Worst Case Scenario, page 22
Shaw poured himself another big one and chuckled again. Base personnel driving past his residence probably assumed he was working late on the relocation exercise planned for Monday. The exercise promised to be much more than anyone realized. Once the detonation took place, and all Pentagon brass were dead, the next step would be to pull all surviving senior commanders to Fort Belvoir. It would become the new Pentagon, and he’d be the commander. Being sixteen miles from the detonation put Belvior just outside the blast zone. He dropped into the chair and studied the martial law order he’d drawn up.
After Speaker Wilson’s announcement next Monday afternoon, he would officially order Shaw to begin the United States’ systematic shutdown. Every border would be sealed, and the military would take control of US air space. All ports of entry would be closed, and every illegal immigrant forcibly detained and deported to their country of origin. Anyone not a US citizen could expect to be hunted down by the police or military.
Shaw’s authority would come from the John Warner Defense Authorization Act, which outlined the use of the armed forces in major public emergencies. The Posse Comitatus statutes that limit the military’s involvement in law enforcement would be suspended. The government could increase domestic intelligence and surveillance of US citizens. It would restrict the freedom of movement within the United States and grant the authorities the right to isolate large groups of civilians.
Shaw took a long swallow and sat back down. Isolate large groups of civilians or concentration camps? Yeah, that sounded better. A complete suspension of rights would follow, and McFadden could, at last, begin to build back the government he wanted. Shaw would soon be one of the most powerful men in America—Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.
Bishop checked the watch for the third time. The red light on the dial continued flashing. No mistake—he was close now. The darkness of the cave and complete silence gave him the willies. He eased forward in the blackness and thanked God for the night vision goggles. The goggle’s green tint gave the cave an eerie, unworldly appearance. Dripping water broke the silence somewhere up ahead. He stayed close to the left wall and discovered the cave made a slight turn to the right.
Bishop guessed he’d walked for seventy to eighty feet when he found the truck. It appeared to be the standard all-white dually pickup with a camper shell used by everyone on the ranch. It sat facing him like a large animal ready to charge. Bishop noticed the license plates—they were Virginia tags.
Could this be the vehicle McFadden intended to use to deliver the bomb? Adrenaline rushed through Bishop. A sound from somewhere deeper in the cave broke the silence—like the snort of an animal. Bishop didn’t like the thought of facing a bad dog or other unknown creature in such a dark, confined area. He pulled the silenced pistol and crept forward, using his left hand to brace himself against the dark cave wall. The snort sounded again, just ahead in the dark. Bishop stopped and squatted down, giving the area a complete scan—nothing—just a dead end. There were two more muffled snorts directly in front of him. What the hell. The only thing in front of him was the back wall of the cave. The sound of someone snoring floated from behind the wall. Another loud snort rang out, and Bishop smiled. Sentry sleeping on duty. Bishop touched the back wall of the cave and again found it only made of canvas. The thing was so well camouflaged you had to touch it to discover it was a fake. He looked for the zipper in the lower right-hand corner and found it.
Bishop slowly unzipped a few inches of the canvas cover and chanced a peek through the hole. The fellow sat in a folding lounge chair with his head sprawled back against a wadded-up coat for a pillow. Every so often, he’d stop snoring and let out a loud snort. Bishop finished unzipping the canvass tarp, eased through the hole, and stood over the sleeping figure. Didn’t seem quite sporting to knock a man out without waking him up first. Bishop grabbed the MP-5 submachine gun leaning against the cave wall. He smacked the guy hard against the left side of the head with it, and he tipped over, never uttering a sound.
“So much for this being a sporting event,” Bishop mumbled. He rolled the unconscious man to his stomach and secured his hands behind his back. Bishop fashioned a gag from a rag he found on the ground and stuffed it into the man’s mouth. With that done, he looked around at the cavernous room. The ceiling was about forty feet high. The room had a circumference of probably 200 feet. Against the left wall was a covering of some kind. It sat flush with the floor, and an overhead crane towered directly above it, with cables and a sling hanging down. Bishop knelt beside it and lifted the cover. It was heavy. Using his knife, Bishop scraped off part of the outside plastic sheath and discovered the lead interior lining. Lead was the perfect shielding agent against radiation. He suspected there had to be a silent alarm somewhere but finding and disabling it might be impossible. Better to attach the trackers, get the hell out and send the signal for reinforcements. By the time they could respond from the far side of the ranch, he’d be long gone.
