Worst Case Scenario, page 26
“Good morning,” she said, walking back into the room, yawning.
Maxwell looked up. “That gust wake you, too?”
Before she could answer, a lightning flash lit up the back patio. Cora screamed at the ghostly figure standing outside the sliding glass door. Maxwell scrambled for his gun just as Bishop pressed his face against the door’s glass. Cora rushed to unlock it, and he fell into her waiting arms. She held him without saying a word, a sob crept out of her throat, and she buried her face between his drenched neck and shoulder.
Maxwell rushed to him. “Thank God.” Maxwell had seen enough combat, and the sight of dead and injured men did little to affect him, but the sight of Bishop’s condition—bleeding, freezing, and soaked with rain—confirmed Cook’s earlier statement. There are very few men like Bishop. The total package.
Bishop looked up from the embrace. “Call Cook—I found them all in a cave on the ranch. McFadden left with one or more yesterday, heading to Washington.”
Maxwell’s eyes widened. “I’ll make the call—you tell him.”
Cora looked from one man to the other. “Found what?”
Bishop must have figured there was little use in keeping secrets from her at this point. “Stolen nuclear weapons,” he whispered.
“What?” Her jaw dropped. “Samuel, did you find Samuel?”
Bishop pushed her from him and looked into her eyes. “I’m sorry, he didn’t make it.”
Cora hung her head and covered her face with her hands. Another sob sounded, followed by an all-out cry.
Maxwell handed the phone to Bishop as Cora helped him into a chair. Five minutes later, after Bishop explained all he knew to Cook, Bishop handed the phone back to Maxwell.
Cora had stopped crying, but the look of terror at listening to Bishop’s account of what happened on the ranch, coupled with Samuel’s death, appeared to have sent her into shock.
Bishop shook, and his teeth chattered. The cold rain, fatigue, and injuries had taken a severe toll.
“We have to get out of here,” Bishop mumbled, his eyes barely open. “They’ll come looking for me sooner or later.”
Bishop’s voice had weakened, and the shaking intensified. Maxwell eyed him, then turned to Cora. “Throw this guy in the shower to warm him up a little, and I’ll find him some clean, dry clothes.”
Bishop opened his mouth to protest, but Maxwell pointed at him and said, “That’s an order. Now, hurry.”
Maxwell watched through the open bedroom door as Cora helped Bishop undress. While peeling off his tattered shirt, she said, “What did they do to you?”
Bishop grimaced. “Just a run-in with the local fauna.”
After a quick shower, Bishop sat on the bed and, Cora applied Neosporin to the cougar wounds. He’d stopped shaking and had regained some strength from the hot water, but he still looked like hell to Maxwell. As Bishop and Cora walked back into the living room, the sound of car doors slamming outside drew Maxwell to the window. He cracked a blind.
“We’ve got company!”
Bishop perked up. “How many?”
“Four, and they have plenty of guns.”
Bishop slipped on his shirt and reached behind his back, drawing the pistol. “How many coming to the front?”
Maxwell took another look, turned, and faced Bishop. He blanched before saying, “All of them.”
“Perfect,” Bishop mumbled, opening the back door and walking out.
Maxwell glanced at Cora. “Get behind some cover and take out the first one you can get a shot at as they come in.”
Cora had a quizzical gaze. “Where’s Bishop going?” she asked while sliding around the corner into the kitchen and grabbing her revolver off the counter.
Maxwell went into the kneeling position and used the corner leading to Cora’s bedroom as cover. He braced his pistol hand against the door frame and trained the sights on the front door.
Cora ducked behind the corner leading into the kitchen and pointed the cocked revolver at the door.
Maxwell didn’t like this—he was a planning guy. Bishop should have discussed what he intended to do before rushing out. He looked over at Cora, and her fear infected him. His stomach twisted, watching the front doorknob slowly turn one way then the other. Cora glanced his way, and he nodded, trying to reassure her. He leveled the pistol and held his breath just before someone kicked the door open. The big man on the other side stepped in, gun in hand. Maxwell and Cora fired simultaneously—it sounded like one loud cannon blast in the tiny house. The man collapsed, falling backward, and another guy scrambled away from the open door before being hit. Maxwell prepared to fire again but could see no movement. From outside, six quick shots rang out. Cora flinched, and her hands shook, but she cocked the pistol again and waited—keeping her eyes on the open door.
