“My God. Confirmed?”

Bud nodded to himself. “We got the word a few minutes ago.”

“I’ll have Granger put it out on a readiness check. You want him on board?”

Having the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff on board was not generally planned for, but it would definitely be a plus, especially if the worst happened. “Brief him and do it quietly.”

“All right. Is that it?”

“I damn sure hope so.”

* * *

The night had kept its hold on the island long enough for the convoy from Los Guaos to complete three quarters of its journey in darkness. This time, though, there was little fear of a rebel ambush, at least one that would end as the previous one had. An escort of ten BMP-2 MICVs (Mechanized Infantry Combat Vehicles) were spread out among the twenty tank trucks, a larger number than the first convoy because of the lack of sizable transports. Ninety percent of the refinery’s fleet of large tankers were destroyed in the ambush. Overhead, prowling the treetops like an angry avian hunter, the Havoc ensured that no rebels would be allowed any hope of escape if they were foolish enough to show themselves as before.

Major Orelio Guevarra landed his aircraft between two buildings after the last of the convoy vehicles entered the complex. The Havoc’s pilot climbed out of the rear seat and ran to a group of officers standing in the long shadows cast by the newly risen sun.

“General Asunción?”

“Yes.”

Your eyes are as cold as they say.
“Major Guevarra. I am instructed to defend your...
command?
” He looked around, wondering what sort of unit could possibly be based here. Possibly one guarding the fuel supplies he had just escorted in. Was the petrol shortage really that severe that it was now necessary to stockpile away from the refinery?

“Yes.” Asunción looked at the mechanical sculpture of green-and-black metal sitting in the canyon of pavement that separated the rows of buildings a hundred meters away. “You can operate from here.”

“Yes, sir!” The major pointed to two covered trucks that had joined the convoy north of Cienfuegos. “A full ground crew, ammunition, and fuel in one of the trucks. I can fight from anywhere.”

Asunción nodded. The abilities of this zealot would only be of consequence to him if there became a need for him to use his beloved helicopter. The general was a foot soldier through and through. These pilots were too full of themselves, he thought.

“General,” one of Asunción’s assistants called from the row of tank trucks. They had formed up along the tree of pipes where they emerged from below ground.

“Yes, Captain.”

The officer looked to the tangle of pipes and valves nearest the lead truck, which had a huge gas-powered pump and a refrigeration unit between the cab and the tank. “This is going to take some time.”

“Why?” the general asked, his exasperation with the delays becoming almost unbearable. Answering to the
presidente
was not an enjoyable task.

“The pumping equipment on the lead vehicle is not completely compatible with the inflow valves on the tree. The outflow valve on the pump is a different size than the receptacle on the tree. “The larger trucks that were destroyed had the proper equipment, but not these. We have only two trucks equipped with pumps, in fact—one for each type of liquid. We cannot mix the two, of course. The NTO is refrigerated. It must be to maintain it as a liquid. Each truck will have to connect to the respective pump truck to unload its cargo.”

“And there is a solution, I anticipate.”

The captain nodded emphatically. “We will cut a new inflow valve into the tree using components from one of the trucks.”

“Cut into a
fuel
line?”

“General, it is not as dangerous as you must think. I have myself done it before. There will be no combustibles flowing through the line, of course, so—”

“But the vapors?”

“Yes, there will be vapors, but we will purge those through the vent valve on the tree and then pressurize the line with nitrogen. Nitrogen is an inert gas that will prevent combustion as the torch cuts through the wall of the pipe.” The captain noticed the continued worry on his superior’s face. “It will work, General. As I said, I have done it before.”

“And the time?” Time was everything now, as evidenced by the thunder in the distance.

“Several hours. Five, possibly six, before we can begin fueling.”

There was no other way, Asunción knew. He could not just wish away the delay. “See to it.”

*  *  *

“Uprange five minutes,” the pilot warned the RSO. Aurora was three hundred miles from the target and closing on it at a speed of 3,675 mph.

“Systems are synched,” the RSO reported. All his sensors would be focused on a relatively small area in central Cuba, though he knew not what the importance of any particular target was. Neither did his pilot They just took the pictures and let someone else handle the analysis. Those people, of course, would know little of the platform from which the data was collected. Such was the practice of SCI, or sensitive compartmentalized intelligence. It was different from the precept of need-to-know in the fact that the many components of an intelligence-gathering operation were known to many people, but few knew more than one piece, and fewer still knew the whole picture. It was a cumbersome, stifling, sometimes inefficient system, but it worked, provided that the natural curiosities of the involved parties did not get the better of them.

