The Roswell Conspiracy (37 page)

“Someday. If the right person came along.”

“But you didn’t with Karen.”

“That was a few years ago. A lot’s happened since then.”

Jess gave his leg a squeeze and remained unusually silent. He didn’t know what that meant, and this wasn’t the time to delve into it further. They had reached the hangar.

Tyler and Jess got out of the cart and walked to the door. He tried the handle, but it was locked. He knocked and after a few moments heard the rhythmic squeak of rubber soles on a polished concrete floor. The footsteps stopped on the other side of the door.

“Yes?”

“I need to speak to someone in charge,” Tyler said.

“What is this about? We’re very busy.”

Tyler was about to respond, then stopped himself. The voice. He’d heard it just yesterday.

Zotkin.

He and Colchev were inside. With less than thirty minutes before the launch, Tyler and Jess could go back with this definitive proof and get the entire police force to surround the hangar.

“Oh. I guess we can come back later.”

But with that response, Zotkin must have recognized Tyler’s voice, too. The door flew open.

Zotkin took aim with a pistol, but Tyler barreled forward before he could fire, knocking Zotkin backward. He kneed the Russian in the groin, then elbowed him in the side of the head. Zotkin went down before he knew what had happened.

Tyler took his weapon and gave it to Jess. He yanked Zotkin to his feet and drew his own Glock, pressing it against the man’s temple.

“Move,” Tyler said, pushing him forward, one hand clenching his collar.

They turned the corner and saw six men lying against the hangar door, all of them bound and gagged.

“Put your gun down,” came a voice from behind him.

Tyler whirled around. Colchev was hunched over an open container holding the Killswitch.

His finger lay on the red arming button.

“I’ve set this timer to zero, Dr. Locke,” Colchev said. “Put your gun down or I push this button and a hundred thousand people die.”

FIFTY-THREE

Despite Morgan’s arguments, the flight director wouldn’t call off the launch. He said that the company had everything riding on this demonstration to secure more investment funding, and without a direct court order, the flight was going forward. With no official identification, her speculation about a stolen weapon being snuck onto the spaceplane sounded like the ravings of a lunatic, even with Grant there to corroborate her story. She would have threatened him at gunpoint if she thought it would change the man’s mind, but she knew that would just divert attention to the control center, leaving the spaceplane unguarded.

They exited the trailer and resorted to their only option. Sitting on a bench near the spaceplane, they used the infrared goggles to scan the crowd. Bystanders would think they were using high-tech binoculars to watch the airplanes.

“Do you think these guys will still be tagged?” Grant said.

“The ID dust is persistent,” Morgan said. “The ones who escaped in San Diego will still have some of it on them.”

Grant sighed dramatically. “Ah, San Diego.”

“Oh, my God. You’re not going to get all mushy about what happened, are you? You were just there at the right time.”

“Mushy? Hell no. Can’t a guy reminisce about a fun afternoon?”

“Good. Because that’s all it was.”

“Fine with me.”

They scanned for a few more minutes before Grant said, “But just for the record, I wouldn’t mind having another afternoon like it.”

Morgan smiled. “Maybe we’ll find the right time again.”

“I know a great hotel in Chicago. When this is over …” Suddenly Grant went quiet and tensed up. “There’s one of them. Twenty yards away.” He was pointing at a man with a rounded face and dark hair wearing a grey T-shirt and jeans. He must have just come from behind the trailer housing the control center. She put the goggles up and saw the man covered with red crosshairs.

“How do you want to take him?” Grant said.

“I’ll approach from the front and distract him while you sneak up behind him.”

“You mean like this?” a voice behind them said. Morgan felt the barrel of a gun jammed into her back. “Move and you die.”

The man they’d been observing strode toward them, a pistol tucked underneath the event program in his hand. He cautiously pulled the pistol from her waistband, then took Grant’s.

The guy behind them leaned closer to her. “You should have picked a partner who’s less conspicuous than Mr. Westfield. I spotted him the moment you walked into that mobile control trailer.”

He removed her goggles and used them to look at his cohort.

“The intelligence was correct. They did develop ID dust. I told you that’s how they knew we were in the house in Tijuana.” He lowered the goggles and put them in the pocket of his cargo pants.

