The Rig 2: Storm Warning (9 page)

To be continued in:

The Rig: Eye of the Hurricane

(read on for a sample)

Prologue

Wes knew the man was not paying any attention to him. He saw him looking at Sheila's bare legs and the bits that showed from beneath her thong. He slowly put his hand into his trouser pocket and drew out his phone. He knew he could not call anyone, but he could do something else. Without looking, he keyed in the code to unlock the touch screen. He scrolled through the menu and selected the audio recorder. He glanced down and adjusted the volume, then pressed record.

“What did you do?” he asked Smith.

Smith laughed again.

“We set this whole fucking thing up.” He gestured around. “This whole damned rig is a failure, so someone offered it up to us to use as a setting for our six-week cycle event. ‘Cause he was right. We do need people to remain scared. We need people to remain scared so the politicians will keep funding us, instead of sending their money to those idiots at the NSA or the CIA. Or maybe spend it on buying more crap from some manufacturer in Virginia.”

“So you, the FBI, is responsible for all of this?” Wes asked, with his voice calm.

“Yup, not that it's anything to you. You will be going down with this damned place when it finally goes up in flames.”

***

Garcia could not hear what was going on in the docks, but he had a fair idea. He saw the shot and he cursed. He had known this would happen when he saw Smith appear from the office, completely revitalized. He knew Smith would become too reckless, but he never expected to see the scene he just watched on the monitor.

He saw Smith pull the trigger and he saw Akhmed fall. The boy must be dead. He regretted it. Akhmed had been a nice guy, but things were what they were. There was nothing to do about it; nothing could have been done about it the moment he allowed Smith to choose Akhmed Hussain Abbasi as a target. As a means to accomplish the ends they had in mind.

It was sad, really. But it had to be done. They needed a patsy and Akhmed had been the best choice Smith was able to come up with. He had not found a better one himself, so the plan was made and executed. It was the way it was: no time for regrets.

Garcia knew what would be next, or what should be next. The next thing Smith should do was shoot those people who had just witnessed the murder. But to his growing astonishment, Smith just stood there, talking to them. It almost seemed like he was watching Smith speak one of Shakespeare's soliloquies. He could not believe his eyes. He buried his head in his hands for a moment, sinking onto the desk.

When he looked up, Smith was still talking. He cursed him. But then something caught his eye. A minute detail he saw. He saw the man pull out his phone and move through the menu. He did not have to see what exactly the man did, he knew it just from watching. He was recording everything Smith was saying, and Smith did not realize it. He closed his eyes and sighed. Then he pulled out his own gun and checked the magazine. There were enough bullets there. He sighed again and got up. If Smith was not going to do the job properly, he would have to do it for him.

***

Dave stood on the bottom step of the stairs. He heard everything Smith said and barely believed his ears. Though when he thought about it for a second, he had no problems believing it. He was a former soldier and he knew a thing or two about what went on in the higher echelons of society and government. But all in all, it had him nailed to the spot.

He felt frozen, unable to move an inch. And Smith kept talking; he kept saying things he probably should have never said. Perhaps he told them because he already knew what he was going to do, or what he was supposed to do. And he knew that he would have to do something when Smith finally did what he was supposed to do.

***

Smith suddenly realized he should not have said anything to these two. And as he realized that, he acknowledged what he had to do to fix his mistake as well. Then he noticed the phone that Wes had half pulled from his pocket. He raised the gun at him.

“Give me that phone!” he shouted.

Wes shook his head and then the gun was pointed at his head. Sheila shrieked. Her reaction was not just out of concern for Wes, but also from the sudden realization that she would be next.

The gun shook in his hand. He was angry, not just at this man, but at himself. Wes shook his head, enraging him even more. It was too much to bear. The whole day had been rotten and now these bastards were messing with him, too. They would not get out of here anyway, but he could not take any chances.

Smith's finger slowly curled around the trigger. He drew it back, micrometer by micrometer.

“Goodbye...” he muttered and then pulled the trigger back fully, in a sudden move of his finger.

***

Commander Lovell was still shell-shocked by what the FEMA officer said. He’d heard some heartless things, but this took the biscuit. FEMA did not need survivors. He could not believe it. And slowly, his mind began to foment a plan.

If he got the order not to help anyone, he would dispose of the man. He could do nothing else. Lovell was not a killer; that’s why he had joined the United States Coast Guard and not the Navy, but he would do what was needed.

But, first things first. He excused himself from the bridge and went to the head. His smart phone had a single bar on it; he hoped it would be enough to make the call he wanted to make. He searched for his niece's number and called.

Elly picked up the phone and was surprised to hear her Uncle Dan's voice.

“Hi Uncle Dan!” she said perkily. “I'm a bit busy, but I'm glad to hear from you! Haven't spoken to you in like forever!”

“Elly,” Dan Lovell said seriously. “Listen carefully; I will say this only once. Don't have long and I need to get back to the bridge. There's something going on with this damned rig, ‘The City’. I have a guy from FEMA on board. They won't be mounting a rescue and he just said they only wanted two FBI agents on that thing to escape, nobody else. I don't think this was a terrorist attack.”

***

William Portis sat back as he watched the CBS News from San Diego. It was surreal in a way, but quite real in many other ways. He could see ‘The City’ in the background of the shot. He liked the reporter; nice multicultural girl and pretty, very pretty. But no matter how much he liked the looks of this girl, he mostly noticed what he saw in the background. ‘The City’ was on fire. It was a satisfying thing to see after so many troubles. Finally, it served a purpose. A purpose he had never intended for it, but a purpose nonetheless.

