Hypoxia: A Thriller, page 4
He reckoned that he might have to reconsider his old ways of doing business, and find some new tactics for dealing with situations like this. Maybe he would consult with some shrinks and run a few focus groups to see what kinds of stories distracted people nowadays. It was a new era, but Fogarty always found ways to adapt.
Mimi O’Halloran’s interview with Kate Sullivan sent shockwaves through Project Scorpius. If a little housewife from Philly could make so many shockingly accurate, damning accusations, then what would an actual investigator do with the facts, if they decided to dig?
Gulping down his coffee, Frank Fogarty started to wonder if he was in over his head with this thing. And that sort of self-reflection was shockingly rare for him. As the director of Group Z, he took pride in his ability to neutralize difficult situations. After all, Group Z was the most private, secretive directorate within the whole NSA. One didn’t become director of Group Z without having a flair for bold action and minute details. But this was not just business as usual. No, everything had changed since Ryan Baker.
If Fogarty heard one more word about Ryan Baker, his fat, balding head was going to explode. The nitwit had sold out his country, all for a folk hero status amongst conspiracy theorists, and a dubious paycheck from a foreign government. With his very limited knowledge of the NSA, Baker had still managed to screw up about damn near everything. The organization was receiving more scrutiny than any time in its history, and it was all Ryan Baker’s fault.
They’d hired the nineteen-year-old hacker right out of high school, and boy, had it bitten them in the ass. Within two years of his employment, he’d gone blabbing to every media outlet he could, telling them about the NSA’s secret drone program. Saying that it was his duty as a patriot.
Fogarty was pissed. He was the ultimate patriot, after all. The one who cleaned up the messes, the one who made sure that the whole damn country didn’t fall apart. If this idiot Ryan Baker had even the slightest clue how many catastrophes Fogarty had prevented during his thirty-year tenure with the agency, he would have bowed down instead of selling out.
Project Scorpius had become a necessity because of Ryan Baker. The NSA had not been set up to withstand constant scrutiny, and Group Z in particular would flounder completely if it were subject to budget cuts or examination. The directorate had been built to function within the shadows, collecting and sometimes acting upon information. It wasn’t made for public consumption. And the common citizen had no idea how much of normal American life was supported by this very organization, the group that they now claimed was curtailing their liberties.
After the Ryan Baker scandal had erupted, all of the NSA directors were at the end of their ropes. How would they be able to function in this new environment? But Fogarty astutely realized that the solution was quite simple.
Group Z had to find funding. Independent funding, ensuring that he wouldn’t be nickeled and dimed while he did his job. He had no time or patience for complicated expense reports. And it was insulting, really, after everything he’d done for his country. So he’d created Project Scorpius, and it had been quite profitable thus far. One facet of Scorpius involved the use of commercial aircraft.
Each jet contained approximately two hundred million dollars worth of parts. By taking control of a few planes and then selling their parts on the black market, Fogarty was funding Scorpius while also making alliances with other shadow government organizations around the world. It was truly a win-win, quite possibly the most successful venture of his entire career.
In fact, he had even more plans involving aircraft. But one had to be careful. Taking too many in a short period of time could ruin the entire program. While Fogarty believed that most Americans were complete dunces, he knew that an intelligent, vocal minority could wreck everything. And that was why he’d been so patient about pursuing the third plane. He’d waited until everything was lined up just right, until he had the perfect guys to get the job done.
Briganti and Lupo had been the most skilled pilots out of the bunch. And then this crazy housewife from Philly had to start running her mouth, putting the whole project at risk. It was a tricky time. Even the most skeptical Americans were starting to listen to conspiracy theories, all because of Baker’s revelations about the drone program.
Fogarty absentmindedly stirred more sugar into his coffee, while contemplating the position of Scorpius. Would this O’Halloran lady’s accusations be accepted by mainstream America? He would have to come up with something fast. Unfortunately there was no way to bump off the woman. At least not now.
It would seem way too suspicious, with her strong accusations and her husband’s death. The NSA had put out similar orders in the past, but Fogarty was sharp enough to recognize that this time was different. They had to tread very carefully with the whole Baker situation. It was a completely different environment now. The citizens were wary; people no longer had blind faith in the government.
But how would he take care of this, when canceling out the loudmouth broad wasn’t even an option?
No, this would have to be an inside job, a very inside job—one that would hinge upon the involvement of some top-level friends in the media. Friends who realized that the entire fabric of the nation would crumble without the NSA and now, by extension, Project Scorpius. He’d have to run all of the updates past his buddies in the upper echelons again.
They had reached out immediately after the Baker crisis, of course, asking what they could do to assist him. In the past they would have been able to stomp out the story. But the internet had made all of that impossible. Baker’s revelations had been made in cyberspace, and there was no way to put the genie back in the bottle.
So they covered the story, in response to the public’s voracious demand. But there were certain limits within which they operated, so things didn’t continue to spiral even more out of control. Fogarty and his consultants would ask them to frame specific details in certain ways, and they complied without hesitation.
He’d set everything up so nicely that morning, putting his calls in to make sure that the release of the Senator Foster photos was precisely timed, and that Kate Sullivan would be doing the O’Halloran interview. Fogarty considered Garth Simpkins an idiot, also, but the guy was a loose cannon.
