Extreme Faction (24 page)

That's not what Nelsen wanted to hear. Think. Think. “It's a fine day. I'm not arguing that. It's the location I'm concerned about. Tell us what you want. Innocent people shouldn't have to die here today.”

Baskale laughed. “There are no innocent people.”

It was too late. By now they were over the suburbs. Nelsen clicked off the mic and slammed his hand against the bulkhead. “Goddammit.” He gazed off to the Apache. It would be easy to simply give the fire order. But where would the plane crash? His luck it would hit a school yard.

“Now what?” Garcia asked.

Of course. “I've got it.” He told the pilot to maneuver alongside the plane. In a second, they were just off to the right of the plane and the Apache had moved in behind it. “Hal, scope ‘em and see how many, other than the pilot, in that Beechcraft.”

The sharpshooter zoomed the scope onto the plane, fore and aft, and then settled on the large man in the rear of the aircraft. “Looks like just one.”

“Take him out,” Nelsen ordered.

Two seconds after he said it, the sharpshooter fired and the window in the back of the plane exploded. “One down. Pilot to go.”

●

In the Beechcraft Baskale heard only a slight cracking sound from behind. When he turned to see what it was, his best man lay across the bomb case with a hole where his nose used to be.

He screamed a shrill call, his chest heaving. Then he quickly calmed down and prayed for a moment for his lost man. He was going to a better place. Was already there.

Now the plan would have to shift into the second phase. It was their fault. Baskale had anticipated this. It could still work. He powered up to the max, pulled back on the stick, and then banked toward the south over the houses. There were rows and rows of colorful houses along white, cement streets and swirling cul-de-sacs. They all had beautiful aqua-marine swimming pools. The grass seemed so green in the yards. He had never seen such tranquility.

His mind flashed back to the airplane's dials. He would remain just over the top of the houses, for even the Americans would not be stupid enough to shoot him down there.

●

“Now what?” came a voice over the radio. It was the Black Hawk pilot.

“What do you think,” Nelsen screamed. “Keep after them. And switch frequencies to our secure line.”

The other helicopters were airborne flying slowly toward their position.

“Helos five and six lift off and secure objective one,” Nelsen said. “Helos three and four, get your asses in gear to our location. Fan out to one mile on either side of us.”

There were four affirmatives over the radio.

“Where the hell is he heading?” Nelsen said to no one in particular.

Garcia had his eyes on the Beechcraft. “He's gaining altitude, Steve.”

Nelsen moved forward for a better look. “Anything down that way?” As he said it, his eyes answered his own question. Off in the distance, some five or six miles, was the Houston Astrodome.

“He's not crazy enough to crash into that...” The Black Hawk pilot turned to Nelsen.

He was afraid so, and said it with his grave stare. “God help us,” Nelsen said. “Get on the horn and find out if anything's going on there today.”

“I can answer that,” Garcia said. “The Astros play New York in a double header.”

“How many in the stands?”

“The place holds almost sixty thousand. But since they're playing the Mets, there's probably twenty thousand in attendance.”

“Just fucking great.” Nelsen thought fast. If they had let the plane through, perhaps one old, former president would have died. But now... “Twenty thousand. Jesus Christ. Is there any place ahead we can take him out?”

Garcia checked over a detailed map of Houston and the surrounding area. “I don't see one. But even the suburbs would be better than the Astrodome.”

“We're not even sure he's heading there,” Nelsen said. “Can we get the crazy bastard on the radio again?”

The co-pilot switched frequencies.

They didn't have much time for a decision. The Beechcraft was gaining even more altitude and getting closer to the large white dome.

●

“Beechcraft pilot...you seem to be heading toward Hobby airport. That's great. We'll get you clearance and you can set her down there. Then we'll have a little talk.”

Baskale smiled. “You would like that. Get me alone, perhaps. Say I tried to escape.”

“This isn't a game, Baskale.”

Baskale jerked with the sound of his name. His given name. The Cypriot must have talked. “So, you think you know who I am?”

“You are a proud Kurd,” Nelsen said over the radio. “I understand that. I even understand the need for a free and autonomous Kurdistan. Now please set your plane down so we can talk about it.”

