The History Thief: Ten Days Lost (The Sterling Novels) (83 page)

Michael looked at his watch and barked his orders. “York, get in the driver’s seat—get us back to Langley!”

Without hesitating, York complied.

Sheila took her cue and climbed in, too.

“Mr. Garrido, hop in the back; do the calculations. If I’m right, they’re going to drop the cargo while still in flight and let the plane crash. Find out where that drop is going to be. Cross-reference seven and a half minutes of flight, speed, and terrain. Start with the southeastern part of Afghanistan.”

York looked at Michael out of the corner of his eye at that last bit; the southeastern part of Afghanistan was where his Special Forces team had been.

Garrido nodded in the affirmative, but hid his thoughts that it was an impossible task. He jumped into the truck and buried his head into his laptop.

York hit the accelerator of the truck and the dual rear wheels spun, sending a large spray of red clay and mud backward. Soon, they were driving in unincorporated Fairfax County along the Potomac. The rising sun reflected off of the gray waters.

“Mr. Garrido, I need that information!”

“Working on it, sir; just a few more calculations.”

“Kid,” Michael said to York, “this ain’t the time to worry about tickets; pick up the goddamned pace!”

York smiled and complied. The eight cylinders rumbled a compliant three hundred horsepower into the truck’s cabin.

“Is there a phone in this truck?” asked Michael.

Garrido’s reply was short but respectful, “Glove box, sir. Code’s 6162.”

Michael opened it and took out the CIA-issued phone—with the punch of a few numbers, he was connected with the Tactical Operation Center’s (TOC) chief on duty:

“Fairfax Duct and Vent; how may I help you?”

“This is Dr. Michael Sterling, ready to authenticate!”

“Sir, you have the wrong number,” returned the baritone voice, according to the scripted reply. Done so to minimize any problems with misdialed numbers or calls by telemarketers made by random-dialing computers, the TOC’s response was expected.

“Trace the number; lock in on my location! Prepare to authenticate!” Michael repeated.

The TOC had already traced the number, in fact, when the call came in; it was standard operating procedure; the phone number came up as CIA issue. On his LCD screen, the satellite that hovered perpetually over Washington, DC, already displayed a live image of the speeding truck.

There was dead air. The TOC officer didn’t speak—standard operating procedure.

Michael articulated his authentication code: “Dr. Sterling, Michael Tango Sierra Charlie—Sierra Charlie India; one, seven, eight, eight, over.”

There was another moment of silence while the TOC verified Michael’s identity.

It’s the Doc!
The TOC officer muted the phone and shouted for the chief. “Chief, it’s the Doc; he’s on his way here!”

“Come again?” quizzed the chief.

“It’s the Doc! He’s come home!”

The chief grabbed the headset from the TOC officer and snapped her fingers at him; the message was clear:
have everyone get their shit together; the Doc is back!
The authentication procedure didn’t take long. “Dr. Sterling, sir?” said the shocked chief. “This is Section Chief Rebecca Gomez; I’ve got your vehicle on-screen and on speaker now. What can I do for you?”

“I’m heading to Langley right now, Chief! I don’t have any time to deal with the gate—warn the guards; tell ’em to get out of the damn way, or they’ll be picking what’s left of their asses off the pavement for a month! Prepare the TOC for drone activity. Get a flight team ready, and I mean yesterday! Find the drone that’s nearest to Afghanistan’s southeast borders and get it in the air and on a path into Afghanistan airspace, and do it now!”

“What about permissions?”

“Under the radar, Chief; my orders!”

“Understood, sir.”

The team in the operating center was already moving. In the span of less than a moment, the room went from just another day, to a flurry of activity. All knew their precise roles.

The chief snapped her fingers again at the man closest to her, but she didn’t have to. “I’m also putting an escort on the ground and in the air now; they’ll get you here with no problems!”

The man next to the chief had been punching madly away at his keyboard before the order had come. Within moments, a black OH-58 Delta helicopter, complete with the necessary armaments, would be in the air to escort the deputy director safely to the confines of the CIA’s headquarters.

Michael appreciated the assistance but didn’t show it. “That drone had better be airborne by the time I see your face!”

“It will be, sir; you have my word!”

“Good.” Michael ended the conversation.

A moment later, one of a handful of federally funded State of Virginia police cruisers sped past the F-350 with its lights spinning and its siren blaring. Michael nodded at York, who understood.

He stepped on the gas and kept pace with the trooper.

Overhead, a small black helicopter was flying low and fast. It skimmed the airspace just above the truck and past the police cruiser.

They now had an armed escort direct to Langley.

Chief Gomez went into tactical mode; she pointed her fingers at her staff, singling them out and barking her orders. Keeping her smile under wraps, Chief Gomez thought,
Goddamn, it’s good to have you back, sir!

CHAPTER NINETY-SEVEN

CNN NEWSROOM
ATLANTA, GEORGIA

B
rock Tanksley had, at one time, been the bruising linebacker for the University of Miami’s National Championship football team.

He was a house of a man: a neck as thick as a fire hydrant and shoulders as broad as a door. The man had been untouchable as a player, but even more talented in the classroom.

Brains and brawn.

NFL teams salivated over him in wait of the draft.

An unfortunate twist of fate careened his soon-to-be professional NFL career from its path. During that game—
the game
—Miami was holding onto a five-point lead over Notre Dame, and time had almost run out. The running back for Notre Dame was on his way to winning the Heisman trophy and a three-touchdown, two-hundred-yard game. His thighs were as thick as redwoods, and, at full-sprint, they were moving like pistons, accelerating the running back straight for the end zone and the winning score.

