Rogue Threat Read online

  “That’s my point. What will it hurt to shut down the other 50 percent?”

  “Most are already bankrupt,” Hellerman said. “We don’t want to destroy the industry. It’s mostly smaller airlines that are operating, anyway. We’ve beefed up security with the National Guard at airports.”

  “In my speech, I’ll announce that we’ve gone to limited operations but continue to fly some commercial routes, particularly cargo,” the president said.

  “I think that’s a good plan,” Hellerman chimed in. “It will show we’re not deterred.” Then he turned to the row behind him. “What is the general reaction of the people? What are the polls saying?” Hellerman asked. “How do the American people feel about this?”

  Meredith watched as a youngish male aide stood from the outer ring of seats and cleared his throat.

  “Sir, right now polling data shows that 82 percent of Americans feel threatened and insecure. Seventy-eight percent have said that they seriously question the government’s ability to protect them, and 64 percent admit they will avoid public places for the near term.”

  “We’ve got to keep the airline industry going, though. We’ve got to push through this,” Arends said.

  “Shit, more people than that voted in the last American Idol contest. The real issue is whether the country is pulling together versus being divisive and blameful,” Hellerman interrupted.

  “Our polls show that most Americans blame the government, and that is fairly evenly divided between blaming the administration, the military, and the intelligence community.”

  “Is there any sense of outrage?” Hellerman asked. “Is there any sense of coming together to defend our nation against this rogue threat?”

  “Sir, quite the contrary. The divisions within the country seem accentuated. Blacks blame whites; whites blame liberals in the government; liberals blame the military.” The young man briefly lifted his eyes toward Secretary Arends’ image on the plasma screen. “One thing that is certain is that there is a fair amount of finger-pointing going on.”

  “So really, what we need,” Hellerman started, “is a call for unity, a call for rising up as one nation against this rogue threat. What we need now is a clarion call to come together, to fight off this spiritual stagnation, to unify against this external threat to our security. Sir, I recommend strongly that you step forward during your speech, declare war on this threat, and begin to lead from the front.”

  “Against what threat, though? All we’ve got is Ballantine that we can put our finger on,” Shepanski said.

  Hellerman stood and leaned on the glossy table, hands pressing firmly into the wood, as he peered into the video camera. “There’s more to it than that, for sure. The threat is the coordinated efforts against our freedom-loving people. Our national security strategy lists as its primary vital interest the defense of American lives and our way of life. What could be a more direct threat to our way of life than the brutal murder of thousands of Americans on our own soil by a terrorist network? What else do these people need!”

  Meredith watched as Hellerman’s faced turned red, veins popping in his neck.

  “What else?” he said, his voice trailing off as he sat back down.

  “Shark, I agree. I’ll take the lead on this and try to bring the country together. We need to work Congress, get bipartisan support going forward here,” the president said.

  “Mr. President, all you really need to do is step forward, and they will follow. They will have no choice. But if we don’t do it soon, I’m afraid these divisions will harden during this crisis and will prevent us from going forward. And, frankly, I think we might be looking at bringing back the draft,” Hellerman said.

  “You’re kidding, right?” Arends fumed.

  Hellerman gave Arends a disgusted look, then turned to Shepanski. “Shark, I need you to follow up on these unmanned aerial vehicles. They have me concerned. Eighteen, maybe more, Predators out there somewhere with at least one control station and chemical weapons could do significant damage.”

  “Right, we’re working that now. We understand that as our number one priority right now.”

  “Meredith, anything you want to add?” Dave Palmer said.

  “It’s an interesting look at what kind of country we’ve become,” Meredith said, backing up the vice president’s reasoning. “It’s pretty sad that we have such a short memory as a nation.”

  “I think we’re better than that, Meredith. Maybe the message after Nine-eleven shouldn’t have been ‘It’s okay, go shopping,’ but by the same token, if we change the whole of our existence because of these attacks, we lose.” Davis paused, and when no one else countered, he continued. “Our message, then, is three-fold. First, we’ve got crisis response teams at all of the attack sites treating wounded and accounting for casualties. Second, we’ve got an interagency task force led by the Department of Defense analyzing the threats and going after both the head of the operation and the distributed cells. To back that up, we’ve attacked and seized the terrorist headquarters in Canada and believe it’s only a matter of time before we capture the elusive Mr. Ballantine. And third, I call on all Americans to come together in defense against this vile enemy.”

  Meredith watched Hellerman’s eyes narrow. He was focused, perhaps thinking about his Rebuild America plan. She understood everything Hellerman had been talking to her about over the last few months. He had schooled her on his views of the downward spiral on which he believed the country to be sliding. Over 50 percent of the voting-age population did not care enough to vote, he had pointed out. Hellerman told her that, when he was serving in the first Persian Gulf War as an intelligence officer processing enemy prisoners of war, he had taken the time to reread Walt Rostow’s book The Economic Stages of Growth. He explained Rostow’s idea of the final stage beyond “High Mass Consumption” as being that of secular spiritual stagnation. In other words, nobody cares about anything but themselves. The apathy then leads to the divergence of rich and poor, and coupled with the professional, volunteer military, to a nation out of touch with its moorings. The Rebuild America Program was borne out of Hellerman’s drive to unify the country.

