The History Thief: Ten Days Lost (The Sterling Novels) (9 page)

Another body fell, and then another.

From the corner of his eye, a quick movement grabbed York’s attention.

Out of instinct, York parried to his left. A sliver of silver disturbed the air in front of his face: the swinging blade had just missed his throat.

In front of York was the Blackhawk’s crewman. In his hand was a twelve-inch serrated blade, and on his face was a twisted, evil grin. In the blink of an eye, York studied his opponent and his surroundings. Thad was on the floor, dead; Captain Scott was sitting up but had slipped into unconsciousness; and York’s weapon, the one he had handed to the crewmember without question, was nowhere to be seen.

“What the hell are you doing?” screamed York.

“Give me the flash drive and your map book!” growled the crewman.

York couldn’t mouth his thoughts.
The flash drive and map book?

“Now!” shouted the crewman, his hand outstretched.

The pilot looked back at the unfolding scene and then banked the helicopter to the right. York felt himself being thrown toward the crewman: the pilot was helping!

Reaching out, York grabbed at the thick nylon webbing attached to the seats and stopped himself from being thrown right into the outstretched knife in front of him. The maneuver by the pilot caused York’s feet to come out from under him, and he used this to his advantage. While holding the nylon webbing, York swung his boot at the crewman’s head. The steel reinforced toe of his boot met the bridge of the man’s nose. Blood instantly poured through his broken nasal passages. He dropped the knife just as the pilot leveled out the Blackhawk.

York didn’t hesitate; he lunged at the crewman and threw his elbow into the man’s throat, crushing his larynx. The crewman fell to his knees and then onto his elbows. He writhed on the floor; his eyes begged for air and then rolled into the back of his head. York jumped on top of him just as the man started to cough, a telltale sign that his larynx was relaxing enough to let in some air.

“What the hell is going on, who the hell are you, why do you want the flash drive and my map book!?” interrogated York.

The man didn’t respond.

York picked him up by his hair and then shoved his thumb deep into the man’s left eye. The crewmember let out what little scream that he could through his smashed throat and clawed at York’s wrists. At that moment, the pilot reached back with a pistol in his hand. It was a fortunate twist that the Blackhawk hit a pocket of denser air, causing the fuselage to bounce wildly. The pilot pulled the trigger, but his aim was no longer steady and no match for the turbulence.

There wasn’t any time to think. York was outmatched; his instincts took over. A pen stuck out from the crewman’s shirt; in one balletic movement, York grabbed the pen, sunk it deeply into the pilot’s ear, extracted it, and then plunged it into the crewman’s neck.

The Blackhawk bucked wildly as the pilot struggled with its controls, life fast draining from him.

York felt the Blackhawk sharply losing altitude. The scream of the helicopter rose above the sound of its rotors as it began to plunge toward the earth. The pilot’s motor skills were waning fast, if they weren’t already gone. York reached over to him, undid his four-point safety harness, and yanked him into the back. The pilot’s protests were weak; he was unable to contest what was happening. York flipped him over and pulled off his parachute.

The fear running through York sped up every one of his actions. It was as if he were removed from the danger, somehow looking in at himself, guiding himself.

He put on the chute.

He hit the button that automatically opened the door.

He grabbed Captain Scott.

He jumped.

CHAPTER SIX

HOME OF DR. MICHAEL
STERLING DEPUTY
DIRECTOR OF THE NCS
OAKTON, VA

D
r. Michael Sterling—deputy director of the National Clandestine Services (NCS) of the CIA—reached over to his glass of Chardonnay. Without looking, he picked it up and put it to his lips. Expecting a mixture of aromatic oak with a slight hint of crisp apple, he received nothing.

The glass was empty.

He set the glass down and looked at the bottle: it was empty, too.

Laid out in front of him were the challenges of being the deputy director of the NCS. The desk of his home office was laden with performance reviews, budgetary suggestions, and reports in need of his approval. The most glaring document was the thick binder from the Intelligence Oversight Committee. He already knew what it said; Michael had read the report at least a half-dozen times. The committee was leaning on him hard to slash his budget and cut his staff. It was enough to worry about the careers of his staff, but, even more troublesome, the Intelligence Oversight Committee was also pressing the NCS with very strong fingers to divulge the details of a very black operation, one that Michael had been a part of; one that had broken a number of laws of more than one country.

It didn’t matter that the black operation had saved countless American lives or that it had stopped a full-scale nuclear war and halted Iran’s production of nuclear weapons. No: it only mattered that Senator Elizabeth Door’s opponent—the two-term incumbent president’s hand-picked selection as his replacement, and the only person in her way to becoming the next president—had authorized the clandestine and reckless, borderline illegal mission.

Michael knew that the investigation and budget cuts were nothing more than an election-year, political attention-grabber. The head of the Intelligence Oversight Committee—Senator Elizabeth Door—was predicted to be on her way to the White House; a fierce and savvy politician, she wasn’t afraid to step on anyone’s toes along the way.

Leaning back in his chair, Michael looked at all of the unfinished work and let out a long, heavy breath. He had been the deputy director for almost three years, but it felt like ten. In the background, the TV was tuned into CNN. The anchor droned on about a new offensive taking place in Afghanistan; he wasn’t paying the broadcast any attention.

Michael missed special operations. He had been a damn good operative—the best, some would say. But a few years ago, the president of the United States had personally offered him the promotion to deputy director.
Who turns down the president?
It was supposed to have been a reward.