“Where’s Colchev?” Morgan said.

“Nearby. We’ll take you to see him. Get up slowly.”

She and Grant both stood. She could now see that the men had silencers on their SIG Sauers. A jacket over the arm concealed the other man’s weapon.

“Now move.” They started walking, a pistol in each of their backs.

“We know what your plan is,” Grant said.

“So?”

“So I’m just letting you know it won’t work.”

“Why’s that?”

“We convinced the flight director to abort the launch.”

The Russian smiled. “If that were true, there would have been an announcement. Now keep walking or I’ll kill you right here.”

“That would ruin your plans, wouldn’t it?” Grant said. “A couple of gunshots would bring a lot of attention out here. Might even stop the flight.”

“That’s a risk we’re willing to take. Are you?”

Grant glanced at Morgan, and she shook her head. With the constant noise, two silenced gunshots might be mistaken for a backfiring aircraft engine.

As they walked, the Russians had to stay right behind them to keep their weapons concealed. The close range was a double-edged sword. The Russians couldn’t miss if they got shots off, but it also meant that Morgan had a chance to disarm one of them. All she needed was the proper distraction.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“Does that matter?” Grant said, glaring at her. At first she thought he was genuinely angry with her, but then she saw the slightest widening of his eyes.

He was trying to give her a distraction. She played along.

“Well, I wouldn’t ask,” she said, “except that we got caught so easily because of you.”

“Oh, this is my fault now?”

“I knew I shouldn’t have brought you with me. You’ve been nothing but a pain in the ass since I met you.”

“And since I met you, you’ve been nothing but a raging bitch!”

Both Russians laughed at the comment. That was her cue.

She whirled to her right and raised her hand as if she were going to smack Grant in the face with her left hand. Grant made a show of twisting to avoid the slap. Their momentum carried them around so that they both rotated 180 degrees.

Grant struck the man behind him with a crushing blow to his shoulder. Trusting that Grant would live up to his billing as an expert in hand-to-hand combat, Morgan focused on her own guy. She grabbed the man’s pistol wrist, clasped his trigger finger, and bent it backward. The ligament snapped, causing the man to scream and drop the SIG.

The man elbowed her with the other arm, the point striking her in the ribs. She went to her knees but got back up and whipped around, grabbing the man’s hair as she slammed her shin into his thigh.

He cried out and went down. Morgan helped him, bashing his head into the pavement with a crack. The man went limp.

She looked up in time to see Grant’s opponent topple to the ground unconscious.

He stood, brushed his hands off, and walked over to Morgan. “You all right?”

She stretched her back. “I’ll be fine. Looks like you handled your guy almost as well as I handled mine.”

“His head had an unfortunate encounter with my knee.” He put his hands on her shoulders. “Sorry about the ‘raging bitch’ comment.”

She pulled him to her and kissed him hard. Damn adrenaline.

When she let him go, she said, “I have to say, you are sexy as hell when you hit people.”

“You should see some video of my wrestling days.”

“I have,” she said with a smile. “Never missed one of your bouts.”

He grinned. “Why you little … And you let me think all this time that you hated me.”

“I could tell your ego was already big enough. No sense gushing over you.”

He chuckled and picked up one of the SIGs. “We have to show these guys to your bosses. Should be the proof we need to get the flight shut down. I’ll text Tyler to let him know that Colchev is down two more men.”

While Grant sent the message, Morgan scooped up the other gun and searched the man for any additional weapons or information about their plans. She came up empty and was about to tell Grant to wait here while she got security, but she didn’t need to.

Two policemen ran up to them, guns drawn. They saw the two men laid out, and pointed their pistols at Morgan and Grant.

“Drop your weapons now!” both of them yelled.

They let go of their guns and put up their hands.

“I’m a federal officer,” Morgan said.

“Show me your ID.”

“Don’t have it on me.”

The men exchanged looks, then one said, “On the ground! Do it!”

Morgan and Grant lay face down next to each other. As they were frisked, Grant said, “Maybe this isn’t going to go as smoothly as we thought.”