Bishop trotted to a control panel on the wall and examined it for a moment before pushing a button. The lead pool cover slowly rolled up to one end. He took off the night vision goggles and placed them on the floor before pressing the next button. Bright blue, overhead Halogen lights bathed the cavern and revealed what lay beneath the lead cover. In a small natural spring pool, covered with eight to ten feet of water, were six fat, silver cylinders—he’d found them.
Bishop stripped off his gear and threw it against the wall. Digging through his pack, he found the box of trackers. He removed his boots and sat beside the hole, not wanting to think about the cold water temperature. Finally, he dipped his hand into the clear spring-fed pool. Damn, that’s freezing! He wiggled his fingers a few times and judged it about 65 degrees. He dreaded the thought of diving in, but he had to do it. If they somehow moved the weapons before the feds could respond, the FBI would be back to square one. Tucking the six-pack of trackers into his pocket, he took several deep breaths. On the third one, he dove for the bottom.
Damn, colder than he’d expected. He kicked hard, and his ears popped as he went lower to the sunken weapons. The cold water stung his eyes, and he hurried to attach a nickel-size, magnetic tracker to the rear of each W-80 warhead. With his lungs feeling like they wanted to burst, he pushed off the bottom. When he broke the surface, he grabbed the side of the pool and sucked in several lungs of air before pulling himself from the frigid water. Once out, he reached for his watch to send the alert signal. It suddenly occurred to him it would be useless to try and send it while underground. The satellite couldn’t pick up the alert until he got outside—or at least in an area he didn’t have a few thousand tons of rock overhead blocking the signal.
Bishop slipped his socks and boots back on and stood, shaking himself like a dog. Even his bones felt cold like the time the team had trained in Norway in winter. He began shivering and dreaded the climb back up the mountain, especially soaking wet and at night. He bent down and grabbed his pack and night goggles off the stone floor. Just as he stood, there was a whoosh sound somewhere behind him. A second later, he thought he’d been stung by a large bee in his upper right back. Bishop reached around and pulled out the dart. He glanced at the man he’d left tied at the cavern entrance. He still lay there—out cold. What tha—
Bishop’s gaze searched the cavern, but no one was there. He reached for the pistol, still in its holster on the cave floor. Feeling dizzy, he lost his balance and leaned against the wall. He slid down it and grabbed the gun.
Bishop pulled the pistol and pointed it in all directions. He tried acquiring a target, but his vision narrowed as blackness closed in on the edges. He shook his head and blinked several times, trying to focus. The gun in his hand no longer extended, ready to fire. The hand dropped to the cavern floor as if he no longer controlled it. He couldn’t even lift it—thing weighed a ton. Using his legs, Bishop tried pushing himself up by using the wall. Perhaps, if he could get up, he could still stand. But his legs wouldn’t move. Can’t be happening—I haven’t sent the signal yet!
Bishop tried reaching for his watch, but his hand lay frozen in place on his leg. He stared at it, willing it to move. From the shadows to his left, someone approached. Just before Bishop blacked out, he looked into the smiling, ugly face of Ochoa.
Eighteen
Carpenter sipped his second extra-large coffee in as many hours and watched the eastern sky lighten and outline the Sandia mountain range in Albuquerque. He turned the car radio from the light rock station to the early morning news. Glancing at the passenger seat, he gazed at the envelope he’d received yesterday from OPM. The one detailing all the graduates of the McFadden Academy now in government service. Carpenter took another sip, and acid in the coffee mixed with the nervous acid in his stomach, giving him a queasy feeling. The source of all Carpenter’s troubles lay in that seat. Why him? Why did he have to be the one to find out? He’d never run from anything in his personal or professional life, but this scared the hell out of him. This was a career changer—a life changer. No way to avoid it, and that’s why he found himself sitting in front of the Special Agent in Charge’s house before sun-up.