His wife came into his study just as he saw the footage of the terrorist’s shocked girlfriend. She scolded him for still being dressed in his golf clothes when they had a function to attend. The president himself would be speaking at the charity event they were invited to. He brushed her off with some comment on how he was distracted by the terrible events taking place on something he had built. She did not buy it and growled at him to get a move on. He reluctantly got up from his seat in the study.

He got into the limousine with his wife without saying a word. There was not much to say between them at the best of times, so this time there was particularly little to say. He knew she would ask him about what was happening at ‘The City’, but he simply did not want to answer those sorts of questions. It was a reality of their marriage they had both grown used to over the past decade or so. Normally, it didn’t seem like she minded, but somehow, it seemed to Portis, his wife minded today. The silence in the limousine felt awkward, more awkward than at any other time before.

Their marriage had always been a good one, even though it had been arranged. Not arranged in the way that some ethnic groups still clinging to old traditions would arrange their marriages, but arranged regardless. His father had decided upon the match when Portis had dropped out of college and even when he had made his fortune in the tech boom, he had not dared to disobey those wishes. His marriage was a happy one, no doubt, but it was not his choice. He was happy with her allowing him his mistresses as well, so all in all, it was a good match.

The limousine dropped them off right in front of the venue the president had booked. They were just behind another limousine. The man who got out of it was the former president that he had played golf with earlier in the day. His wife, a senator, was with him. Portis strolled into the house, his wife on his arm, following the ex-president and his wife at a respectable distance.

The room was set up for dinner. A heap of round tables had been placed around the main reception room of the building and Portis marched his wife straight to the table they were assigned to sit at. He did not want to waste time. The president would be speaking soon and he did not want to appear disrespectful in the face of the most powerful man on earth. Especially not when this man held the key to most of the plans he had with his foundation. Maybe Congress did not want to agree with all his plans, but as long as he kept the President on his side, he could get a lot done. The President could achieve a lot by means of an Executive Order, unless Congress specifically countermanded those. They were of the same value as any bill passed by the Assembly.

Then the glasses of champagne came in by the tray full and he could not help himself. Portis found himself grabbing glass after glass and quickly getting drunk. His wife tried to stop him from inebriating himself, but he could not help it. The stress of the day seemed to be catching up with him and he felt he needed that haze.

The president showed up and walked straight to the podium that had been prepared for him. The speech started off badly. There was a joke at Portis' expense and then another concerning the president's daughters, some local celebrities and predator drones. At that, Portis downed another glass of champagne. It was a terrible joke, given the criticism the president faced over his use of drones.

He looked at his wife and found her looking blankly at the president as he gave his speech. Across the table from him was the Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Drunk as he was, he realized he needed to talk to the man.

“You heard about what happened at my ‘City’ then?” he asked the man.

He realized instantly his voice was slurred. That is never a good thing when you are at a function with the president.

“Yes,” the man answered. “I heard. Nasty business that. We do have to keep a look out for these nut-job terrorists.”

“Yes,” Portis answered. “Yes, we really do have to keep a look out for them.” He noticed the grin from the Director. “It's terrible.”

The director nodded. “Yes, it is. Got a situation report on ‘The City’?”

“Still on fire, but it's probably going to be gone soon.”

“Good.” The Director smirked. “You were going to have your guys go over our new system as well, right?”

“Yeah, I'm going to send Ben over to address your system problems.”

“Excellent.”

The conversation with the Director was dull. He never liked the man and they hardly ever had a thing to talk about. So he was happy to see Senator Jacobs show up at the table. He rose to his feet and noticed his balance was not great. He had had more champagne than he thought he’d had.

“How are you, Senator Jacobs?”

He offered his hand.

The Senator took his hand. His handshake was weak. Portis thought that was one bad thing about the man. Jacobs was weak. He was also an incorrigible letch, but he was a lot more fun to talk to than the dull crowd of bureaucrats.

“Good to see you Portis,” the Senator began. “You know my favorite scientist was on your damned rig?”

“Was she?” Portis asked him. “Which one is that?”

“The blonde meteorologist with the hot tits, sexy ass and great legs.”

Portis blinked. That was crude, even for the Senator.

“Who is that again?”

“Sheila Briggs. The tornado chick.”

The Senator sat down and Portis noticed he touched his crotch under the table.

“She is hot,” Portis sat down again. His wife coughed. “Not as hot as you, honey,” he said on auto pilot. “How did she get on board?”

“By helicopter,” the Senator answered.

Portis smiled. “I mean, why is she there?”

“They expected a big storm system of sorts. They needed her to help analyze it.”

Portis frowned, trying to work out what the hell Jacobs was talking about.

“Listen Portis. I'll be needing your help. Why I sent her over in the first place.”

“What do you need me for?”

“Elections are coming up next year and I need another five million dollars for my campaign. Is there anything I can help you with?”

Portis sighed and looked around the room. He saw his golf partner speaking to the president. It was a heated discussion there. He laid his hand on his wife's knee and slowly moved it up her thigh. She slapped his hand away. He sighed again. What was it the French said again? Wives are for making families, mistresses are for making love? He would have to do something about that.