  “Of course we’ll need to add some beef to it,” Davis said, turning over his shoulder toward his speechwriter. “Until then, let’s get after this thing. I want an update ten minutes prior to my press conference.” The plasma screen went blank.

  Meredith scooped up her notebook and darted back to her office. She could feel Hellerman hot on her heels. She spun around to see him closing the door behind her.

  “See what I’ve been saying? Could I have been any more right?” Hellerman said.

  “No, Trip, there’s nothing right about all these people dying.”

  He leaned over and kissed her on the lips. The familiar feeling sent electrical shocks along her spine, but she recoiled.

  “Get away! What are you doing?” She pushed him back.

  “I know. I couldn’t help myself,” he said, straightening his tie. “We have to think about what’s happening now and what’s going to happen over the next few days.”

  “What are you talking about?” she said, crossing her arms. “I mean, people are dying. Our project was supposed to bring the country back together through programs and policy.”

  “That is what our program is going to do. I have no idea why all these attacks are happening, but the opportunity is unbelievable. This was made for what we’re trying to do. We’ve got to be strong, Meredith. If we play this right, we’ve really got a chance to reunify this country. This is what Rostow was talking about.”

  “There’s no opportunity in tragedy, Trip.” An edge of anger tinged Meredith’s voice.

  “On the contrary. Never waste a crisis. People died in the Revolution, they died in the Civil War, and they died in the two world wars. People die every day. I would rather seize this tragedy as an opportunity than be a cold, timid soul that is too scared to act. James Madison said, ‘The tree of liberty must be on oc
casion nourished with the blood of the free.’ This was unavoidable.” The vice president looked at her and then departed, his eyes wild with adrenaline.

  Meredith walked to her window, suddenly fearful of what she believed the future would hold. The uncertainty was eating away at her. Where is Matt when I need him?

  Probably the same place she was when he needed her.

  Chapter 35

  Vermont-New Hampshire Border

  “Hello,” Ronnie Wood said into the small Kyocera phone powered by a Qualcomm CDMA chip and protected by U.S. encryption technology.

  “This is Ballantine,” the voice said, distant but clear.

  Wood sat up in his bed. “Good. Do you have an update?”

  Ballantine’s voice was distorted over the secure phone. “I have been compromised, but I escaped. All other operations are set. I have one enemy captive. I am moving to my alternate command post and will wait for transmission of the signal.”

  “Tell me more about this compromise. We have seen the news,” Wood said.

  “They sent a special operations commando after me and my crew. I captured their agent and questioned him. A second team arrived and tried to rescue him. I am wounded but am healing and will be fine for tomorrow’s operation.”

  Ballantine looked over his shoulder at the bound and gagged Zachary Garrett. He had hog-tied Garrett and stuffed him in the cargo compartment behind the pilot and copilot seats.

  “What kind of condition is your captive in?” Wood asked.

  “He will live. I shot him in the upper back. Flesh wound only. Bleeding has stopped.” Ballantine spoke in deliberately concise sentences to minimize airtime on the phone, despite the secure connection. He knew the technology existed to intercept the traffic and decipher the coded signals. He had also just lied. The pool of blood gathering on the floor of the airplane provided an indication of Zachary Garrett’s dire condition.

  “What about your television appearance? Do you have the facilities for that, or do we need to execute the backup plan?” Wood asked.

  “My facilities were captured. The backup plan is a go,” Ballantine said.

  “Are you certain you can execute?”

  Ballantine seethed for just a second at his contact, letting the fuse burn, and then affirmed, “Absolutely.”

  “Your picture is on every television station in the world. The news media are providing the public with your aliases and your Muslim name. Without your secure facility, how do you intend to make an international statement without the risk of getting compromised?”

  “I have a plan,” he repeated, this time with less patience.

  “Don’t screw it up.”

  “I won’t.”

  Ballantine pushed the end button on the satellite phone, removed the battery and stuffed both components in his pocket. He then banked the airplane toward a small set of lights to his south. He was glad that he had at least accomplished that task. He had considered not calling the contact, but he was concerned that the news programs might cause delay or even postponement, which he could not afford. While most of the Phase Two operations seem to have been completed with a success rate of about 80 percent, these next missions provided the most hope for achieving victory to his personal satisfaction.

  Ballantine replayed the scene in his mind: the two commandos in his sights, moving along the woods toward the cabins. His first shot struck the lead man in the chest; the second shot narrowly missed the wingman. He fired successive shots, but the team to his rear was being overrun, diverting his attention long enough for him to lose sight of the other operative. Then, very quickly it seemed there was enemy fire coming from the small set of trees next to the pier. Hit once, he labored to hide in the woods until he could recover.

  After a short while, he had moved toward the cabin. He saw a man untying Zachary Garrett and fired immediately, hitting Garrett in the back. He followed the small arms shots with a rocket-propelled grenade to stun whoever was in the house. There was only time to take the one captive, as he was receiving fire.