Sometimes Fogarty would stop by the network to impart special messages to Simpkins, or even call him right before he went on the air. He’d found that the newscaster couldn’t always be trusted; he didn’t always listen and sometimes had a tendency to ask questions that he believed were “hard-hitting.” So Fogarty had made the request for Kate Sullivan do the interview.
But Fogarty hadn’t factored in the possibility of an equipment malfunction. It was ironic because he was meticulous about such details in his own line of work—he had a contingency plan for every possible scenario—but in this case he’d made the dreadful assumption that a news program would check the batteries in their earpieces before going live with an important interview. He cursed himself for being so naive. Hadn’t he learned by now that he couldn’t trust anyone but himself?
It was time to activate a new phase of the operation. This O’Halloran bitch wanted a debris field? Fine. He’d get her a debris field. His nimble fingers quickly dialed the number for his contact at the Coast Guard.
“Hey, buddy. Yeah, apparently it’s come to that. Right. My guys are gonna start working on bending and heating up the stuff,” Fogarty said quietly, taking a gulp of coffee. It was going to be a long day, so he’d better get a lot more caffeine coursing through his veins. “Yeah…but there’s no way of knowing if the NTSB has hired some new hotshot or whatever. If all goes well, everything should be camera ready by tomorrow morning. Yes, I’ll be personally supervising. Can you get those Icelandic guys for me, too? I don’t know what they’re called. You know. The fucking giants that were on the last one. Great.”
He hung up the phone and leaned back in his chair, putting his arms behind his head. Creating and dumping the wreckage was going to cut into his profits, and that was aggravating. But he believed in what his grandmother had always said. Better safe than sorry.
Chapter Seven
7
Mount Everest
South Col Route
Khumbu Icefall
Altitude 17,999 Feet
Sky heard the cry, amidst all of the chaos unfolding around her. He was yelling her name.
“Oh, please let it be true!” she said aloud.
It could have been wishful thinking. The rest of the climbers continued to shout for Pemba, creating a impenetrable wall of noise around her.
“Everyone, shut up!” she screamed desperately. This was no time for social graces. “I think he’s here! Shut the hell up! I need to find him.”
“Sky! Sky!” she could hear Pemba’s nervous voice echoing in the cavern below.
It really was him. Everyone gathered around her, getting the ropes ready for his rescue. Sky suddenly felt like she could breath again. She hadn’t just been imagining it. He was really here.
“Pemba! Hang in there!” she said, getting down on her knees and crawling as close as she could to the edge of the crevasse.
Jacob motioned to her from behind the camera, trying to get her to stand back. She didn’t care. The longer Pemba was down there, the more he struggled, the more likely he was to die. Sky’s heart felt like it was going to explode in her chest.
With each breath, Pemba’s body heat was melting the ice around him, making the precarious situation worse. Sky knew that staying calm would help to save his life. She continued to talk.
“Okay, we’re lowering the ropes, Pemba! Do you see that? Are you almost ready?”
Bit by bit, inch by inch, they were able to lift him out. Finally, he scrambled onto the solid snow. When Sky went to hug his small frame, he was shaking and smiling at the same time.
“See! I tell you that you are magic. This is why, this is why I call for you first,” he said, struggling to catch his breath.
“I’m just so glad you’re okay,” she replied, her heart pounding in her ears. “Don’t ever do that again, please.”
Pemba asserted that he was able to walk, but the two biggest men in the group insisted upon walking beside him for support.
“I think it’s safe to say that we should all go back to Base Camp,” Jacob said, turning off his camera.
Sky rolled her eyes. “We just survived an avalanche. Of course we’re going back to Base Camp.”
“Geez! No need to get testy,” Jacob replied. “I just didn’t know if Miss Mountain Climbing Superhero would insist upon going.”
“No,” Sky shook her head. “No. Aside from the fact that no one—including myself, most of all—wants to climb now, we have practical issues, too. Our original route is screwed up. All those ladders and ropes that we set are covered in ice.”
“Well, my camera’s out of batteries, so we need to go back and get some juice in it anyway,” Jacob said, checking the lens for damage.
“Yes, let’s make sure that your precious camera is all perfect,” Sky said, teasing. “If it still works, you can tell them that it’s avalanche-proof.”
She was amazed that she could even joke at a time like this. Her legs had barely stopped shaking since the rumbling had first begun. But they had Pemba. That was the only important thing.
When the group arrived back at Base Camp, they received the bad news. Or maybe it was good news. The weather report indicated that they wouldn’t be able to leave for another three days. Sky was thrilled. Although she wanted to summit as fast as they could, Pemba’s fall had left her deeply worried. This man had been out on the Icefall for her and her stupid television special—no other reason. What if he had died? Part of her just wanted to call off the entire expedition. But it was too late, really.
People were already there, putting their lives in danger. There was a show being made. Events had been set into motion, events that were bigger than Sky. And maybe, just maybe, Pemba’s fall would be the one glitch for the expedition. Maybe it would be smooth sailing from here on out, Sky reasoned with herself.
