Siege of Lightning

CHAPTER NINE COVER-UP

Neal Hunter walked outside Mission Control to have a short meeting with the press. He had been thoroughly briefed by the NASA administrator at the Cape on what to say and definitely what not to say. Lightning was the benchmark of the new NASA, the latest orbiter packed with the latest technology. The last thing the space agency needed at that point in time was bad publicity.

He pushed open the double doors and faced a mob of reporters and their camera crews. Selected members of the press had been present inside the guest room behind Mission Control, separated by a soundproof glass panel. They had been able to see the lift-off and hear the voice of the NASA public affair’s commentator at the Cape, but luckily for NASA, communications between the orbiter and Mission Control had not been live after the first few critical minutes. The members of the press may have noticed the commotion inside Mission Control, but had not been able to hear a thing besides the NASA commentator’s recap of the successful launch.

Hunter pulled out a white sheet of paper. “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. Lightning has successfully achieved a low orbit. Two OMS burns are pending to get it to its target orbit. Mission Commander Michael Kessler and Mission Pilot Clayton Jones report that all systems are nominal. They will commence their test schedule in five hours after achieving a stable orbit and after a three-hour rest period. That is all for now. We will issue press releases in one hour and hold a formal press conference in two hours. Thank you, ladies and gentlemen.” Hunter turned around and headed back to the control room.

“Then what was all the commotion inside the control room a half hour ago, Mr. Hunter? Is Lightning in any danger?”

Hunter stopped and slowly turned around. He narrowed his eyes and scanned the crowd in front of him for a few seconds before answering. “Lightning is fine! Everyone is always very tense during lift-offs, and for reasons that should be obvious to you all, we were particularly tense about this flight because of what it stands for. As I said earlier, a full press conference will take place in two hours, after Lightning reaches final orbit. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do. Thank you.”

The mob of reporters blasted a fusillade of questions that Hunter politely dodged as he walked back into Mission Control.

Kessler strapped himself into his flight seat and watched Jones do the same. He felt much more comfortable now that they had removed their bulky rust-brown-colored emergency ejection suits — a requirement during lift-offs and landings — and had put on their blue intra-vehicular assembly clothing — flight overalls with lots of pockets and Velcro for attaching small items.

Kessler reached for the ballpoint pen tucked in a pocket on the side of his left arm. The pen was not ordinary. Because of the lack of gravity, the pen had been pressurized to force the ink to the ball. He grabbed the notepad floating over the control panel. A string kept it secured to the panel to prevent it from wandering around inside the flight deck. He made an entry of the current time and brief flight status.

“Houston, you there?”

“Roger, Lightning. We copy you loud and clear,” Kessler heard Hunter respond through the speakers.

“OMS burn in two minutes, mark.”

“Roger.”

“Any more news on the problem on number-one SSME?”

“Ah, negative, Lightning, but it shouldn’t matter. The moment you shut the SSME off, the fuel lines to the engine got cut off. The only concern over here is for the possible damage to the orbiter.”

“Same over here, Houston, but we won’t know until we go outside. By the way, we made a visual check from the aft windows. The payload bay appears normal.”

“Good. We were just about to ask you that. How are you guys doing otherwise?”

“No problems. Just a little tired, I guess. One minute mark.”

“Well, as soon as you reach your new orbit you’ll have a reduced rest period before EVA. Sorry, guys, we’re cutting your first break to three hours instead of eight. We all need to put our minds at ease about your situation, but without a visual we won’t know for sure.”

“No offense, Houston, but Jones and I prefer to start EVA as soon as we reach the new orbit. Thirty seconds to ignition.”

“Continue with countdown, Lightning. We’ll discuss this issue after the burn.”

“Roger. Twenty seconds. OMS firing sequence started. Fifteen seconds.”

Kessler couldn’t explain it, but he felt relaxed. He had things under control. “Five seconds… four… three… two… one… ignition!”

Kessler felt the light kick of the two six-thousand-pound-thrust Orbital Maneuvering System engines. Lightning began to accelerate under its own power to change its current egg-shaped orbit to a circular orbit of 160 miles.

