Dead Water

31

Starr was about half a mile behind Rijah Ellhad's rented RV. They were traveling toward Lake Mead at a leisurely pace. Starr's earpiece crackled.

"I've got our cargo, and we are headed your way," Christman informed him.

"Roger that. We're on I-84 eastbound and probably headed to State Route 93. That goes straight into Vegas and Lake Mead. We're only going about sixty-five, and traffic is pretty heavy."

Styles broke in, "You're tracking device working okay?"

"Affirmative."

"Good. We're going to find some place to rendezvous so Phillips can join you. It'll be easier to work her computers from your rig than this copter."

"Copy. Let me know where you want me to pull off."

"We'll get ahead of you and scout out some truck stop where we can land, and get back with you."

"Roger that. You guys get what you need?"

"We think so. Confirmed some suspicions and got more intel. Phillips will bring you up to speed. We should close on you within the hour."

"Let me know."

Starr had unwittingly crept closer to the rig he was following and had just begun to drop back when he saw the turn signal activate. Ellhad was leaving the interstate and pulling into a large fuel stop with several retail stores within. Ellhad bypassed the fuel pumps and headed straight to a large Hess retail store. He parked in the specified parking for large vehicles, and with the woman accompanying him, he walked inside.

Starr pulled over in front of a Wendy's. Pit stop. Might as well go too. He hit the can quickly, washed his hands, and then grabbed two burgers and a large water to go. He'd eaten all but one of his breakfast sandwiches out of boredom. He was back in his Yukon and had finished one sandwich when he saw Ellhad and the woman reappear. They were immediately under way again.

"Hell, I never realized how damned boring following somebody could be," Starr muttered to himself. "This is getting on my nerves."

"Stop your whining," Styles said over the headset, laughing.

"Screw you," Starr snapped back, forgetting that everyone could hear what he'd just said.

"Maybe we could all sing songs," Christman suggested, bringing more laughter.

"One more crack and I shut off the headset."

"Don't be so touchy," joined Phillips.

"I'm not touchy, I'm bored. We're driving sixty, maybe sixty-five, and it's taking forever to get anywhere."

"Enjoy it while you can," directed Styles. "The shit'll hit the fan soon enough."

"Guess you're right."

Christman interrupted, "I gotta call in the flight plan change."

While Christman was talking to flight control, Styles turned in his seat and asked Phillips, "You find anything?"

"Yeah. One of the guys on the CIA team is wearing a helmet cam and providing a live feed back to Langley, probably Backersley."

"Did they get us on camera?" Styles questioned with concern.

"No, I don't think so. I'm following four different programs at once here, but it appears that when we were engaged outside, the cameraman was in the house. Backersley found out about six minutes after we hit them. From the conversation I've heard, they don't have any clue who we are."

Christman broke in. "We're all cleared for Lake Mead. We've got the copter for as long as we need it."

Phillips interjected, "Backersley just found out about his guys we took out. He is not happy."

Bernard Backersley slammed the top of his desk. "What the hell happened?" He saw two of his agents on the ground. One was screaming with pain, while the other was unconscious.

"Don't know, sir," the agent in the field reported. "We've got one man shot through the knee, from the rear, and Team Leader Randall is out cold. No wounds visible, other than he looks like he got the living hell beat out of him."

"Hell beat out of him? Randall is a fucking animal! Who could do that?" screamed Backersley.

"Don't know, sir. We heard one shot and came out of the house. This is what we found. We are already in pursuit through the woods. One of our agents got a glimpse of someone running away. No contact as of yet."

"Keep me updated constantly." Backersley shut off the monitor. Turning to Myra Banks, he fumed, "Find out who the fuck was in ahead of us. I want answers now!"

After pulling ahead and scouting the interstate ahead, Christman, via the comm set, said to Starr, "Hey, about ten miles ahead of you, there is an off-ramp. Get off and take a right. About a mile ahead, there is a tree line with a large field next to the road. We can land there without drawing too much attention. Phillips and Styles are going to join you while I return and get the jet. Then I'll figure out how join you when I get back."