“GPS interface ready.” The RSO activated his Global Positioning System interface, a delicate, computer-controlled aiming system from the sensors that used positional readings from satellites to let the image computers know the exact location of both target and platform. It was less for the visible-light sensors than for the SAR, particularly when the mission called for narrow observation, as this one did. The basic premise was that clarity in the representation of the data gathered was dependent upon two things: knowing precisely where the platform and target were at all times during the pass. Knowing the location of just the platform was not enough, as the target was also not in a consistent location, a problem caused by the simple fact that the earth moves, and, therefore, every point on it follows the motion. If the position of a GPS ground station was known in relation to a target that has none, the location of the unknown could be determined. Noting the position of the platform was just a process of taking GPS readings forty times per second. These positional readings were then used to correlate the “picture” created by the SAR and place landmarks and geological features within an overlay of the area of observation. Because of the precision allowed by the GPS interface, the SAR could begin imaging the target while still approaching, giving oblique views that were combined with the overall data package to give extreme three-dimensional detail.

“Uprange three minutes.” The pilot checked her performance readings. Everything was fine. This was not the time for a minor glitch to disrupt the mission. “Systems are nominal.”

“Shooting now.” The RSO activated the SAR with just the touch of a button. Target information had been fed in before takeoff. Three feet below him, and running toward the rear of the aircraft another thirty feet, the powerful radar-imaging system focused on a point 180 miles away. Seventeen-thousand-two-hundred-eighty inch-square planar radar transceiver/receivers protected within the graphite epoxy housing swiveled toward the target in fractions of a millimeter until the computers decided that the energy was properly focused.

“Receiving data.”

The pilot again checked the systems. A bunch of microprocessors told her everything was A-OK, and there was no arguing with that. Flying sure had changed from her days at Colorado Springs and, later, piloting the TR-1, the updated version of the famed U-2. She barely touched the stick—a six-inch form-molded handle on her right console—during flights in her present ride. But looking through the tiny viewport above her head—the windscreen was covered by a retractable shield during the climbout to altitude—she could think of no complaints. Day was breaking 130,000 feet below her, but straight up, a direction she hoped to go one day in the right seat of the Space Shuttle, it was a beautiful indigo with flecks of white still visible. Low and slow was the way some fighter drivers liked it, but not her. High and fast, riding a rocket, was the only way to go.
Someday
. This would do for now, though.

“That’s a wrap,” the RSO reported five minutes after the pass began. He immediately began compiling the data for relay to NPIC. He’d have to do no preprocessing on this package.

“Okay.” The pilot took one last look upward. “Let’s head on home.”

*  *  *

Why was he driving like that? The needle was passing fifty, then sixty, then seventy, then eighty.

Johnny, slow down.

He turned and smiled at her, his face as young and smooth as ever. She looked back at him from the passenger seat.

Sis, hang on.
This is fun. He glanced into the backseat.
Right, Thom?

Frankie’s head jerked to the left. It was him! Sitting there, just fine!
Tommy! You’re all right.

But he didn’t answer. He just smiled, looking like a little boy.
Tommy, why won’t you say anything?

She felt the car go around the corners at a speed that seemed impossible. Her stomach twisted and turned as the speed increased.
Johnny, please.

Easy, Sis. You’re such a crybaby, just like when Mom used to go to work. Stop your worrying.

She looked out the front window again. Telephone poles rushed past and the brown walls of dirt lining the roadway seemed to be one long...what?...tunnel. No, it couldn’t be a tunnel, because she could see the sky.

Hey, who are those guys?

The car stopped instantly, going from a hundred to zero in the blink of an eye. Frankie felt her insides jump, but it wasn’t from the motion, or cessation of it.
No!

Johnny stepped out of the car first, followed by Thom. They walked to the front of the Camaro and waved at the two men approaching them.

Frankie tried to undo the seatbelt, but there was none. Then why couldn’t she get out? Why were her legs frozen?
Johnny! Thom! Stay away from them!
She reached into her pocket and pulled out the folded pictures. It was them! The men who had...were going to kill... She shook her head, trying to drive the confusion away.

Hey, fellas
. Johnny motioned for Thom to follow him.

No!
“Johnny! Thom! Don’t!” Frankie could see the men. They had guns! She reached to her hip for her weapon, but it wouldn’t come out of the holster. Looking down, she could see the top strap undone, but it still wouldn’t come out. She pulled hard on it, her teeth gritting, as she watched the distance decrease between those scum and two men she cared about.
Please! Please!
One of the men started to lift his gun, pointing it at Thom and Johnny.

“No!” There was a loud sound, a sharp crack, just as her weapon came loose from its holster. Frankie drew it up and pointed it toward the... “FREEZE!”

A soft whimper broke the grip of the nightmare. “Mom-ommy...”

Frankie saw her little angel past the sights of her gun, which was trained on her crying face. “Oh, my God.” She moved the gun aside and laid it on the bed before slinking off the mattress to Cassie.

“Mommy. Mommy. Why did...?” The tears were coming in sobs now, from both mother and daughter. A second later the first of three generations of Aguirres rushed into the bedroom.