“Don’t shoot.” Bishop’s voice drifted in from outside. He stepped over the body of the man that had fallen in the entryway, kicking the dead guy’s pistol lose from his death grip. Bishop eyed them with a cold expression before dropping the half-empty magazine from his pistol and inserting a full one. “Let’s get out of here before they send somebody to check on these guys.”
They grabbed their jackets and hurried out the front door. Just to the left of the threshold lay a pile of bodies, arms and legs tangled. Each had been shot twice in the head.
Cold wind blew a heavy mist across the top of the mountain. Dark, low clouds and fog hung in puffy layers, still threatening more rain. Maxwell slid behind the steering wheel and Cora beside him. Bishop took the back seat. Maxwell caught a glimpse of Bishop in the rearview mirror. His eyes burned with an intensity that sent a chill through Maxwell.
General Cook waited in Fuller’s office and accepted the coffee his aide offered. He liked the office—large and airy. It contrasted to his small, stuffy, bunker-type in the Pentagon. But he figured, being a military man, the bunker suited him better.
“He’s probably going to go ballistic when you tell him what you’ve just told me,” Fuller quipped, wiping the bottom of his cup with a napkin.
Cook’s eyebrows rose. “I thought you would handle the briefing.”
Fuller gave the Cheshire cat grin he knew so well. “No, if I do it, it’ll sound like we’re rubbing salt into the wound—you tell him.”
Since Fuller was his boss, Cook had little choice, but he already knew how it would go. He’d start the briefing with the bad news, and Fuller would jump in with the available options and opinions—it never failed.
The phone on the desk buzzed. Fuller answered it and listened for a moment. “Very well, show him in.” His gaze shifted to Cook. “He’s here.”
Seconds later, the office door opened, and Fuller’s aid entered, followed by FBI Director William Campbell. Fuller and Cook stood.
“Bill, thanks for coming by. Have you met General Cook?” Fuller asked.
Campbell inspected Cook through suspicious eyes. “No, but I’ve heard of him.”
“Coffee?” Fuller motioned for his aide’s attention.
Campbell shook both men’s hands and sat. “No, thank you, Mr. Fuller.”
Fuller waived the aide out and took his seat. Campbell had been appointed FBI Director three years earlier. Being a federal prosecutor for over twenty years led to a federal judgeship just six years ago. He gave that up to accept the appointment as FBI Director. He carried a small, black, distressed-leather case, which rested on his lap. Campbell looked anxious and shifted in the chair. A brief uncomfortable silence settled in the office. Finally, Campbell unsnapped the clasps on the case and opened it.
“I received this yesterday afternoon from the Special Agent in Charge of our Albuquerque office.”
He exhaled and handed Fuller the list Carpenter had acquired days earlier.
“It’s disturbing, to say the least,” Campbell said. “I’m told one of your men requested one of my agents to compile it.”
Fuller slipped on his reading glasses and flipped through the pages. He looked up and handed the list to Cook. “That’s correct, Director Campbell. One of General Cook’s people had the idea.”
Campbell stared at Cook, who continued reviewing the document. Campbell cleared his throat. “There are a significant number of FBI personnel on that list. Are they also suspected of being involved?”
Fuller leaned forward and clasped his hands. “It’s beginning to look that way, I’m afraid.”
A pained expression creased Campbell’s brow. “What proof do we have other than this list?”
Fuller looked at Cook. “General?”
Cook half-turned to face Campbell. “Mr. Director, a few days ago, we made a covert insertion of one of our people into the Clark McFadden Ranch. Earlier this morning, he reported that he’d discovered all the weapons and believes McFadden is en route to Washington with one or more of them. It appears he intends to detonate it near the White House.”
