The Hand of Christ (18 page)

You are to speak to no one other than the officers sent to debrief you. Upon your arrival at Langley, you are to report directly to me and to no one else. Dr. Sterling, this matter is of the highest national priority and is the President’s only concern at the moment. Speak to no one of this other than the officers I have sent. I repeat, do not speak to anyone of this, not even your immediate chain of command. I will see you tomorrow morning, take care, Dr. Sterling.”

The message ended and the screen went black, it had been the only source of light in the small cabin of the Shadow; Michael was thrown once more into a startling world of claustrophobic blackness.

Good thing this is a short flight.

Michael was annoyed more than he was confused – flying home and then out again the next morning? Sonia was really going to love this. His senses were on fire, something about what the Deputy Director had said, the way he said it, bothered Michael, “Speak to no one of this, and not even your immediate chain of command,” had been the Deputy Director’s orders.

Mid-thought, Michael felt the Shadow start to decelerate; the plane readied to land. A muffled groan displaced the sound of the slowing engines; the landing gear was dropping from its arrested position. The change in the cabin’s pressure mingled with his inner ear, it made them feel as if they were suddenly stuffed with wads of cotton. There was a discernable feeling of the plane losing altitude.

I am there already? For just how long was I unconscious?
Michael thought, as he gripped the armrests tighter.

The landing went surprisingly smooth, as gentle a landing as he had ever felt. Soon the plane had come to rest inside of an unmarked hanger at the far end of a restricted runway on the North end of the facility. It was the same hanger that housed the once Top Secret U-2, SR-71 Blackbird, and F-117 Stealth Bomber. The Shadow came to rest next to the newly de-classified model of the Skunk Work developed F-22 Stealth fighter.

Skunk Works is the odd – but trademarked – name of the secret design facility; it has been the location centric to most of the United States’ black aircraft related projects since 1943. The corrected name of a misspelling, the original name had been
Skonk
Works, and was borrowed from the Li’l Abner comic strips of the 1940’s. The comical Skonk Works was a backwoods secret facility that turned worn shoes and dead skunks into “kickapoo joy juice.” It is also from where the Skunk mascot on the facility’s logo is derived.

The Shadow came to a soft rest and almost immediately the system of interlocks that had maintained an airtight seal on the door were released. A loud hiss signaled that the pressure inside was being equalized with the pressure outside; the door opened. The sudden onset of light viciously pierced the inside of the plane and caused Michael’s unadjusted eyes to shut.

From the door’s frame, the figure of a man holding a pistol extended outward and shrouded by the light called out to Michael, “Sir, stay in your seat, don’t move until we have confirmed your identity.”

“
Are you serious? I was confirmed while on board. What do you think: I hijacked this plane mid-flight at 9500 miles per hour and killed the real Dr. Michael Sterling? Get me the hell out of this contraption!”

“
Sir, I repeat, stay seated, just let me do my job! Where’s your weapon?” barked the armed man.

“
I don’t have one,” replied Michael. The weapon had been irretrievably lost after his hand-to-hand fight with the Hezbollah solider in Saladin’s mausoleum. His boss wouldn’t like this; it wasn’t due to the cost of the customized chrome plated sidearm, but that its loss created a physical link between Michael and Syria. Michael was sure that he had holstered it, but it must have managed to fall out somewhere between Umayyad and his escape to the aircraft carrier.

The soldier ordered, “Please keep your hands extended away from your body, and where I can see them. The soldier reached to the radio microphone attached to his shoulder and depressed the key, “Ready to confirm authentication of Shadow’s passenger. Passenger claims he is unarmed.”

Claims?

An inaudible response came in return, Michael couldn’t hear what was said to the soldier, but the man must have received his orders because he started to move carefully closer to where Michael sat.

Michael could see more clearly now, the man was a Military Policeman (MP) and he had company. Behind him were two other MP’s dressed in full riot gear, holding gas operated, air-cooled M4A1 carbine short-barreled assault rifles in a firing position; their fingers were on the triggers. Michael was unnerved and getting really tired of having had so many weapons pointed at him in one day.

Sighing and succumbing to the need to be patient, he sat back with his arms outward and awaited further confirmation that he was, indeed, still Michael.

The MP had already passed through the door and was hovering in front of Michael. The MP placed his weapon in its holster on the right side of his body, but only after the other two well armed soldiers joined him inside the plane. They were standing to either side of the first MP, and with their weapons still aimed directly at Michael. Each man had a hardened look in his eyes that clearly stated they would pull the trigger without hesitation. The first MP quickly patted Michael down; satisfied that Michael had told the truth and had no weapon, the MP stood up and removed another weapon from a holster on the opposite side of his body and pointed it directly at and only inches from Michael’s face.

Fear rippled through Michael as he threw his hands higher into the air, “What the hell!”

“
Relax, sir, I am just going to scan your eyes for identification confirmation. It won’t hurt a bit.” Green beams of intersecting lasers emanated from the device’s wide barrel, scanning the individual trademarks of Michael’s retina. The small hand held machine quickly returned with what must have been a positive ID, because the MP replaced the device to its holster and said, “Welcome home, sir, I hope you enjoyed the ride.”

“
Thanks. Nothing says
welcome home
more than having a weapon pointed in your face.”

Smiling, the MP quickly unsnapped Michael’s harness and expertly removed the flight helmet and breathing apparatus. He quickly undid the anti-g suit’s straps taking care when removing the suit from Michael’s right leg. Word of his injuries had obviously made it to Skunk Works. When Michael stood up, he nearly fell; the MP quickly reached out and grabbed Michael, helping him to right himself.

The MP laughed a bit and said, “It happens all the time with this plane, sir, a bit of a side effect when flying so fast. Just stand up, your legs will find the ground soon. It has something to do with your internal balance system having been spun like a top. Doesn’t really matter that much though, there is an F-18 waiting for you, it will take you to Travis Air Force Base in San Francisco.”