"Roger that, J. C."

"We'll be on the ground in ten minutes."

Fourteen minutes later, Starr came wheeling in, finding Styles and Phillips standing out by the road. Four large duffel bags were with them. Styles turned and signaled Christman, who immediately took off. Starr pulled up next to them, immediately opened the trunk, and jumped out and helped load the duffel bags. Then Styles jumped into the front passenger seat, with Phillips in the back. Before Styles got his door closed and seat belt latched, Phillips had three laptops open with fingers flying.

Starr spun the sedan around and sped back toward the interstate.

"I'm glad you got a big sedan; I was worried the gear wouldn't fit. How far ahead of us is he?" Styles asked. Calculating in his mind, Starr answered, "Maybe four miles, five at the most."

"Don't get pulled over for speeding. I don't want to explain the duffel bags."

"Under control, Marv."

Turning back to Phillips, Styles asked, "You onto anything?"

"Nothing threatening. Langley is trying to find out from the FAA who took off from the woods we just left. They don't appear to be able to identify the aircraft; J. C. was doing some of his transponder magic. Must've worked, whatever it was."

"Can they track J. C. by radar?"

"Not sure."

Styles radioed Christman. "Can they track the copter by radar?"

"Usually, yes, but not this time. I'll land at a couple of small airports, change the transponder ID number, and take off. They won't be able to tell who's who."

"What about the towers?" Styles quizzed.

"No problem. I'm landing at uncontrolled airports. I'll take off in the manner to mimic a small airplane. No way to track us."

"Good thinking, J. C."

Looking at Starr, he noticed he held a steady seventy miles per hour. "How fast did you say Ellhad was going?"

"'Bout sixty-five."

Styles thought quickly. "So it's going to take us an hour to catch up?"

"Yeah. I can go faster if you want."

"I'd like to, but I don't want to chance getting pulled over. Long as you're comfortable that we're not going to lose him, you handle it."

Starr looked over at Styles and grinned. "I'm comfy."

A chuckle could be heard from the backseat.

Bernard Backersley was sitting in the Roosevelt Room, straining to maintain his poker face, with the other major directors waiting on President Herbert Lamar. When he entered, all stood, received a nod, and sat when motioned to do so. The president looked visibly tired.

"Short and sweet, gentlemen! Where do we stand? Info on President Williams first."

Everyone looked around, and NSA Director Elliott Ragar stood. "We've ID'd the body pulled from Curtis Bay, at least I think that's what it's called. We're running every available search on him to see who he's connected with. We have some leads, but nothing that can be confirmed yet. Hopefully, within the next couple of hours. We've had satellite video and photos downloaded on all boat traffic within a forty-mile radius, double the distance we figure those scooters could have achieved. There are half a dozen that are now under constant surveillance."

"Exactly what does that mean?"

"Should someone step out onto the deck and into view of our cameras, we can get a clear enough picture to easily run them through facial recognition. Every face on those yachts is being run. If anybody on any of those vessels is in the system, we'll find them."

President Lamar nodded his approval. "Where are we on this bioagent?"

Matt Sanderson of the FBI stood. "First, I'd like to thank Elliott for all his help on this. We've tracked it to Seattle. A team is converging on the suspected site as we speak. I expect to hear from them in a half hour or less."

CIA Director Bernard Backersley struggled to remain calm. He knew what Sanderson's team was going to find. He was also fully aware of what the FBI would not find — any trace of the CIA's little visit. He almost jumped in his chair when President Lamar addressed him.

"Backersley, have you been able to establish anything on an overseas connection?"

"To which issue do you refer, sir?"

"To any of the issues at hand," the president snapped.

"We are following several paths, sir, but like Matt, nothing that can be confirmed at this time. I will notify you the minute any confirmation occurs."

"See that you do," the president replied icily. "Anyone else?"

No one spoke.

"This is unacceptable. I want answers, confirmed answers. Now go do your damned jobs." He stormed out of the room.

John Clayton, chairman of the Joint Chiefs, muttered, "Took us over ten years to find Bin Laden. You'd think he'd know this isn't particularly easy."