A vehicle’s headlights blinded him in his rear-view mirror as it pulled behind his car. Moments later, the familiar red and blue overhead lights on the car sprang to life. Carpenter glanced in his side mirror as the uniformed officer approached. Carpenter rolled down his window.
“Having car problems this morning, sir?” the uniform asked, quickly scanning the interior with his flashlight. The patrolman, shining the flashlight in Carpenter’s face, looked in his early twenties.
Carpenter winced and held up his FBI credentials. “No, just waiting for someone.”
The officer examined his identification and handed it back. “Sorry, we got a call about a suspicious vehicle—had to check it out.”
“No problem, have a good morning, officer.” Carpenter rolled the window back up as the patrolman strolled back to his car. Carpenter couldn’t blame someone for calling. He did look suspicious sitting in an upscale subdivision before sunrise. He again rehearsed the short speech he intended to give to the SAC when he walked out to go to work. He’d explain how he’d been instructed to assist Bishop by an FBI Deputy Director, and acting on those orders, requested the list of McFadden Academy graduates. He’d tell him the only reason he came to see him this morning was that both his immediate supervisors’ names appeared on the list. This forced him to jump the chain of command and go directly to the head of the office. It sounded good, but would the boss buy it? Carpenter checked the time—7:16. It wouldn’t be long now. The front door of the house opened. The SAC stopped and locked it before heading to his government sedan parked in the driveway.
Carpenter took one last swallow of coffee, grabbed the envelope, and opened his door. Striding toward the house, the cool breeze ruffled his hair. The SAC did not notice him approaching from the street. “Good morning, sir.”
The SAC jumped and dropped his Styrofoam cup of coffee on the driveway. It splattered across his shoes and cuffs. He cocked his head and leaned forward.
“Carpenter? What the devil are you doing here this time of the morning?”
Carpenter opened his mouth, and his mind went blank. “Sir, we have to talk,” was the only sentence he could manage.
The boss glanced at the bulging envelope, and only his right brow rose as he nodded.
“I see.” The SAC motioned to his sedan. “Get in—we’ll get a couple of coffees to go.”
Carpenter opened the passenger door and slid into the seat beside the man.
The SAC looked at him with a curious expression. “I’ll drive—but you have to buy the coffees.”
Then his expression turned into a smile, and Carpenter relaxed.
The cold splash of water woke Bishop up. He tried opening his eyes, but it hurt too much. His head throbbed, and his front temporal lobe wanted to explode. Slowly he opened one eye and then the other. Searing shards of light slashed at his retinas. He blinked a couple of times, and things came into focus. To his right stood Ochoa holding a large plastic bucket still dripping water. Bishop shook his head. He was looking at the giant through bars of some kind. Bishop touched the steel cage. It looked about 4’x4’x4’. He was crammed into it like a sardine with his chin almost on his knees. The top and bottom were solid steel plates, but the sides were bars.
“Sleep well?”
Bishop shifted his head and caught a glimpse of McFadden as he strolled beside Ochoa.
McFadden grinned. “Thought we might have lost you there for a minute. Ochoa sometimes uses too much tranquilizer in his darts—stuff’s made for cattle. Some folks never wake up.”
Bishop shifted again, and his stomach turned over. The bile rushed up his throat, and he vomited in his lap. It had a foul medicine smell.
McFadden grinned once more and pushed the cowboy hat back on his head while pulling a cigar from his coat pocket. He studied it for a moment. “That’s another problem with cattle tranquilizer—makes most humans sick.”
Bishop wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. How had he screwed things up so bad? One minute he’d found the weapons and was on his way out, and next, he sat in this stinking cage wearing his own vomit.
McFadden cupped his hands around the lighter before puffing the cigar. He ran his hand inside his jacket pocket and pulled out all the trackers Bishop had attached to the warheads. McFadden looked at them, and his eyes drifted back to Bishop. “You sure went to a lot of trouble.” The cigar smoke made him want to vomit again.