Baskale shook his head, as if the man on the radio could see him. “I'm afraid I can't do that. We all must die sometime.”

●

By now the Beechcraft was at a few hundred feet, leveled off, and nearly slowed to a stall.

Nelsen shook his head. “That bastard is nuts. He's not coming down. He's heading straight for the stadium. Can you patch me through to the public address at the Astrodome?”

“Too much time,” said the Black Hawk pilot.

“What about shooting him down over the stadium parking lot?” Garcia asked.

Nelsen thought about it. “Well?” he asked the pilot.

The Apache pilot chimed in. “Sir, we could vector and shoot him from the side, but every round that misses would hit houses in the background. Same with using any of our missiles.”

Well what in the hell good are they, Nelsen thought. “Fucking A...”

They would be over the parking lot in seconds.

“Hal, can you take him out?” Nelsen yelled.

“Affirmative.”

Nelsen tapped the Black Hawk pilot on the shoulder. “Pull up alongside again.”

The Black Hawk was parallel to the Beechcraft in seconds.

The sharpshooter trained his scope on the cockpit. “Sir, he's not there.”

“What?” Nelsen strained toward the window for a closer look. “Does that thing have automatic pilot?”

“Yes, sir,” said the Black Hawk pilot.

“Can you see him in the back, Hal?”

“Negative.”

He had to be there. Lying down.

They were over the parking lot heading for the dome. They would be over it in seconds.

Nelsen's mind reeled. “He's not going to crash into it. He's going to drop bomblets. Can we get underneath him?”

“The bomblets will hit our rotor,” the pilot screamed. “They'll tear us apart and then burst open anyway.”

He was right.

It was too late. The plane was over the dome. Then the first bomblet flew from an opening in the bottom of the Beechcraft. Then another and another. One after the next. The bomblets pierced the Lucite panels like a knife through a sheet. In no time at all they were past the edge of the dome and the bomblets stopped.

Then the Beechcraft picked up speed and banked hard to the north. The madman was behind the controls again.

The Black Hawk pilot did his best to stick with the airplane, but it was a shaky ride. The Beechcraft reeled around and around the parking lot. Within minutes, people below were rushing from the Astrodome exits in a mad panic.

“Take him out! Take him out,” Nelsen screamed.

The helicopter was shaking violently. The sharpshooter shot once. Missed. Shot again. Missed. A third time. Missed.

“Goddammit. Hit him.”

The sharpshooter burst off three more rounds. Then he stopped.

“You get him?” Nelsen asked.

“I don't know. I don't see him.”

In a second they all knew why. A body flew from the opposite side of the Beechcraft, and a bright blue and white parachute opened immediately. The man drifted toward the parking lot and the crowd below.

The Black Hawk was still with the plane.

“Circle around,” Nelsen yelled. “Let's get the bastard.”

“But, sir. The plane.”

The Beechcraft was losing altitude fast, heading for the outer edge of the parking lot. Within seconds, the plane crashed into a small swampy area.

“Excellent,” Nelsen yelled. “The water will help hold the gas in place. Now get Baskale.”

The Black Hawk pilot immediately dove and banked to the right.

But below the parachute and pilot had already reached the ground. It was a chaotic mess in the parking lot. The Black Hawk hovered over one side, and the three Apaches searched for the man throughout the large parking complex. But none of them even knew what the man had been wearing or what he looked like. From up there they all appeared as desperate crazy people. People whose eyes were burning, guts wrenching, heads swirling. Some had fallen to the pavement clutching themselves. Some were throwing up. The blue and white parachute swirled around covering people. But the pilot, Baskale, was surely gone.

Nelsen covered his face with his hands. He had lost. Had failed. It was the worst possible outcome. Far worse than an assassination. He glared toward the ground sternly. Somehow, somewhere, he'd get that bastard. No matter what it took.

ODESSA, UKRAINE

Three hours had passed since Jake had talked with Victor Petrov, the Ukrainian Agricultural Minister. Time enough to form a theory about what was going on.

Jake called Tully's office and was given his location by a reluctant associate, only after saying who he was and that it was urgent.

