"Good idea."
Styles then went forward to apprise Starr and J. C. of the plan change.
J. C. Christman had parked the team's aircraft beside the Jones-Spalding Aircraft Services hangar. Luckily, he had solid knowledge of the layout of the Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport. He had drawn a quick layout to devise the best place for Phillips to hand off the crate to Olivia Watson of the CDC, which was scheduled to take place in approximately forty-five minutes.
"Are you sure that you can trust this woman to keep her word and come alone?" Starr asked.
"She'll have an escort close by, but she'll meet me alone. I know her; she'll keep her word," Phillips answered.
"J. C., be sure to have the plane ready to leave immediately. I mean I want the engines running," Styles directed. "I'll cover Phillips just in case, but make sure everything that needs to be done to get us the hell out of here is done. If for any reason this goes south, we could have a shitload of federal agents on our asses."
"I'll be ready. I've already got our flight plan filed for North Carolina. Fuel truck is on the way. We'll be set to go."
"I'm going to scout the perimeter and set up a place for cover. Starr, I want you to be just outside the plane near the access door to the storage area. Have an AR ready. Don't use it unless you have to."
"Hey, guys," Christman interrupted. "Hold on a second. I've got an idea. Why don't we just leave that crate where she can find it? Why put ourselves at risk? Think about this. The last thing we need is to risk a damned firefight here. Where are we gonna go? I can get us around pretty good, but not against the whole military. We could leave it in a spot where we can keep an eye on it. Doesn't that make more sense?"
Styles and Starr looked at each other.
"You're right; I'm way overthinking this," Styles replied.
"There's a bunch of boxes and crap right next to the hangar. Put it there. We can watch it from the plane. Keep the engines off, and we're just another one parked."
Phillips grabbed a Sharpie and strode over to the wooden crate. She wrote "this one" on its side. "That ought to do it."
Without a word, Christman grabbed the wooden crate, hoisted it to his shoulder, and departed the plane without speaking. The other three watched as he casually walked over to the building and stacked the crate on top of the pile. Turning around, he returned to the plane.
"Glad one of us is still keeping his head," Styles muttered as the fuel truck pulled up, with J. C. instructing the driver to top off the aircraft.
Phillips called Olivia Watson. "Olivia, there's a hangar on the west side of the airport, Jones-Spalding. You'll see a stack of boxes. On top, there's a wooden crated marked with a Sharpie. You're on your own." She hung up. "Now we just wait and watch."
"Thanks, guys. I'm going to pull over there and park. I'm expecting company," Christman offered the fuel truck drivers.
"Sure, no problem. If you stay the night, you'd better check in with Jones."
"We should be gone before dark, but appreciate the heads-up," he answered, offering him one of the many credit cards he carried.
"Thanks for the business. Fly safely." He left after giving Christman the receipt.
Forty minutes later, a black SUV drove straight up to the debris pile next to Jones-Spalding Aviation Services. A blonde woman dressed in a black business suit got out and looked around carefully. Styles and company watched as she spoke over a small handheld radio.
"Look to the right, two hundred yards," Styles said.
All three, looking through binoculars, turned their attention to where Styles had directed. All of them saw two more black SUVs parked side by side.
"You think they have orders to intercept?" Starr asked.
"No. It looks more like a security detail. Phillips was right," Styles answered.
The woman walked over to the pile and immediately picked up the crate. Holding it in front of her, she motioned with her head, and the two other black SUVs immediately headed toward her, squealing their tires. Both pulled up directly in front of her, with four men getting out with guns drawn keeping a hard watch as a fifth man got out and took the crate from the woman and then carefully placed it in the rear of one of the two SUVs parked next to her. She walked back to her own vehicle, and all three drove away.
"That went smooth. Guess we got lucky for once," J. C. commented.
"Luck had nothing to do with it. You had your head in the game and made the right call," Styles insisted.
Phillips had returned to her computers. "Hey, guys, I've got something. I've been monitoring the boat traffic in the harbor around Baltimore. I've tracked twelve large yachts that have left the area since President Williams was killed." It was the first time she had been able to speak about the event out loud. "Eleven left, one came back. That one had been anchored but then went out about twenty miles and anchored again. They were there for about twelve hours before returning close to their original spot. While they were out, something very interesting happened."
"What was that?" Styles asked.
"Come see for yourselves."
All three men gathered around Phillips as she showcased a video. They were looking at a large yacht. Two people could be seen fishing. Then a cloud passed across the view, obscuring it somewhat. Phillips hit a couple of keys on her keyboard, and the screen split into two views — the original and infrared.
"See? On the left, before the cloud hits, we clearly see two figures. Now watch. On the infrared, you see the two figures. Now a third comes into view, but he's in the water." All four observed the two men on the boat bringing the third aboard. The cloud passed over in time to see three men now standing at the rear of the yacht closing a large enclosure.
"What was that?" Starr queried.
"Large boats have water garages in the rear. They keep jet skis, small boats to shuttle back and forth to land, while the larger one stays at anchor. Something was just stashed there."
"Maybe an underwater scooter," growled Styles. Good job, Phillips. We have our target. J. C., get us the hell outta here."
"Baltimore?"
"Baltimore!"
"There is one more thing we need to be aware of," stated Phillips emphatically.
"What's that?"
"The guy who originally made up this synthetic agent; we don't know how much more might be out there. I've got bank accounts from Ryyaki Ali, and as soon as I can, I'm going to thoroughly research his financial transactions and see what I might be able to come up with."
"Damn, you're right about that," growled Styles. "Hell, no wonder we've got so many security agencies. There isn't enough time to track all these bastards."
"Welcome to my world," said Phillips.
35
Olivia Watson was sitting in Michael Lang's office. The director of the CDC was reaming her a new one. Sitting across from him at his desk, she wasn't budging an inch. Lawrence Larkin was also in attendance, sitting off to one side in a leather chair.
"Olivia, do you honestly expect me to believe that you just happened on what might be the most dangerous toxin ever produced from the result of an anonymous phone tip?"
"I didn't say that, sir. I told you that I received the tip over the phone from someone I trust, and that is how I came to possess it. I immediately called Lawrence here, he met me, and I handed it over to him." Larkin nodded in agreement, supporting the latter part of her statement.
"Don't you think that the president is going to ask how in the hell we came up with this, when half of our intelligence force is looking for it?"
"I'm sure he will, sir, and I'm just as sure that you will provide a satisfactory answer. However, you will not get any more information from me. I gave my word, and I will keep my word. If you can't respect that, you can fire me!"