McFadden smiled and took a long draw on the cigar. “Who are you, Mr. Bishop? I thought you might just be a drifter when you fixed the flat for my wife.”
Bishop said the first thing that came to mind. “I’m a reporter.”
“A reporter? Well, look here, Ochoa, a real reporter.” McFadden laughed. His face quickly took on a severe expression. “No, not a reporter.” He bounced the trackers in his hand and continued eying Bishop. “You have too much equipment and training. A fed, perhaps?” McFadden’s eyebrows rose. “Yes, some kind of federal cop, I’d guess.”
Ochoa grunted something, and McFadden nodded. “Wait for me in the truck,” he said, motioning behind them.
Ochoa dropped the bucket and traipsed away. Once he got out of earshot, McFadden dropped to a squatted position directly in front of Bishop.
“I’m going to ask you one more time, so think carefully about your answer. Who are you, and why are you on my ranch?”
Bishop licked his parched lips— tasted bitter. “I’m a reporter,” he mumbled in a less than convincing voice.
McFadden’s eyes flashed anger, but he smiled. “Have it your way, then. Let me tell you what’s going to happen next. I have to go out of town for a few days, but while I’m gone, you’re going to talk.” McFadden smiled. “No, you’re going to sing your confession of truth. You’ll tell us everything we want to know—understand?” He squinted. “No, of course, you don’t. We know how to handle people like you—been doing it for a long time.” McFadden stood and showed a victorious grin.
Bishop’s thoughts raced back to the stories Cora told about missing hikers and others who’d strayed on the ranch, as well as troublemakers like her parents.
McFadden’s mouth twisted before saying, “Bet you’re wondering what alerted us to the fact we had a visitor last night? When you rolled back the cover on the cave’s pool, it triggered a silent alarm at the guard shack and my office.” McFadden spat a piece of loose tobacco off his tongue. “Did you attempt to call anyone about what you found? How’d that work out for you?”
When Bishop didn’t answer, McFadden smirked.
“I can already tell you—it didn’t.” McFadden pointed to the ridgeline behind him to a slender metal pole glistening in the sun.
Bishop had noticed a dozen of them as he lay in his hide—they circled the boundaries of the ranch. Never did figure out what they were.
McFadden spread his arms out and said, “We have an electronic web around this place. Only cell phones with a special chip can operate within its confines. A good friend at Sandia Lab gave me the idea.”
Bishop ran his hand down his wrist, feeling for his watch. It wasn’t there—no way to send the alert.
McFadden paced back and forth beside the cage, smoking the cigar. He stopped, and his eyes narrowed. “As I said, Ochoa will be doing your interrogation. He’s—” McFadden grimaced. “Well, let’s just say a bit less delicate than I. His talents are more suited to the middle ages. Let me tell you about him—it’s an interesting story.” McFadden again squatted down eye-level. “He was born and grew up here on the ranch. He got to four or maybe five before he discovered his talent for torture. Neighbor’s pets, rabbits, birds—anything he could trap or catch. It disturbed the community so much some thought we should put him in a state home. Around the sixth or seventh grade, the teachers couldn’t deal with him any longer, but I saw promise in the boy.”
McFadden flicked cigar ash, and the breeze caught it.
“Why are you telling me this?” Bishop whispered.
McFadden’s eyes pinched, and his expression darkened. “Because I want you to know what’s in store for you—Mr. Reporter! From an early age, I suspected there was something in Ochoa I could use.” McFadden grunted and briefly glanced at the monster. “Man’s a vessel without a soul. I set him up in his own house, away from the rest of the community. Since everyone fears him, I use him to control them. He’s as loyal as a dog, does anything I tell him. Just have to watch him, sometimes. Used to have him put down sick or injured ranch animals. Until one day, we found him skinning a steer, still alive. He’d been instructed to put it down the day before but chose to stay up all night tearing one little strip of hide off at a time from the poor creature.”