All of the climbers were seen by the medical doctor at Base Camp, and aside from stress, everyone was okay. Pemba was even cleared to continue with the expedition. Sky went to visit him in the doctor’s tent after she heard the news.
“You don’t have to do this,” she told him, as the doctor took his blood pressure. “I will understand, all of us will understand if you want to sit this one out.”
“No,” he smiled. “I don’t think you feel how confident I am. I feel safest when I’m with you. Very lucky. I knew you would hear me.”
“Alright, Pemba,” she said, shaking her head. “You’re a better man than I am.”
She left the doctor’s tent to meet Jacob for a meal of ramen noodles and eggs. The high altitude could wreak havoc upon one’s appetite, but Sky was famished that day. Everyone had been told by the doctor to eat as many healthy meals as they could. Once they climbed up to the Death Zone, their bodies would be burning a week’s worth of calories in one day. It was best to stock up their energy reserves as much as possible.
Jacob cracked open a can of beer after polishing off his eggs.
“So…what’s the story with you and your husband?”
“Ex.” Sky corrected him. “The papers should be final by the time I get back. Anyway, I think the story is that we don’t have a story anymore,” she sighed.
“Well, obviously,” Jacob grunted, taking another swig of beer. “But why not?”
“I dunno,” Sky said, turning to look towards the peak of the mountain. “All the normal shit people say, you know. We grew apart, blah blah. Plus he’s also a snob.”
“A snob?” Jacob snorted. “Now that’s interesting. Couldn’t see you married to a snob.”
“Oh, he is,” Sky scoffed, inhaling another bite of noodles. “The worst kind of snob, really. He hated all my friends because they weren’t ‘smart enough’ for him. I’m pretty sure he only married me because I’m…” she trailed off. “You know, I’m in the public world, and all of that. I was just another status symbol for him.”
“That’s a shame,” Jacob said, knocking back the rest of his beer. “You seem like a nice lady to me.”
“I am a nice lady,” Sky insisted. “Well, unless you get me angry,” she laughed. “Or try to tell me to stay home when I know I belong on a mountain somewhere.”
For the rest of the day, all of the climbers gathered together, eating and talking. Jacob shared his beer supply with some of the others, who were extremely grateful. There was an undercurrent of relief and luck running through all of their conversations. No one had any illusions about the fact that they’d pulled off a major feat. They’d lived to survive another day on Everest.
Chapter Eight
8
Baltimore, Maryland
Twenty Minutes Away from NSA Headquarters
James Murphy awoke next to a beautiful blonde, nursing a hangover headache. As he massaged his throbbing temples, he looked around the bedroom for clues as to what had happened the prior evening. There was a sequined black dress, presumably hers. A condom wrapper on the floor. That was an encouraging sign. At least he’d been safe.
He was twenty-five, single, and by all accounts very popular with the opposite sex. Why shouldn’t he have some fun? Besides, work had been a bitch lately. He grabbed the half-empty bottle of beer next to the bed and took a swig.
Unibroue. Delicious. Even after it had been sitting out all morning. That was a testament to its excellent quality, he figured. He’d clearly brought out all of the bells and whistles for this blond girl—it was a shame he couldn’t remember anything about the night.
Murphy’s brown eyes caught a glimpse of his nightstand, where he could see his phone lighting up.
Damnit.
He’d put it on silent so he wouldn’t hear them calling. They probably wanted him to come in and work on the monitoring project, hacking into websites of individuals who could possibly pose a legitimate threat. Usually the people were just fringe element nutcases spewing anger at the government. It was extremely rare that they ever found a juicy account that could be linked to terrorists outside of the country, or even those of the homegrown variety. For this reason, the project had grown rather tedious.
But Murphy’s supervisor knew that he had workaholic tendencies, and sometimes the siren song of his phone proved to be too tempting. As he looked at the phone, he reasoned with himself. It was his first day off in a long time, and he was determined to take it.
Group Y was considered one of the most demanding factions of the NSA. Some of those in the know liked to refer to it as “Group Why?” because the hours could be so awful. For the most part, Murphy didn’t mind. Aside from the monitoring project, the work was challenging. And he made three times as much money as his high school buddies.
The phone continued to light up, and Murphy weighed his options. If he answered and decided to go in, it would be an easy way to get the blonde out of his bed. But he was tired. His first instinct was to let it go to voicemail. He took another sip of the beer.
Thirty seconds later, the phone started lighting up again. Murphy grunted and grabbed it. As annoying as they were, it was unusual for them to call twice. Something big must have happened.
“Murphy!” he barked into the phone.
“Murphy, this is Frank Fogarty from Group Z.”
Holy shit!
Murphy’s eyes practically bugged out of his head. He had never talked to the man before, only heard the Angry Hemingway stories and seen glimpses of him in the hallways. And there were thousands of whispered tales about Group Z, widely considered the “creepiest” branch in the NSA. Frank Fogarty was an NSA legend, an enigma. But why the hell was he calling?
He sat up in bed.
“I’m listening, sir.”
“Murphy, I’m reaching out to you personally because your supervisors told me that they would lend out some of their most elite people for a special project I have going the next few days.”