“Thirty seconds. Systems nominal,” Kessler said. “One minute. Fuel and oxidizer pressure nominal. Helium pressure at… Houston, we have another problem.” The General Purpose Computers automatically stopped the OMS engines when helium pressure dropped below 460 PSI on the left OMS. He looked at Jones.

“Shit. OMS warning lights are red for both engines,” said Jones.

Kessler checked control panel F7 and confirmed Jones’s observation. The OMS engine Fault Detection and Identification system told him that in addition to losing helium pressure on one OMS engine, both OMS engines had failed the chamber and velocity tests. He eyed the helium pressure on the right OMS engine. It showed a nominal two thousand PSI. He reached for panel C2 and disarmed both engines.

“Lightning, Houston. OMS burn stopped thirty seconds early. New orbit one-four-five miles.”

“Houston,” Kessler began. “Helium pressure continues to drop on the left OMS… four hundred PSI… three hundred. What’s going on? I’ve already turned off both engines.”

“Stand by, Lightning. We’re checking.”

Kessler simply sighed, not believing all of what was actually happening to him. He took off his voice-activated headset. Jones did the same.

“What do you think, CJ?”

“I’m not sure, but I’m beginning to get a little worried about this bird. If this had happened during re-entry we’d be in a shitload of trouble.”

Kessler frowned. Jones was right on the money with that. If the OMS engines failed during re-entry burn, there was no telling where Lightning would actually reach Earth. Most likely too far away from the nearest qualified landing strip, and that’s assuming they somehow managed to make it through re-entry without burning up while entering the atmosphere at the wrong angle and speed.

“But heck,” Jones continued. “I guess we won’t have to worry about that since the fucking engines won’t even start anymore.”

Kessler slowly shook his head and exhaled. “Damn!” He put the headset back on. Jones did the same. “What’s going on, Houston?”

“Lightning, diagnostics is coming up with a major leak in the feed line from the left helium tank to the left OMS engine. We also just noticed that the propellant level on the left OMS tank is dropping.”

“I hope to God it’s leaking to space and not internally,” Kessler remarked as he read a propellant pressure of 120 PSI instead of the normal 250 PSI seconds before. Panel F7 now had a few more warning lights on.

“Shit!” Jones yanked off his headset, unstrapped, and propelled himself toward the aft windows. He turned on the lights inside the cargo bay.

“What was that, Lightning?”

“Jones’s checking to make sure there are no leaks inside the cargo bay. I share his concern about remaining in one piece, Houston.” Kessler shook his head at the thought of volatile hydrazine propellant floating inside the orbiter. Unlike helium, hydrazine would ignite the moment it came in contact with any gas containing oxygen.

“We feel like it’s leaking into space, Lightning.”

“Hey, Mike,” Jones screamed from the back. “Tell them I can’t see any leaks back there. All appears normal.”

“Houston, Jones can’t see a leak internally. It must be leaking outside. Left OMS hydrazine pressure below fifty PSI and dropping. Helium pressure’s down in the mud, too. Any ideas?”

“Confirm nominal reading on right OMS tanks.”

Kessler eyed the levels. “Right OMS shows helium at two thousand PSI. Hydrazine also nominal at two-six-five PSI.”

“We’re running diagnostics, Lightning, but based on the warning lights, it looks like a major OMS malfunction. Both engines show as failures.”

Kessler knew very well what that meant. The OMS engines were not only the primary means Lightning used to change orbits but also to decelerate for atmospheric re-entry. “Any chance of using the four aft PCS primary jets for deorbit burn?” he asked, referring to the Reaction Control System jets usually used only for attitude maneuvers.

“We’ll run some simulations, Lightning. In the meantime get some rest. Start EVAs in four hours.”

“Lightning requests permission to commence EVA right away. We’re pilots, sir. We must know the condition of our bird immediately.”

“Stand by, Lightning.”

Kessler waited.

A minute later, Hunter’s voice crackled through his headphones. “Negative, Lightning. Get your rest first. We’re having enough bad luck as it is. You don’t want to add fuel to the fire by working exhausted. No go get a meal and some sleep. I’ll wake you guys up exactly four hours from now. That’s an order.”

