The jet yawed to the right and steadily fell toward the toothpick, which now, in the ambient light of the airfield, actually looked the size of a decent country road. Matt knew the plane was going to crash. There was no doubt about it. He vaguely recalled Peyton telling him that landing gear had lowered before he shot the pilot. It occurred to him that he was fodder in the nose cone of an unguided missile destined to plow unceremoniously into the asphalt and break apart wherever the hell he was. And he was curiously reminded of the old adage that all landings are controlled crashes.
Nothing controlled about this crash, he thought.
It all happened very fast. The wings tilted port, then starboard. Bright lights and warnings came alive in the cockpit. The now-familiar, automated female voice warned him of fast-approaching terrain. “Pull up. Pull up.” Matt brought the nose up and lined it up with the runway before he lost sight of it and the evening sky filled the windscreen. He was testing the response of the rudder pedals when he felt the aircraft pound into the ground, the landing gear absorbing much of the impact before rebounding him aloft.
Matt observed that he had at least hit part of the runway. Whether that was a good thing or not remained to be seen. He frantically switched on buttons to off, pulled back on the throttle, and felt the airplane smack the ground again — hard this time — belly-flopping on the blacktop.
His neck snapped back, and the last thing he remembered was thinking, I should have told her about the UAVs.
CHAPTER 6
Jacques Ballantine landed his lightweight Sherpa with ease along the rocky bank of Lake Moncrief, Quebec Province, Canada. Stepping from the aircraft, he absently touched his fingers to the scar above his eye. A crisp north wind stung the wound that would never heal. The smell of jet fuel in his nostrils reminded him of the oil wells burning twelve long years ago and further fueled his sense of purpose.
The scar also reminded him of his purpose today, so many years removed from the fury that was the mother of all battles. He had not aged well since his capture in Iraq and the loss of his brother. With every thought of Henri he could feel the burning in his eyes, black onyx that faintly concealed his endless desire for revenge. While Jacques had been unable to secure his insurance policy before Garrett had blended anonymously back to his combat outfit, he was fortunate to have been funneled to the right interrogator in Riyadh. Simply the idea of what might be in the backpack had been powerful enough to motivate his questioner into negotiating for his release. Jacques’ part of the deal was now coming due, his interrogator having lived up to his end of the bargain. Jacques was more than happy to fulfill his obligation.
Ballantine stared into the Canadian evening sun as it dipped into the horizon. To the north he could see the oxbow lake that had been his home for the last two years.
He found his way along a small trail, past a clearing on his left, and entered the forest. Picking his way through the undergrowth and towering fir trees, he found the dilapidated shaft. Rotten four-by-fours crisscrossed the entrance to a cave. Years of rain and sun and insect infestation had worn the wood to its core. He carefully stepped through the weeds and stooped below the fallen logs into complete darkness.
Jacques laid his AK-47 against the timber and pulled open a small wooden door that gave way to an unusual series of lights and sounds that contrasted sharply with the serenity of the countryside.
Inside the mineshaft, Ballantine found his staff and the communications systems with which he would lead the war against America. The Central Committee was calling this Phase Two. The first phase had been the 9/11 attacks. Now was the time the Central Committee would best be able to achieve its goals, catching the Western world leaning hard in the wrong direction, the United States and Great Britain having committed hundreds of thousands of troops to the attack on Iraq in March. Off balance was how he had described it to the others.
“Virginia, are we ready?” he said to an attractive black woman standing near several muted television screens flickering a variety of images.
“The Central Committee in Panama City has delivered its message,” she said, handing him a printed e-mail.
Jacques looked at the piece of paper. His anonymous Yahoo! e-mail account had worked just fine. His exchanges with the committee had allowed them to plan their attack as if it were a wedding. He was the groom, coordinating with all of his groomsmen around the country for a wedding that was to take place tonight.
“Congratulations on your long-awaited marriage,” the note from the North Korean read. “We hope to see you at six p.m. tonight. We are sure it will be a wonderful affair.”
It was innocuous and direct. Of the billions of e-mails sent every day, this one would surely not raise any suspicion.
“Jacques, it’s time,” Virginia said, handing him a satellite phone. “We do this. We pick up Matt Garrett and retrieve your rucksack. And we’re done.”
He stared at her, remembering why their love affair had ended. He had tried to love her, and maybe did, but the sorrow he carried with him since his brother’s death had turned to hate — to poison — melting any positive emotions he would experience. A former American military intelligence officer, she was a traitor to her country. Although that was cause enough for him to be smitten with her, she also had an elegance that he could not resist.
He took the Qualcomm satellite phone from her hand, his fingers lightly brushing hers.
“I wanted to kill Matt Garrett while Zachary Garrett watched,” he said, blankly staring past her at the television screens. “I can still see that man killing my brother every day. It never leaves me.”
“Zachary Garrett is dead,” Virginia said. “Someone else took care of that for us.”
“That was my mission,” he spat. Then he forced a half-smile. “But it is done.”
She paused. “Did you ever think that we would be able to get all of the weapons out of Iraq and to their destinations?”
“I always believed it was possible.” Ballantine saw that the Americans had fallen for everything. Saddam’s last stand would go down as a strangely reversed Trojan horse. Instead of offering a gift, Saddam lured the Americans into his own country after Ballantine and the others had positioned his WMDs elsewhere. Brilliant, he thought.
He turned toward his executive officer and said, “Chasteen, are all cells ready to go?”
A burly, blond Canadian parolee from the Quebec province, his head almost touching the low-hanging beams in the command center mineshaft, Chasteen had proven crucial to helping Ballantine get his ersatz fishing guide service up and running two years earlier. Since then, the Sherpa had been invaluable in running supplies across the Canadian border into a small airfield in Vermont.
“Yeah, boss. They’re set. All met their reporting windows this morning,” Chasteen said. All of the groomsmen had notified the best man that they were attending the wedding.
Ballantine felt the cool air of the damp mine shaft crawl across his skin. He turned and walked toward the center of the room. A few of the other staff members were monitoring radios and satellite communications. This was a state-of-the-art command and control center.
“Okay, team,” Ballantine said, “today it begins. This is Phase Two.”