Campbell’s eyes widened, and he quickly looked at Fuller. “Is this correct?”
Fuller nodded.
Campbell’s voice rose. “Exactly when were you going to tell me about this?”
“As the general said,” Fuller spoke up, “we just got a confirmation less than two hours ago. I’m having my staff put all the information into a report—you’ll have it when you leave. Because of the operational security concerns, we need to discuss how to handle it.”
Campbell looked from Cook to Fuller. “We raid the ranch, recover the weapons, and stop the one heading to Washington.”
Cook lowered his head slightly and eyed Campbell. “The problem is, we’re not sure how they’re transporting it or the route they’re taking.”
Campbell glared at Fuller. “Is the President aware of this?”
“Calm down. Yes, he knows—I spoke to him less than an hour ago. He should be about to board Marine One for an extended weekend at Camp David.”
“So, what do you suggest?” Campbell asked.
Cook started to answer, but Fuller cut him off. “We’re monitoring anyone coming or going from the ranch by satellite and drone surveillance and attempting to locate McFadden. If we raid the place, someone might tip him off, and he’d go to ground. As long as he believes no one knows, the better our chances are of interdicting him.”
Campbell stood, “I’ll make sure all the FBI people on the list are kept out of the loop—I’d like a copy of that report now, please.”
Newman Smith peered out his window at the dreary weather—most unusual for this time of year. He strolled back to the fireplace and warmed himself while finishing his coffee. Why in the hell hadn’t Ochoa called? He turned around and stared at the wall clock above the mantle. He redialed Ochoa’s cell phone, but it once more went to voice mail. McFadden would check in soon and expect a report on Bishop’s interrogation. He’d just have to drive over there himself. Smith hated all interactions with that Neanderthal, Ochoa, but what choice did he have? By the time he got there, the boys should be back with Cora, and he might even have a little fun with her before handing her over to the heathen.
Maxwell listened during the drive from Gallinas Peak to Albuquerque as Bishop explained all that happened in detail. Bishop munched left-overs from Cora’s refrigerator and drank two Cokes during the story. Poor guy could hardly keep his eyes open, finally drifting off to sleep. He curled up in the back seat and didn’t move until the SUV pulled up to the Kirtland Air Force Base gate. Maxwell had called ahead, and they were admitted to the executive reception terminal.
A young Air Force captain met them as they walked in. “Are you Colonel Maxwell?”
“That’s correct.”
The captain shot a concerned glance at Bishop, whose clothes and hair had not fared well in the back of the car. “We were told to expect your party—this way, please.” He led them to a rear officer’s lounge, where Carpenter met them. Bishop had called him soon after they’d left Cora’s and told him where they were heading.
He ambled over to Bishop, and they shook hands before making introductions.
“I heard our directors had a meeting this morning,” Bishop said.
“Yeah, that’s what I heard. Looks like I’m still heading up this end of the investigation.”
“Thanks for all your help.”
Carpenter grinned. “If you hadn’t insisted on getting that list, well…”
Bishop must have felt the man’s embarrassment because Bishop slapped him on the shoulder. “It’s up to the FBI; I’m out of it now and have a plane to catch.”
The captain escorted them to the rear of the lounge and through two double glass doors. The high-pitched whining of dual jet engines greeted them as they stepped outside. The sleek, white Gulfstream V sat on the tarmac awaiting their arrival.
Maxwell’s head shot up. “How in the devil did Cook arrange this?”
“Your good luck,” the captain answered, walking them to the steps. “Several DOE types flew in late last night—it was scheduled to return to Andrews empty today anyway—enjoy your flight, sir.”
McFadden yawned and stretched, setting his coffee in the truck’s cup holder. His body and especially lower back felt the pain from the seven-and-a-half-hour drive in an uncomfortable old truck from his ranch to Oklahoma City yesterday. Monk volunteered to take the first shift driving today. The small convoy of vehicles wove its way east on I-40 toward Nashville—another 700 miles to DC. Monk looked like he didn’t have a care in the world.
