"Ever shoot anyone?" McKenzie asked. "You going to shoot me for digging on the side of the road?"
McKenzie and Aldrich finally halted about six feet from the two policemen.
"This is a restricted area," one of the men said. "You can't dig here. You're on a military reservation."
McKenzie turned as if to talk to Aldrich and a steel dart flew out from under his left sleeve. It hit one of the cops in his chest. McKenzie turned slightly and another dart hit the second one. Both men dropped.
McKenzie and Aldrich picked up the bodies and loaded them into their patrol car. McKenzie waved reassuringly at Kilten as his partner drove the patrol car down a dirt path into the woods. Soon the lush Louisiana foliage surrounded them.
Once out of sight of Kilten and the road they stopped. McKenzie and Aldrich rolled the two bodies out of the backseat onto the ground. The two cops were just beginning to recover from the effects of the nerve agent.
McKenzie drew a silenced pistol from his shoulder holster. Without hesitation he shot one of the miltary policemen right between the eyes, spraying the white side of the car with gore.
The second policeman's eyes were wide over the top of McKenzie's gun. He made a noise as if to beg, but he couldn't articulate. McKenzie fired again.
"No one's supposed to get hurt," he muttered to himself. "Fuck Kilten and his idealistic bullshit. If you don't hurt people they don't listen. And the whole idea is to get people to listen. This is just the beginning of a world of hurt." He looked at Aldrich and smiled, his eyes dancing strangely. "And you can take that to the grave, my friend. To the grave."
Thorpe stood on the flight line with a small handheld fire extinguisher as the left engine on the Blackhawk helicopter began making a high-pitched whining noise. He could see Lisa still waiting at the edge of the flight line.
After half a minute, the voice of the pilot sounded tinnily in his ears. "Starting right engine."
Thorpe dutifully walked around the front of the helicopter and stood fire watch over that engine. Since they had brought no crew chief with them on this parts run, he had to fulfill those duties.
"If that engine catches on fire," he said into the headset, "you think this thing will put it out?" He could see the copilot who'd identified himself as Chief Warrant Officer Maysun look out the cockpit at him.
"Hell, no, sir. We just want you to start spraying so we know something's wrong and we can get the hell out of here."
Both engines were now running and very slowly the four large blades began turning.
"Come on board," Maysun ordered and Thorpe coiled up the headphone cord as he walked around to the left cargo door and climbed on board. The rear of the chopper was crammed full with empty fuel bladders and equipment boxes. Thorpe squeezed himself into the front of the cargo bay and pulled the door shut. He sat down right behind the pilots and waited as the engines slowly built up RPMs and the pilots completed their pre-flight checks.
He looked out at the flight line for Barksdale Air Force Base. He could see Lisa. She wasn't looking in his direction.
Chapter Seven
As the President's National Security Adviser, Michael Hill had his choice of tee times at the Andrews Air Force Base golf course. But this Sunday morning he was able to mix business with pleasure. An hour and a half ago he'd waved good-bye to the president as the chief executive departed for a G-7 meeting in Paris. Then Hill had his driver take him over to the golf course which was practically deserted at this early hour except for Hill and his aide, Keith Lugar.
With the president gone, Hill was looking forward to a busy week, beginning this afternoon. He always managed to get more work done with the president out of town. No briefings to give, no silly questions to answer, no ego to stroke.
Hill was a tall man, topping out at six-foot-four, and he carried himself so rigidly that he seemed even taller to those who stood near him. He was slender and blessed with distinguished white hair. Hill had been in Washington for over thirty years and knew not only where all the skeletons were hidden, but he'd put many of them in other people's closets. Hill considered himself to be part of the "real" power in Washington. He wasn't a politician who came and went at the whim of an ignorant voting public, but someone who stayed in the halls of power year after year in various appointed positions, gaining experience and helping the latest incumbent avoid the mistakes of ignorance and naivete.
He worked with a network of other longtime bureaucrats throughout the highest levels of government and while the politicians hemmed and hawed, Hill and his cohorts got results and kept the country running. From the National Security Council to the State Department, from the Department of Defense to the CIA, a handful of men wielded a tremendous amount of power.
Hill pulled the golf cart to a halt at the third green. As he was selecting his club, the cellular phone buzzed three quick times, indicating an incoming fax. Lugar opened the briefcase in the back of the cart and plugged the phone to the portable printer/fax inside.
Hill set his ball down. He was eying the green when Lugar called out, "Sir!"
"What is it?" Hill demanded irritably.
Lugar held up a piece of paper. "You need to read this."
The fax was still humming, working on a second page when Hill snatched the paper out of Lugar's hand. Hill quickly started reading, his eyes slowing down as the import of the words struck him.
TO: NATIONAL SECURITY ADVISER HILL
FROM: PROFESSOR KILTEN
RE: OPERATION DELILAH, OPERATION
RED FLYER
I KNOW WHAT YOU'RE DOING!
SOON EVERYONE WILL!
"What the hell?" Hill said to himself. He would think it a joke except for the reference to Operation Delilah and that it came from Kilten. There were only three people in Washington who were supposed to know that code name and Kilten wasn't one of them.
Lugar was holding up the second page. It was a fax of a digital photo showing men loading a barrel into an army truck on a beach. In the background a tank had its searchlight on. "Son-of-a-bitch," Hill muttered. He glared at Lugar. "How did Kilten get ahold of this?"
"I don't know, sir."
"I thought this entire incident was sterilized," Hill was shaking the photo.
"I thought it was, too, sir."
"Then where did this photo come from?" Hill didn't give him a chance to answer. "I thought you took care of Kilten and he was no longer a problem."
"I did, sir," Lugar said.
Hill shook the paper. "This is a problem. Obviously, Kilten is still alive."
"Yes, sir, but your specific instructions called for an accident. He is dying as we speak of acute radiation poisoning. We've used it before with no trouble. I thought in this case the irony would—"
Hill swung his golf club close enough to Lugar's head that the man stepped back, ashen-faced.
"Who the fuck told you you could think, moron? An accident is a piano crate landing on his head, not a lingering disease. Don't you think a nuclear expert would know he's been deliberately exposed? He's an old man. Anything would have looked like an accident for Christ's sake. You've done nothing but create a time bomb with our names on it."
Lugar picked up the crumpled fax sheet from the green where Hill had tossed it in his fury. Hill calmed down and was lightly tapping the head of the club on the carpet of grass. "I want the Agency to find Kilten. ASAP. And terminate him immediately before he does something stupid. Is that clear?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good." Hill turned and walked back to tee off. Lugar flipped open his secure portable phone and began punching in numbers.