Since that time, Michael’s life had completely changed. He had moved from Denver, Colorado, to Oakton, Virginia, so that he could be closer to Langley, the headquarters of the CIA. His wife, Dr. Sonia Sterling, MD, had been fortunate to find a senior position in the pediatrics department at Johns Hopkins, but still she constantly lamented the toll that the move had taken on their personal and professional lives.

Sonia’s new position was nearly as demanding as Michael’s; the requirements of her role had her at the hospital almost every day of the week. Their relationship no longer benefitted from weekends at their cabin in the mountains of Colorado, day trips to ski at Vail or Keystone, long hikes, or something as simple as an evening meal together. Their cabin, which had served as a respite from work, was nestled between two rising mountain faces, and while it had been an easy fifty-mile drive from their old home in Denver, it was now a fifteen-hundred-mile flight away.

It might as well be on the other side of the planet.

Michael sighed heavily.

Sometimes he wished that he had become a professor—just like his father. Michael’s doctoral work was in religious studies with a focus on the correlation between the growth of government and the power of the church, in particular, in the Middle East.

Somewhere in the back of his neck, a muscle strained to support the weight of his head; it was a strain that seemed to arrive the moment he had accepted the position of deputy director, and it was obviously destined to reside there until he was either dead or retired, whichever came first.

His rise to deputy director of the NCS had been as dramatic as it had been meteoric. Almost three years ago, he had uncovered highly placed moles in both the CIA and Hezbollah. The moles were part of an esoteric group whose mission was to infiltrate governments and control politics from within. The mole in the CIA gave Iran the blueprints for a nuclear weapon through a CIA-designed, but botched operation called Merlin—the operation that Senator Door was now digging into. The mole in Hezbollah had gained control of those weapons.

It had almost worked, but Michael had thwarted the nearly successful attempt by the group to attack the United States with nuclear weapons. The ploy started with the assassination of the ayatollah of Iran, for which Michael was blamed, and was supposed to include the assassination of the pope. It was an assassination designed to look like Iran was behind it and seeking retribution; it was an attack that was designed to draw the United States into a full-scale nuclear war with the Middle East.

Michael’s work had led to the death of his predecessor, Ron Willis—the mole in the CIA—and to his promotion. He and Sonia both had been nearly killed, but Michael fought back and saved not only Sonia’s life, but also millions of American lives. The nuclear missiles had been launched from the shores of Iran and aimed at the United States. There were forty-eight nuclear warheads—MIRVs—in total. With the help of then-PFC York, Michael located the group’s lair and disarmed all of the warheads except for one. The remaining warhead fell harmlessly into a Nevada desert. The only casualty had been a hermit and his dog. (Although not a single person knew of their deaths.)

Michael was a hero—albeit his actions were classified—but really, he felt like had been punished. He missed his time in special operations, and he longed for the freedom to be in the field with a weapon in his hand—where budget reports, efficiency ratings, and political inquiries by oversight committees didn’t matter.

Why did I take the promotion?
Michael thought.

He reached up to massage his sore neck and closed his eyes as if to contemplate, but really, he was just trying to find a moment where nothing invaded his mind. He tried to extract a sliver of time where not one single thought related to the monotony of his work would dominate.

It didn’t work.

He opened his eyes and grabbed the empty bottle of Chardonnay. In the garage, he opened the large, purple recycling bin and threw in the bottle. It crashed against a layer of other empty wine bottles and caused Michael to pause. Staring at the growing number of discarded wine bottles, Michael was reminded that in front of him was the telltale sign of a problem, and that problem was staring back at him.

Lately, Sonia’s complaints about his drinking had been growing in frequency and intensity. He knew that there was some merit in her concern, but he felt that he had the drinking under control. He never became drunk or inebriated to the point that he couldn’t function normally. He didn’t become violent or belligerent. His love of wine never interfered with his work or his health. He exercised regularly, more than most, and was capable of doing things that the average person was not.

But still, he drank nearly every day; somewhere within him, this bothered him. But he had never admitted it openly.

Michael closed the lid of the recycling bin and looked at his watch. It was just before one o’clock in the afternoon, and he had already polished off one bottle.

In the house, Michael almost walked past the kitchen. His intention had been to return to the room where his work waited, but, instead, he stopped and opened refrigerator. On the middle shelf were three more bottles of the same vintage Chardonnay, lying on their sides.

Oh, what the hell, it’s Saturday, and I have nothing better to do.
Michael grabbed another bottle and returned to his work.

Little did he know, his wish to be back in the field would fast be granted.

CHAPTER SEVEN

HOME OF SENATOR
MATTHEW FAUST
GEORGETOWN—
WASHINGTON, DC

S
enator Matthew Faust was enjoying the hot water of his shower as it cascaded over his shoulders and down his back. He reached up and placed one hand on the shower wall, leaning closer to the forceful stream.

It massaged his face, and he felt relaxed.

That would change.

In his bedroom, the phone rang. He hadn’t heard it at first: the loud pelts of the flowing water drowned out most sounds.

The caller was relentless. He didn’t hang up, but just let it ring.

The caller was parked out front of the senator’s Victorian Georgetown town-home. He had watched the senator arrive home thirty minutes ago. He knew that he was still there.

Senator Faust cocked his ear to the side and away from the water. He made out the faint ring of the phone.

“Shit,” he muttered, “every damn time!”

Feeling no need to grab a towel in his empty home, he ran naked to the phone and answered. “Yes!”

“Go to your front door, Senator.”

The line went dead.

Faust slowly hung up the phone; only then did he begin to feel the chill caused by the cool air on his wet body. He grabbed a towel and wrapped it around his waist.