“You’re chipper today,” McFadden said.
A smile traced across Monk’s lips. “I feel great.”
McFadden’s neck was sore because of the cheap motel bed. He massaged it, thinking of how to get some kind of response out of Monk—and he knew just how to do it. “I been thinking, are you positive the feds can’t track the device by some satellite or plane while we’re driving?”
Monk’s serene expression changed to frustration. He didn’t answer for a moment, probably considering how to phrase the answer to a question he’d already answered a half dozen times. Finally, he spoke.
“It’s like I told you before. They can’t track what they can’t see. We’ve disabled the thing’s GPS, and the cargo we have packed around the weapon shields the alpha radiation from being detected. The only thing that’s detectable is the gamma or neutrons.” Monk glanced at him for effect before completing the thought. “But the neutrons and gammas are shielded by the paraffin and borated polyethylene wrap inside the back of the truck.”
McFadden grinned and shifted in the seat.
Monk caught sight of the grin and laughed. “Was that a test, or were you just trying to aggravate me?”
McFadden settled back into the seat and winked. “Both.” He liked Monk. In fact, Newman and Monk were two of his most trusted people in this whole affair. He’d watched them grow up on the ranch and took a particular interest in both, knowing they had potential far above the others. With talent like this, he couldn’t lose. McFadden crossed his arms and pulled the cowboy hat down on his forehead to provide shade from the sun. He readjusted himself for maximum comfort and sighed. “Monk, we’re going to put this son of a bitch right on their doorstep, and there’s not a damned thing they can do about it.”
Twenty-One
Maxwell finished his third coffee of the flight and glanced back at Bishop and Cora. They were curled up together in one of the over-size reclining rear seats. She sat in his lap with her head resting against his chest as he softly snored. The flight steward had draped a light wool blanket over the pair about midflight, and they hadn’t moved since. Maxwell ate his lunch between phone calls. General Cook called him a half dozen times, and he’d made at least that many calls of his own. Since the investigation had shifted to the FBI, Cook’s last call surprised Maxwell. He listened and a frown formed. “Is he serious?”
“Serious as a heart attack,” Cook replied.
Maxwell cleared his throat before making the sarcastic comment. “I’m certain Bishop’s going to love that.”
Cook only grunted. “Wait until after they’ve patched him up before telling him.”
The pilot announced they were on final, and all passengers should take their seats and buckle up for landing. The steward rousted Cora to her seat and gave her and Bishop a large, fresh cup of coffee.
Bishop sat up and accepted a hot towel from the steward and wiped the sleep from his eyes. From his expression, it was apparent he was in extreme pain from the deep cougar wounds. They touched down at Andrews a little after one o’clock in the afternoon and taxied to a discreet side terminal, used chiefly by members of the intelligence community.
The brilliant sunshine and mild fall temperatures felt good when they exited the aircraft. Two cars and drivers waited for them planeside, and Maxwell gave a wave of recognition. He directed Cora to have a seat in the first car before motioning for Bishop to join him in the second. Bishop opened the back door, and Trevor Blackwell stuck his head out.
“Back from holiday already?” Trevor asked.
“Some holiday,” Bishop grumbled before getting in. As Maxwell took his seat in front, Trevor went to work on Bishop. Trevor was a member of the British military—Special Air Service, to be exact. P2OG and the SAS had an exchange program, and Trevor had been attached to them for five months. His specialty was field medic.
“Heard you had a bit of a scrape—let’s have a look,” Trevor said, motioning for Bishop to turn around in the seat. “Take off that shirt.”
Bishop turned his back, and Trevor carefully assisted him in removing it. He let out a low whistle. “She must have been a wild one. Reminds me of a girl I knew in Hong Kong.” Trevor dug in his field medic kit and produced a green plastic bottle. Dabbing from it with sterile gauze, he cleaned the wounds on Bishop’s back, chest, and arms, then applied an antibacterial ointment. Trevor used several strips of butterfly surgical tape to close up some of the wider rips. Before Bishop knew it, he had stuck him with a needle.
