King and Maxwell

CHAPTER 59

ALAN GRANT AND DAN MARSHALL left together from the offices of Vista Trading Group.

“Thanks for making the trip downtown,” said Grant.

“No, thank you for getting me away from the Pentagon,” replied Marshall.

“Rough times continuing?” asked Grant.

“Getting rougher every hour, it seems. Have you seen the recent news?”

“Feeding off that same blogger. Iran? Afghan poppies? Really?”

“That’s what the media says. I can’t comment on it, not even to you.”

“Anything I can do to help?”

“Just take care of my daughter and the grandkids.”

“Maybe this will blow over, Dan.”

“Yeah, and maybe the sun won’t come up tomorrow either.”

They had a meal at a nearby restaurant and talked of things other than the disaster confronting Marshall. They said their goodbyes on the street.

“There’s going to be some diplomatic blowback from Iran on this,” observed Grant.

“No doubt. This will give Tehran an excellent opportunity to stick out its chest and start screaming at us. It’ll also give fodder to the whack jobs wanting to do us harm. Well, back into the fire pit I go.”

“Take care, Dan. Let’s talk soon.”

They shook hands, and Marshall walked off.

Grant watched him go for a bit and then headed to his car in the underground garage and drove off. The drive took longer because of construction shutting down lanes on Interstate 66. He finally got off at his exit and drove for a while longer. He had exchanged the hustle and bustle of the capital city for the bucolic peace and quiet of the rural countryside in less than 150 minutes.

He cleared the guard checkpoint and continued driving up the hill. He pulled his car to a stop in front of the old radio station and got out. He looked up admiringly at the transmission tower. It was now bedecked with satellite dishes hanging off it at precise angles. There was a hum of power emanating from there.

He walked the perimeter of the station and noted that the exterior construction was all done. He went inside and gazed around at all the activity. Portable generators droned away. Power tools popped and clacked. Walls were going up. The interior vault was nearing completion. Men were moving rapidly in a choreographed construction dance with the thoughts of their bonuses for early completion firmly in their minds.

Grant looked over the plans with his construction foreman and then walked the interior with the foreman, making sure that everything in the plans was actually being carried out in the execution phase. He made some modifications as they surveyed the construction and then walked back outside.

He stared at the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains in the distance. Directly east was Washington. He could see none of it from here, of course. Although he did watch as a commercial jetliner made its way toward Dulles Airport. He drew in a long breath and then exhaled.

Shortly they would be online and in the game. His hackers would be in their seats clicking away on their keyboards. They would be forcing themselves into where they needed to go like explorers used to do with their machetes when working through dense jungles or forests.

He had handpicked these people. He had their undivided loyalty because of money he had paid them for their services. They didn’t care about geopolitics and had no horse in any international game of chicken. Grant did have horses in that game, but he was not a traitor to his country. After this was all over, America would pick itself back up and keep moving forward, of that he was certain.

I’m simply righting a wrong.

He put his hand in his coat pocket and pulled out his precious document, the one he had received from Milo Pratt. This document had cost Pratt his life. But without it Grant’s plan would not have a chance. There were many things that could go wrong, but at least this one piece probably would not.

He could not say the same for other elements. Sam Wingo was still out there somewhere. As were Sean King and Michelle Maxwell.

Yet Grant had some ideas on how to take care of that.

He glanced down at the paper. But he couldn’t take his eye off the endgame, the real prize. He just had to nail it and then he would wrap up this operation, leaving no trail behind. And he would continue on with his life. At least that was the plan.

He looked to the sky and angled his face in the right direction. His rented satellite was up there in its nice, safe orbit. The fragments his people had found on there were enough to get him where he needed to go.

He looked at a different spot in the sky. Another platform was circling the earth at that spot. So much crap up there. Debris and working platforms. The Space Station. Soon, even the paying public – well, at least the rich paying public – would get their own ride into space.

But for him it was just the two platforms, circling the earth in precise patterns. They had nothing to do with each other. At least not yet. But soon, they would be inextricably intertwined, at least in his own mind. As for the rest of the world, they would never know of the “twining” of the two hunks of metal. All signs would be eradicated because of a particularly ingenious execution method he had conjured that would literally bounce any evidence all over the digital space and then explode it into a trillion pieces.

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall…

He dropped his gaze back to the ground.

If only the problems down here could be so easily dealt with.

He checked his watch as he turned to look back at all the construction activity. He glanced at his phone as the message came in. The task was complete. What Grant had ordered done had been done.

That meant he had somewhere to go.

He had someone to see. If the person refused his request, that meant he had someone to kill.

Someone else to kill.