Just great! Another damn flight,
thought Michael.

The two other MP’s had retracted their weapons; the barrels now pointed safely toward the ground. They were leaving the plane as Michael found his footing.

The MP at his side nudged Michael toward the door, and Michael said, “Thanks, but I think I got it now.” Michael walked down the ramp; standing at its base were two men wearing customary off-the-rack, style-less dark suits.

Clearly, they were Company men.

Michael looked at the two CIA Officers and sarcastically shouted, “What, no streamers and no candy filled piñata? What kind of welcome home – thanks for helping to save the free world and not dying while you were at it – party is this?”

Both agents smiled and stood rigidly like buck privates in front of their drill sergeant. The man closest to Michael militarily barked out, “Good afternoon, sir. Welcome to Palmdale, California, sir. So glad that your big, dumb ass didn’t get shot the hell up, sir. Hope you enjoyed your flight, you big pussy – sir! Tell me, do you still act like a six-year old little girl getting her pigtails pulled when getting on a plane, SIR?”

Responding to the CIA Officer’s insubordinate return sarcasm, Michael had a jab of his own for the six-foot-six inch beast of a man, “Chris, if I didn’t feel so god awful sorry for your mild level of retardation, I would jump up there, look you eye to eye, and break that already crooked nose of yours.”

The second officer chimed in as well, “Yeah, him being an idiot might stop you, but knowing that his inordinately large butt would kick your narrow behind from here to Langley probably has something to do with it, too.”

The three MP’s stood off to the side looking at one another in confusion as the three CIA Officers stared at each other. Soon all three men broke out into large smiles.

“
Michael, it is really good to see you. How long has it been, since Ahaggar, right? Do you have your new boss by the balls, too?”

The three CIA Officers were exchanging long and firm handshakes now. Trevor, the other CIA Officer interjected, “Michael, we heard about Damascus. What a nightmare, you were ambushed right, the only one to make it out alive?”

And so begins the debriefing: forever friends but always professionals.

Chapter Nineteen

Travis Air Force Base

San Francisco, CA

The F/A 18F Super Hornet landed on the runway that was numbered 3L/21R at Travis Air Force Base in San Francisco. With a maximum speed of near 1200 mph, it was a short hop to Travis from southern California. The fighter jet didn’t need all 11,001 feet of the runway to come to a safe halt, and taxied soon after hitting the tarmac.

From his place, sitting just at the rear of the pilot, Michael saw a line of C-17 Globemasters and KC-10 Stratotankers through the glass canopy of the Super Hornet; the planes were behemoths and needed every inch of Travis’s long runway to takeoff and land. So large, a bus and then some could drive into the belly of the C-17.

He remembered the C-17 well. When Michael was a young paratrooper with the 82
^nd
Airborne Division in North Carolina, his platoon had sat on the asphalt near a landing strip belonging to Pope Air Force Base, and had been waiting for a C-17 to land and pick up his squad of paratroopers. When the jet finally landed, an even younger paratrooper looked at Michael and said, “We gotta jump out that? Damn thing is so big it don’t even look like it should be able to fly!”

Pope Air Force base is co-located with and supports the missions of the 82
^nd
Airborne Division, including training jumps for the division’s paratroopers. Michael’s squad was the first to conduct static line test jumps out of the cavernous guts of the C-17. The plane offered unusual comfort and space for the paratroopers. Typically, the men were crammed like packed sardines into the much smaller innards of a C-130 or C-141. Jumping from the C-17 was a unique experience and required a much longer static line to clear the plane; it gave many of the paratroopers a slight taste of their first free-fall.

He missed those days: they were days of missions without consequence.

Not like today.

The Hornet came to a halt outside of the Naval Fleet Air Reconnaissance VQ-3 Detachment’s headquarters building. With efficacy, two naval crewmembers placed blocks around the wheels of the aircraft, plugged it up to a generator, and rolled a wheeled ladder next to the cockpit. With the pilot’s command, the enclosure lifted upwards on its hydraulic hinges as the two General Electric F414-Turbofans of the fighter wound down with a high-pitched, dwindling scream.

Michael undid his safety harness and climbed down the ladder after the pilot.

“
Welcome to Travis, sir,” said one of the young naval crewmen. “Are the other two Hornets right behind you?”

“
Come again?”

“
The other two, sir, weren’t you with two other fighters? Three left a few hours ago.” The crewmen had a confused look on his face.

Michael just shrugged and pointed toward the Hornet’s pilot, “You’ll have to ask him; I was just along for the ride.” With that, Michael tossed his flight helmet to the sailor and made his way to the building. Before he was able to open the door, a black Yukon pulled up from around the corner of the building. A fresh faced, young CIA Officer who was pulling driver duty called to Michael from the window, “Dr. Sterling, sir, hop in. I’ll get you to SFO.”

Michael paused for a moment before acknowledging the driver and thought,
three aircraft
?

Without looking at the driver, he shouted back to him, “Give me a minute, I’ve got to hit the head.” Turning from the government issued, armor plated four-wheel drive SUV, Michael walked into the detachment’s outdated and nondescript headquarters. Quickly he made his way toward the Charge of Quarters (CQ). Michael asked the mannish-looking female marine sitting behind the standard drab-grey metal desk where he could find the bathroom; she responded by pointing a thick knuckled finger down a hallway to his right.

In the spotless and typical military bathroom, Michael had his first moment alone in some time, the Shadow didn’t really count: he had been knocked out nearly the entire duration of the trip. Letting out a long and audible sigh, it was time – time to do something he hasn’t done in quite awhile. He needed to find a phone, one that couldn’t be traced back to him.