Approaching the aircraft’s exit, Scarlet smiled at the flight attendants. When one of the attendants looked down at his wet trousers, Scarlet gave her a sympathetic look and gave Ryan’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “I’m so sorry but as you can see, he’s a very nervous flier.”
Ryan smiled. “It’s true, actually, but… wait, what?”
Scarlet and the attendant shared a good laugh as he tried to explain himself. “No, this is beer. You don’t understand — it’s beer, I tell you!”
“Of course it is,” Scarlet said. “Don’t worry, we can change you at the hotel.”
As the attendant walked away, Ryan narrowed his eyes. “Thanks for that.”
“You didn’t think you had a chance with her?” she asked.
“Well, fortune favors the brave.”
“In that case fortune must really hate you.”
“Thanks, Cairo.”
“You’re welcome, darling.”
Hawke slung his bag over his shoulder, pushed himself between the two of them and rested his arms on their shoulders. “I hope you two lovebirds are ready for the fight of your lives, because something tells me that’s what we’re looking at.”
And with those sombre words hanging in the air, they walked along the skybridge and headed for customs, fake passports in hand.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
As Chief of the Staff to the President of the United States, Joshua Muston was feeling like he had reached the pinnacle of a very long and slimy career. He had long forgotten how many people he had stabbed in the back and thrown under the bus to get where he was today, but none of that mattered now. It’s all about the ends and means to get there, as his father always told him.
Until recently, he had been happy enough with that philosophy, but watching Davis Faulkner holding court behind the Resolute Desk was starting to make him question some of the decisions he had made.
“Nervous, Josh?”
Startled, he looked up from his briefing notes to see President Faulkner staring at him. He had asked a question and now a room full of senior political aides and military personnel were waiting for an intelligent reply.
As nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs, he thought.
“Sorry, sir?”
“You look nervous.”
“Not at all, sir.”
“Good. We don’t know what we’re going to find when we fully excavate the Citadel, but when we do I need people around me who can stay calm in a crisis,” he paused a beat and regarded his counsel, all glittering epaulets, shiny buttons and straight-faced men of war. “And keep their goddam mouths zipped up when the press start asking questions. Goddam internet.”
A chuckle.
“Of course, sir. You can count on me.”
But the truth was, could he? Muston’s heart had started to harbor strong doubts about just what Faulkner was doing with the presidency. There was an economy to pull out of the dirt, the immigration system was in disarray and crime in most cities was at an all-time high. And yet his boss spent most of his time dreaming about the Citadel and what they were going to find inside it or what it might lead to.
The Oracle was dead, and the Special Ops team they had sent out there had wiped out most of his cult. Those who survived had been scattered to the furthest corners of the world like dead leaves, hiding in the shadows with prices on their heads. More worrying were the reports of the strange white-robed guardians who had streamed into the battle out of nowhere and fought hard in defense of the ancient place.
No one seemed to know anything about them. He guessed that was what occupied Faulkner’s mind most of the day. Truth was, it occupied his most of the day too, but he guessed for very different reasons. He didn’t know what Faulkner was chasing, but he was pretty sure it was damned ugly and twice as dangerous.
“General Vance,” Faulkner boomed, “how are our guests on Tartarus?”
“I spoke with General Patterson earlier today, Mr President. Our new guests are settling in just fine.”
As a ripple of grim laughter moved around the Oval Office, Muston gave a fake smile and pretended to be one of the boys. The arrest and incarceration of the former president and his daughter was also weighing hard on his conscience. At first, he had welcomed the decision to take Brooke down and as hard and fast as possible, but now the job was done he was starting to feel differently. He looked down at his hands and saw innocent blood and he didn’t like it.
Vance pushed back on the cream sofa, US Army service cap resting upside down in his lap and thick, sausage fingers tapping on his knees. “In regard to the guests, what are your orders, sir?”
“We need evidence, General Vance. I need evidence from those prisoners the way a drowning man needs a life preserver.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And we need that evidence to make the treason charges stick like glue, you reading me?”
“Yes, sir, Mr President. What are your orders?”
“McGee and the daughter. I want them interrogated. I think the girl will break first and give us what we need.”
“I’ll call Patterson.”
Faulkner nodded, pleased with the progress they were making. “Have Jack Brooke made aware of what’s going on. I know that son of a bitch. You could torture him until the sun becomes a red giant and he’ll never talk.” As he spoke, Muston thought he heard a few ounces of respect creep into the President’s voice. “He was in Delta Force, and never forget that. However, his kryptonite is the daughter. Just like any father, he won’t stand for anything raining down on her. You let him know it can stop anytime he chooses to confess to his crimes.”
Raining down on her. Muston felt his stomach turning over. Was Faulkner really ordering the torture of the President’s disabled daughter?
Vance seemed less concerned and spoke up with a solid, gravelly voice. “I’ll make the call immediately, sir.”
“And this place is impregnable, right?”
Vance gave a short, professional nod. “Without official sanction, there is no way in and no way out of Tartarus Base. Most people don’t even know where it is. It’s not on any maps, paper or digital and any references to it on the internet are cleaned within seconds.”
“But what concerns me, General,” Faulkner said quietly. “Is the human factor.”
“Sir?”
“You said most people don’t know where it is, but clearly some people know. How many?”
“The base has a skeleton crew of Special Ops under the command of General Patterson and then there are half a dozen people in the CIA, half a dozen in the NSA and the people in this room.”
The President gave a reluctant nod. “Less than one hundred?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What about the pilots who fly there?”
“They’re included in the Special Ops men who work on the base. All ARSOAC men.”
“ARSOAC?” Muston asked.
Vance disguised his sneer. “Army Special Operations Aviation Command, Mr Muston.”
Muston made a note. He couldn’t be expected to know every last detail of the entire US military infrastructure, but he could see Vance had enjoyed showing him up.
“The ARSOAC men number four — two rotating air crews who all live on the base and fly out to complete their missions before returning again.”
Faulkner nodded and turned to Wilson Murphy of the CIA.
“I want an update on the international terror group known as ECHO.”