The Ares Decision

89

They’d left the glare of the DC suburbs behind, and Larry Drake looked down into the darkness before turning his attention back to Dave Collen, who was sitting next to him in the back of the helicopter.

“Even with everything there is on the Iran-Uganda connection, it’s still plausible that we thought it was too soft to pursue,” Collen said through a headset isolated from the pilot.

“What are we going to say changed our minds and made us collect all this data?”

“This is where Brandon’s death finally benefits us. We’ll say he told us that he had unconfirmed reports of Iranian operatives meeting with President Sembutu and that he was in the process of following up when he died. We’ve been trying to look into it but losing him caused us to go temporarily blind in Kampala.”

The best lies were the ones only a few degrees off the truth, and this very much qualified.

“Do we have anything at all that points to the fact that the attack on the facility is a resistance operation?”

“Nothing.”

“Can we fabricate something?”

“Farrokh keeps his organization locked down tight and the president knows we don’t have eyes there. It would be risky.”

“Then we’ll have to rely on the fact that it’s the only plausible guerrilla force that could attack a fixed position like that in Iran. The trick is going to be playing up the danger — that the parasite exists, that the Iranians have it, and that the facility is in play. We have the possibility that the infection Castilla saw on that video is loose in Iran, we have the possibility that the Iranian government has weaponized it and is planning on using it against us, and we have the possibility that Farrokh wants to get his hands on it to strengthen his position.”

“The last one is a stretch.”

“Is it? To date, we’ve considered the resistance to be a relatively peaceful, grassroots effort, and now we see evidence of a hierarchical organization with paramilitary capability. We have enough to make Castilla question everything he thinks he knows about Farrokh. If we’re careful and don’t miss anything, we still have a good chance of getting him to authorize a unilateral attack befo—”

A loud buzz drowned him out and suddenly the cabin was filled with the dull red pulse of a warning light. Drake flipped the switch reconnecting him to the pilot’s headset just as the terrifying sound of the engine cutting in and out began.

“What the hell’s going on? What’s the problem?”

“I think it’s a blockage in the fuel line!” the pilot said as the chopper dropped sickeningly and then struggled to regain altitude. “I’ve got to put it down. Now!”

Collen slammed himself back in his seat and tightened the harness around his shoulders, chest heaving with rapid, staccato breaths.

“What the hell are you talking about? We’re over a forest!” Drake shouted into the microphone hovering in front of his mouth.

“There!” the pilot responded. “There’s a clearing to the east.”

The nose dipped and they dove for it, engine sputtering and choking, threatening to go silent at any moment.

Drake could feel the blood pounding in his temples and he slapped off his headset, fighting back the bile coming up in his throat. A long, formless shout rose above the alarm buzzer, and it was only when the skids slammed into the ground that he realized it was coming from him. The harness tightened painfully across his chest and the screech of tearing metal filled his ears.

Then everything went silent. The pilot shut down power, killing the instrument lights and letting the momentum of the blades die. Blood was flowing from the side of Drake’s head where it had hit the window, but otherwise he was unharmed. He’d made it.

The pilot didn’t speak, instead kicking open his door and jumping out into the darkness. His footfalls echoed through the clearing for a moment and then faded as he retreated into the early morning gloom.

“Hey! Where are you going?”

No answer.

He turned to Collen and grabbed his shoulder. “Dave. Are you all right?”

He was still gasping for breath but managed to nod.

“The papers,” Drake said, pointing to the sheets of highly classified material strewn around the tiny space. “Pick them up and get them back into your briefcase.”

He sat there long enough to confirm that Collen understood and then shoved his way through the damaged door. His jaw tightened when he saw that the pilot, a decorated former Coast Guard man, had completely disappeared.

Drake pulled out his cell phone and looked down at it, swearing quietly when he saw that there was no signal. Had they called in a Mayday? He couldn’t remember. The president’s people would contact Langley when he didn’t arrive, but how long would that take? He was wearing nothing but a suit jacket and it was below freezing.

“Son of a bitch!” he shouted, fear and frustration finally breaking down the calm facade it had taken a lifetime to build. He slammed the phone repeatedly into the side of the chopper, not stopping until parts of it were strewn out in the dirt around him. This was all supposed to have gone so smoothly. But then Castilla sent that damn black ops team and Gazenga decided to grow a spine. Now he was standing in the middle of nowhere with the president of the United States waiting to rake him over the coals. One mistake — one moment of confusion in the maze of lies he’d created — and it could all come crashing down on top of him.

He took a few deep, controlled breaths and watched the fog roll from his mouth in the dull light of dawn. “Dave! What the hell are you—,” he started, but then fell silent. There was something at the edge of the clearing, something with an outline distinct from the trees.

They weren’t alone.