The only thing that stood between that running back and the National Championship was Brock Tanksley.

Brock squared up with the ferocious back, lowered his center of gravity, clamped his cleats into the mud and dirt one yard short of the end zone, and narrowed his eyes at the incoming truck.

A bit of blood from his day’s efforts trickled down his nose and into his mouthpiece.

He didn’t notice.

The collision was monstrous; the two men met face-to-face, the combined five hundred and twenty-five pounds of pure power created a sight that the pundits still called “the stop heard around the world.”

Brock flattened that running back into a twitching pile of second-round draft-pick fodder; Miami won the game.

But on the field Brock lay.

Writhing in pain and agony.

The force from the collision had been so great that it had shattered Brock’s left femur and his dream of playing in the NFL.

He would have been the first pick in the draft.

There was no question.

But instead of disappearing into distant memories and best-of replays, he yanked up his bootstraps and focused on his remaining asset—his intelligence. He became a journalist, and a rather successful one.

Three daytime Emmys and a Pulitzer.

He was still the number-one draft pick.

On the CNN news desk, Brock anchored the most important segment of the day and readied to report the breaking news at hand. The day before had already been full of excitement with the rescue of Senator Elizabeth Door, but this—this was unfathomable.

Brock Tanksley wouldn’t have believed it if he wasn’t about to read it from the teleprompter.

“Ready, Brock,” said the in-studio producer. “Live in five, four, three—” he ended his command with a silent count and pointed to Brock.

Reading from the teleprompter, Brock began: “CNN has just learned that sometime near sunrise, a private plane—a Gulfstream 650 registered to the well-known industrialist and vice presidential nominee, Francis Q. Door—has crashed into a field in a remote part of Virginia. Fatalities have yet to be confirmed, but initial reports indicate that the plane carried both Senator Matthew Faust and Mr. Door, and was on its way to the United States from Paris. The senator and Mr. Door had stepped into the once-believed vacancy for nomination as president and vice president created when Senator Elizabeth Door—Mr. Door’s wife—was believed to have perished in the destruction of Notre Dame.”

Brock turned from camera one to camera two; over his left shoulder was a photo of the newly rescued Senator Elizabeth Door.

“According to authorities on the scene, surviving the crash would be impossible; clearly, this is a tragedy of epic proportions. Our thoughts are with Senator Elizabeth Door and the family of Senator Faust.”

CHAPTER NINETY-EIGHT

WHY, ALLAH, WHY?
KOFE SOFAID,
AFGHANISTAN

I
t was approaching the hottest point of the day in Pakistan.

The placid, turquoise blue of Hanna Lake shone like glass, contradicting the dead banks that surrounded its shores. It was undisturbed in the late afternoon hours; not one ripple broke the perfection of its surface. Most of the nearby residents of the Balochistan Province of Pakistan were inside their homes, avoiding the crest of the day’s heat.

Shamsi Airfield was nearby.

Officially, both governments—Pakistan and the United States—denied its use for the MQ-9 drone, but on the airfield’s tarmac, the MQ-9, also known as the Reaper, was fully armed and its nine-hundred-and-fifty-shaft-horsepower engine accelerated it down the runway. Airborne, it reached its maximum speed of three hundred miles per hour in a few short minutes.

Flying low, the Reaper’s Lynx II radar kept the drone close to the surface. It ripped over Hanna Lake, leaving a wake of disrupted water.

“In the air, Chief!” shouted the operation center team member.

The chief nodded, viewing the drone’s visual on-screen. The room could see what the Reaper did.

“Status on the Doc,” she barked.

“ETA in less than three minutes; he’s passing through the south gate now.”

At the entrance to the south gate, the trooper peeled off and the OH-58 Delta banked up and to the right.

York never let off the gas and sped down the road toward the New Headquarters Building. “Which way, Doc?!” York had never been through the gate before.

“Just stay straight. You’ll see the HQ soon. Get us to the front door.” Michael’s reply was calm, and he tossed Garrido the phone. “Call the TOC; have an escort for us waiting there!”

Garrido complied and was on the phone with the TOC, but the TOC was one step ahead. “The escort is already there and waiting!”

The headquarters building emerged on the near horizon; York pulled up in front of it, squealing the truck to a stop.

All jumped out, and Michael established control. He pointed at one of the dark-suited men. “In the bed of the truck; take him to a holding cell. Keep him gagged! No one is to speak to him, understood?”

“Yes, sir,” came the reply.

Pointing at the other escorts, Michael ordered, “Get us to the TOC!”

The two men spun around and cleared a path through the halls of Langley for Michael and his team. Intelligence analysts and officials alike were yelled at to move aside as the armed entourage sprinted forward.

A short distance ahead, an elevator was open and waiting; a fourth dark-suited man was there. Inside, they went down to the fourth sub-level and directly into the Tactical Operation Center.

In the room, Michael took command, “I’ve got the room, Chief.”

“The room is yours, sir,” she complied.

“Status report.”

“Sir, a Reaper’s in the air and on its way to Afghanistan. It’s flying under radar.”

“Armament?”

“Fourteen AGM-114 Hellfires and two five-hundred-pound Paveways.”

“Laser-guided?”

“Yes, sir.”

Michael turned his attention to Jorge Garrido. “Where’s the Antonov, Mr. Garrido?”

Jorge Garrido was nervous; time was running down. He did his best to maintain his calm on the exterior, but inside he was as flustered as could be. He plugged his laptop into the Operation Center’s network and continued to feverishly work.
Where the hell are you?

York stood over Jorge’s shoulder and watched as he worked. Jorge was focusing on a grid in the southeastern corner of the country.