Standing back behind some bushes, Jake watched Tully O'Neill and Quinn Armstrong sitting in wrought iron chairs at an outdoor cafe near the Privoz Market. The two men had just been brought their dinner, and were about to dig in.

Walking quickly to the table, Jake startled the two men as he swiftly pulled up a chair to join them.

“Jesus Christ,” Tully said. “Where in the hell have you been?”

Jake tried to smile, but other than his early morning encounter with Chavva, he had found nothing amusing about the past few days.

“I've been around.” He glared at Quinn for a moment, still uncertain if he had somehow given up Jake's position while watching Petra and Helena.

There was an uncomfortable lull as Tully and Quinn watched their cooling food. Quinn looked somber, picking at his food like a child who wanted to prove a point to his parents.

“Go ahead and eat,” Jake said. “I've already eaten.” That was a lie. Jake had eaten nothing since a scant lunch on the street and the fruit Chavva had fed him for breakfast. Yet, he was so tense that food was the last thing on his mind right now.

Each of the men had a meat and potatoes platter in front of him, and Tully started eating as though he had never tasted food. Quinn slowly picked away at his.

“We were afraid you were taken last night,” Tully said, while chewing a piece of meat. “What in the hell happened at the apartment?”

Jake leaned back in his chair and looked around. There was an older couple a few tables away, and a table with three younger women even farther away. No one who could hear.

“I was almost killed,” he said, shifting his eyes from Tully to Quinn. “As you probably know, I got one of them. But he's not talking. There must have been at least two more. A shooter and a driver. What I want to know is how in the hell they found us? I selected the place. The only people who knew where we were are sitting at this table.”

“What in the fuck's that supposed to mean?” Quinn screeched.

“Quiet,” Tully ordered. “Christ almighty. Would you two quit your petty arguing? Remember, there were two other people in that apartment. What about Petra? She could have called someone. Or Helena.”

Jake had already thought about that. Why would Petra set herself up? Or her best friend, Helena?

“He's right,” Quinn said. “And what about the Brit?”

“Fuck you! Tuck would never sell out. And there was no phone in the apartment,” Jake added.

Quinn raised his brows, as if he had just remembered that fact himself. “There was one outside the room,” he said slowly. “At the end of the hall. I called Tully from there myself.”

Tully stuffed another piece of meat into his cheek. “That's right.”

“But I was with them,” Jake reminded Quinn. Then he thought hard. “Shit...except for when I went down to the kiosk for a newspaper.”

“That's right. And I was in the bathroom.”

Tully chimed in. “So one of them makes a phone call, says where they are, and the shooters show up. It's possible.”

“That's assuming a lot,” Jake said sarcastically. He was still in no mood for conciliation. “That's saying, perhaps, that Petra had more to do with Tvchenko's research than she was saying. And I don't think that's true. Not after talking with her.”

Tully glanced up from his meal. “What did she say?”

He had their attention now, their eyes focused on him. “She was working for Tvchenko still. Tvchenko was dealing with some other men. From Petra's description I'd say the Kurds. Tvchenko had come up with a breakthrough in his research. All Petra knew is that it would be very important to the agriculture industry. She knew somewhat how the compound worked, and even suspected there could be other uses for it. But she thought that Tvchenko was serious about its commercial potential. That's all. She did hear Tvchenko arguing with the men, and that was out of character for Yuri.”

“So why would anyone want Petra dead?” Tully asked, as he put the last piece of food into his mouth.

Quinn looked at Jake.

“She knew how to mix the compound,” Jake said. “Maybe someone wanted exclusive rights.”

Tully dropped his fork and knife, and then lit a cigarette. “That's possible. Kill off anyone who knows anything about the new agent, or who might be able to link Tvchenko's work to a certain group.”

“Exactly.” Jake pointed a finger at Tully. “Let's say a terrorist group uses the new agent. Authorities would likely find a trace of the compound and eventually link it back to Tvchenko's research. That is, if Tvchenko is still alive. Or Petra. But now the link is broken. Shit.” Jake slammed his fist on the table. He thought about his conversations with Petrov and Chavva earlier.