  The trip back to the Sherpa had been a struggle. He had wrestled with the stealth gear, affixing his wing shapers into place. He had ensured the Chinese had used the same stealth technology on his Sherpa that they had used on the Predators. He had quickly fastened two triangles of fiberglass to his wings that angled toward the tail. The United States had achieved radar avoidance through aircraft composition, speed of flight, and shape. His Sherpa now looked like a poor man’s stealth aircraft. Knowing that the United States would have an all-points bulletin on his plane, he intended to do everything he could to evade detection. It was critical to mission success.

  Once in the aircraft with Garrett bound, he flipped the remote switch to ignite the previously rigged demolitions to destroy his operations center.

  He was exhausted.

  His adrenaline had carried him this far. He was flying to a small apple farm on the Vermont-New Hampshire border. He cut a low path through the cool spring morning, his mind trapped somewhere between controlling the airplane, seeking revenge, and adapting his plan to execute the remainder of the overall scheme. He was flying through the valleys no more than a hundred feet above ground level and under 70 mph to avoid radar detection.

  This could be quite interesting, he thought. He was experiencing a moment of surging happiness offset by the loss of his command center, and perhaps Virginia as well. Nonetheless, the plan was coming together with an added bonus of the massive leverage of having Zachary Garrett in his possession. The American saying “what goes around comes around” popped into his mind. Garrett had killed Ballantine’s brother while he watched, and now Ballantine could stage a replay for the brothers Garrett.

  He slipped on his night-vision goggles as he carved through a valley, granite cliffs to his starboard side. While it took much longer than he desired, it was better to arrive later than not at all. He spotted the two infrared lights he had asked his wife, Regina, to leave on for him. They were sufficient to give him a good approach at a slow speed with the Sherpa.

  Thinking about asking his wife to turn on the infrared lights made him absently wonder about Virginia. Was she dead or alive? Had they captured her, and were they now extracting information from her? Would she crack? He didn’t believe so, but he wasn’t sure.

  He noticed through his goggles the rows of apple trees on either side of the strip. At the northern end was a house with a single light on in the upstairs bedroom.

  The Sherpa’s wheels found the grass, slipping a bit to the right, but the slide was easily controlled with a mild maneuver in that direction, like skidding on ice.

  Ballantine pulled the aircraft into a small barn situated between the orchard and the house. As the engine sputtered to a stop, he dragged Garrett’s body out of the airplane and carried him fireman’s style.

  Before he reached the steps, Regina came bounding out of the house, across the covered porch, down the wooden steps, and froze.

  “What is this?” she said, shocked.

  “Someone who tried to kill me. He’s been shot, and we need to fix him.”

  “Why . . . what? You’re hurt, too,” she said, stepping back. “What’s been going on?” she asked.

  “I got into some bad stuff with some guys who weren’t fishermen.” Ballantine laid Garrett on the porch, and she hugged him on the neck.

  “What do you mean? Not fishermen?” she said, pulling away and looking at Zachary Garrett.

  “They were trying to run drugs on my airplane, smuggle them in from Canada. We saw them, and they suspected we knew too much.”

  “And who’s this, the man who shot you? One of the drug runners?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why would you bring him here?”

  “Because he’s our insurance policy. These drug guys know where we live, and if we keep him alive, I think they’ll leave us alone.”

  “What do we do with him?” Regina asked.

  “Regina, quit asking so many questions. You will
operate on him and then me. Tomorrow I will fly him to his people. That’s the deal, as long as they promise to leave me alone.”

  “I’m a veterinarian, Jacques, not a doctor,” she said.

  “You know what to do.”

  “Why not just call a doctor?”

  His faced flinched once as the anger flashed inside him. Don’t release now, he told himself. It’s not the time or the place. “Just do as I say.”

  “Islam, right? Well Islam will grant us this one exception to call a doctor to work on at least you,” she protested.

  “Not this time, not ever,” he said. “Now let’s get him in the house, and you can fix him and then pull this bullet out of my shoulder.”

  “You must be horrified,” she gasped.

  “You have no idea,” he replied under his breath.

  Ballantine put on his best face. It had been a week since he had seen her. He routinely returned on the weekends to keep his cover alive and to keep her satisfied. While Regina was an attractive woman, she was also simply a means to an end. Fearing raising suspicions by purchasing land himself, he knew he needed a surrogate. It took him all of two months in Burlington to find a suitable mate who would marry him for the money he generously, but discreetly, spent on her. He had scanned the desperate legions of women on Internet dating sites. Regina had run an ad titled, “Submissive vet seeks dominant man.”

  After a few e-mails he had learned she was a veterinarian who had reenrolled at the University of Vermont. She was a second-year master’s student earning a meaningless degree in Islamic studies. She told him she was trying to better understand the root causes of 9/11. She had a small veterinary business—mostly cats, dogs, and cattle—that helped pay for her studies. She lived by herself in a small two-story house on five acres thirty miles from the university.

  Their Internet conversations quickly gave way to a cup of coffee and a fast, storybook romance.

  “I missed you, honey. I wanted us to have some time together.”