“Okay.”
Genevieve went to open the door.
Tom reached over and stopped her. Leaning in close to Genevieve’s ear, he asked, “What does any of this have to do with Sam and his captor?”
Genevieve whispered, “Ben Gellie’s parents were allegedly leaders of a Russian terrorist organization. They followed an ancient Russian text that predicted an exact date and time for the ending of the present-day order of the world. There were multiple interpretations, but most pointed to a widespread plague that would decimate the Earth’s population of Homo sapiens, allowing another species to rise up from the ashes. The ancient site even referred to a virus, named the Phoenix Plague. By the looks of things, Ben’s parents attempted to make the prediction come true.”
“When was this supposed to take place?”
“Before the end of this year.”
“So what happened to Ben’s parents?”
“The CIA got lucky. Someone from within the cult’s team betrayed them. A black ops team was sanctioned to end their program back in 1975.”
“What went wrong?” Tom asked.
Genevieve said, “They destroyed the cult, but its two ringleaders — John and Jenny Gellie — somehow escaped.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The Boeing AH-64 Apache helicopter was built to be a predator.
It was an American built, twin-turboshaft attack helicopter with a tailwheel-type landing gear arrangement and a tandem cockpit for a crew of two, with the pilot sitting behind and above the co-pilot-come-gunner.
Powered by two General Electric T700 turboshaft engines with high-mounted exhausts on either side of the fuselage, the machine looked like an unearthly beast, designed for nothing but death. At its nose were sensors mounted for target acquisition and night vision systems. It was armed with a 1.18-inch M230 chain gun carried between the main landing gear, under the aircraft's forward fuselage, and four hardpoints mounted on stub-wing pylons carried a combination of AGM-114 Hellfire missiles and Hydra 70 rocket pods.
It was a bird of prey, designed to search and destroy.
The Apache flew along the Shenandoah River, circled the summer camp at the bend of the river, and landed on the soft mud at the bank. Its quad-bladed main rotor and tail rotor — designed to increase survivability during attack — continued to turn at speed.
Special Agent Ryan Devereaux opened the door of the Apache, climbed down the three ladder rungs, and stepped onto the ground. He ducked his head out of instinct, despite the height of the rotor blades being far above him.
He greeted the manager of the summer camp who had reported the intrusion. They spoke for a few minutes and then he climbed back on board the Apache helicopter.
Once inside, the pilot asked, “What did he say?”
Devereaux grinned. “They were here up until twenty-four hours ago. They stole a raft and presumably put it into the Shenandoah.”
“How far can they get?”
“According to the manager at the camp, they could make it all the way to the Potomac and then all the way to Chesapeake Bay.”
“Great. You want me to run the distance of the river?” the pilot asked.
“Yeah, until someone else gets me better intel!”
The two General Electric T700 turboshaft engines screamed as their RPM reached take-off speed. An instant later, the attack helicopter was in the air.
Its pilot flew fast and low above the Shenandoah River.
Twenty miles downriver Devereaux said, “New plan, we’re heading to Leesburg.”
“Understood, sir,” the pilot replied, taking the Apache up to a higher altitude. “What do you know?”
“A kayaker at Leesburg just reported finding the summer camp’s raft along the shore.”
“He’s certain it’s ours?”
Devereaux smiled. “Yeah. He’s certain. The raft has the summer camp’s name printed all over it. The man even gave us the boat number, which we’ve matched to the one stolen. So, yeah, that’s our raft!”
The pilot flew above the Shenandoah Valley, cutting across the land in a due east bearing at Bluemont. The helicopter circled the bend in the river where the raft had washed up on the shore. The banks were lined with Red Maple and River Birch, opening to clearings with verdant fields and bucolic homesteads.
Devereaux swore.
Even if Ben had gotten off the raft here, it was going to be a nightmare to locate him.
The blue lights of local law enforcement flashed below. An officer signaled to them with waving arms.
Devereaux ordered, “Take us down.”
“Yes, sir.”
The bird landed in a field some thirty yards off the officer’s car.
Devereaux climbed out, spoke to the officer and raced back into the gunner’s seat.
“Get us back into the air!” he said. “They found them!”
“Where?”
“Getting on a train at Harpers Ferry — heading west.”
“When?”
“Twenty minutes ago!”
The Apache raced toward Martinsburg.
At Martinsburg, the predator circled the railway station. The train was just departing.
The pilot asked, “What would you like me to do, sir? Should I follow the train or put us down?”
Deveraux opened his mouth to speak, paused. His eyes darting between the station and the departing train. “If you were a fugitive, where would you go? Would you stay and hide or just keep going?”
The pilot’s response was visceral. “If the entire US Defense Department was after me, I’d run like hell and pray to God no one found me!”
“Me too,” Devereaux said. “All right, we’ll follow the train, get ahead of it and put me down at the next station. I’ll find a team of local law enforcement to help search that train. This time, I’m going to make damned certain they don’t leave that train alive.”
Chapter Thirty
Sam took a step back, concealing himself in the shadow of a large chestnut tree, as he watched the Apache attack helicopter. It hovered directly above the railway station for several minutes before flying ahead following the train, which was headed toward Pittsburgh.
He watched until the predator disappeared beyond the horizon.
“What the hell do they think I’ve done?” Ben asked. “This isn’t a typical fugitive hunt. They’re hunting me with a machine made for annihilation! It’s like they’re judge, jury, and executioner all rolled into one.”
“Beats me,” Sam replied. “Elise, my computer friend says there’s a CIA report of a covert operation in Bolshoi Zayatsky in the seventies. It refers to a number of terrorists being sanctioned, and that your parents disappeared before our teams reached the island.”
“What were my parents doing on the island in the first place?”
“I have no idea,” Sam replied. “Most of the report has been redacted. I’ve asked some other friends of mine to go to the island and see if they can fill in the gaps.”
“They won’t just leave us alone here. Local law enforcement will be out in droves trying to spot us. Our train doesn’t leave until three a.m. That’s nearly eight hours away.”
Sam said, “Our accommodation should arrive any minute now.”
“Accommodation?” Ben asked. “Did your friend book us a hotel room or something?”
“Yeah, you might say that. This one’s on wheels and will be traveling all the way to North Dakota.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, here it is now.”
Ben turned, his eyes tracking an eighteen-wheeler Mac Truck. On the back of the truck was a standard forty-foot shipping container.