FIFTY-FOUR

Seething with anger, Colchev read the text message on Tyler’s phone and knew he’d have to alter his plan. According to Grant Westfield, Nisselovich and Oborski were in custody. Colchev knew they were too well-trained to talk, but without them the crew would be two passengers short when they got to the spaceplane. The flight director would certainly know something was wrong. They’d never get off the ground.

Only eight minutes remained until they were supposed to drive to the Skyward.

Colchev considered using the original passengers, who were now locked inside the hangar’s storage room, but he needed them alive, so he couldn’t take them on the spaceplane with him. He turned and eyed Tyler and Jess. Their sizes were slightly off: Tyler was taller than Nisselovich and Jess was shorter than Oborski, but they’d do.

Colchev picked up the pressure suits and thrust them at Tyler and Jess.

“Put these on.”

“Why?” Jess said.

“You two are going to be astronauts.” Seeing that they were about to protest, Colchev said, “If we don’t make it onto the Skyward, I will have no choice but to detonate the Killswitch on the ground. The gamma radiation will kill everyone at the air show. Now do it.”

Zotkin was already in his pilot’s uniform and helmet. Because he was going to fly the carrier jet, he didn’t need a pressure suit. The crash helmet and sunglasses would be enough of a disguise for him.

The three blue and gold pressure suits, however, were fully enclosed. The Skyward was pressurized, but the suits were required in the event of a hull breach. The lightweight material wasn’t exactly form-fitting, but it wasn’t nearly as bulky as the old suits the Apollo astronauts wore. While they were on the ground, a small slit in the base of the helmet allowed them to breathe. On the spaceplane the slit would be closed and an oxygen hose from the onboard environmental system could be plugged into the suit.

Colchev was wearing his, and the absence of air-conditioning in the hangar was beginning to make the suit stifling. Tyler and Jess struggled into the suits, which consisted of both an inner insulating layer—to protect against the freezing cold of the vacuum at seventy miles—and an airtight outer skin.

“What are you going to do with those men?” Tyler said, pointing at the storage room.

“They’re going to ensure my legacy,” Colchev said with a smile. “Did you recognize any of them?”

“Call me crazy,” Jess said. “but I’m pretty sure one of them is Trent Walden.”

“The action movie director?” Tyler said.

Colchev nodded. “Correct. He was supposed to be one of the passengers on the flight. The other passenger is a Russian producer named Mikhail Arshan. They were planning to film shots of the Earth from space for an upcoming movie they’re making together. They and ExAtmo thought it would be good cross-publicity for both ventures. Who better to reveal what I’ve accomplished here today?”

“You’re letting them live?”

“Of course. Not only will the Russian government have no doubt about my patriotism, but the Russian people will hear of my glorious triumph.”

“And the American government won’t rest until they bring you back here or kill you.”

Colchev smiled. “
If
they thought I was still alive. But why would they think I could survive such a cataclysmic event? Then it will just be a matter of getting a new face once I’m back in Russia. Your country isn’t the only one with a program to give its citizens new identities.”

Static from the pilot’s walkie-talkie told Colchev a call was coming in from the flight director. He left Zotkin to watch them while he answered.

“Yes?”

“We’re ready out here. Are you suited up?”

“Acknowledged.”

“Good. The driver is on the way to get you. Out.”

Colchev returned and gave Tyler and Jess their helmets. The mirrored visors would make them unidentifiable.

“I will be by the Killswitch at all times. The helmets stay on. If you take them off or you make any gestures for help, I will press the button. You understand?”

“We understand,” Tyler said. “If you do that, you’ll kill tens of thousands of people for nothing. And if you set it off in space, it’ll be just as meaningless.”

“Wrong! It will finally tip the scales in Russia’s favor. With this single action, I will change the equation that has dominated world culture since the Cold War ended. Now America will know what it’s like to be a second-class world citizen.”

“You don’t know my country very well. We’ll bounce back like we always do.”

“You don’t understand the power of chaos. I’ve seen it myself when the Soviet Union fell. All it takes is a push to unbalance the situation. And thanks to your own military-industrial complex, we have the weapon to give that push. I’ll never tire of the irony.”