“Roger, Houston. We copy.” Kessler removed his headset and unstrapped his harness.

“Right,” Jones mumbled after also removing his headset. “Like anyone’s going to get any fucking sleep up here.”

Kessler sighed and followed Jones down to the crew compartment.

Tom Pruett walked down the short aisle between the two rows of cubicles in George’s work area. He saw no one there. He checked his watch. Lunchtime.

He raised his eyebrows and stared at the piece of paper in his hands — the short but intriguing message George had left him earlier today, when Pruett was in a meeting. George claimed to have found conflicting information regarding a shooting in Paris involving Cameron Stone. That alone had been reason enough for Pruett to drop everything and head down to his nephew’s office.

He spotted George’s nameplate on the last cubicle to the left, next to a note saying that he would be back at two o’clock. Pruett walked inside the small cubicle and noticed that the system was off, contrary to what the sign taped to the side of the twenty-inch monitor said. His nephew had prohibited anyone from turning off the system, but there it was. Not only off, but Pruett noticed something else. The hard disk was missing. And not only that, but a closer inspection of the system showed that someone had actually torn the disk out of the workstation. He clenched his jaw as he felt his stomach begin to burn. What in the hell is going on here?

He walked up and down the aisle, checking each cubicle. All of the other workstations appeared to be fine. He gave the room one final glance, stepped into the corridor, and walked straight for the security post on that side of the hall.

George, where are you?

At the opposite end of the hall, Higgins peeked around the corner and watched his superior approach the security post. He slowly exhaled through his nostrils. Another close call.

He checked his watch. He had an appointment to keep.

Harold Murphy, Master Sergeant, U.S. Army, Retired, pushed his brand-new lawnmower out of the garage. This was to be the final mowing of the season and Murphy could not be any happier. He detested mowing the lawn, particularly because he lived across from the Pruetts, whose son, George, used a landscaping service to keep his mother’s home looking like one out of House & Garden. That forced Murphy to at least keep his yard in halfway decent shape so he didn’t look like the bum of the neighborhood.

In reality Murphy liked the young Pruett, a good kid who had managed to stay off drugs and had gotten through school while working two jobs after his father had passed away and his mother had become unable to work. From what George’s mother had told him a few days before, George Pruett was doing a magnificent job at the CIA. Good for him, thought Murphy.

A year earlier, George had bought an old Porsche 356 convertible. Murphy, who owned a ten-year-old Porsche 911, had helped George get his new car in proper shape. That was one of the things Murphy missed about never having been married, not having kids of his own. That’s why he always looked for ways to help kids in the neighborhood with their bicycles, motorcycles, or cars. An expert mechanic while in the Army, he now kept a garage loaded with tools and a hydraulic lift. A day never went by without a kid stopping by to fix a flat, grease a bicycle chain, or change the engine oil. Over the years his garage had become the central point for repairs of all sorts of kids’ vehicles in the neighborhood. He’d earned the title of “Mr. Fixit.” Murphy was proud of that.

He eyed George’s 356 convertible parked in front of the house and checked his watch. Lunchtime. Murphy smiled. That was another reason he liked George. The kid had always taken good care of his mother after that unfortunate car accident that put her in a wheelchair for life.

The front door opened and George walked outside and waved at Murphy, who quickly returned the greeting and continued to push the lawn mower along beside the house. As he did so, he noticed a car accelerating down the street. He stopped the lawn mower, and was about to yell at the driver to slow down when he noticed the windows quickly being rolled down and made out what appeared to be a rifle.

Murphy, a fifty-five-year-old veteran, surprised himself with his blazing-fast reactions. His years with the Army had forced him to stay in shape.

“Run for cover, George! Quick!” Murphy screamed at the top of his lungs, as the sedan, a gray Mercedes, came to a screeching halt behind George’s car. Without waiting for a response, Murphy raced for his garage, where he kept a gun cabinet. He pulled on the handle, but it didn’t turn. Locked. He always kept it locked. Kids played in his garage. It was the safe thing to do.

Gunfire!

He heard shots and glanced over his shoulder. George was running up the side of his house. Murphy drove his fist through the thin glass door of the cabinet. He pulled out a Colt 1911 semiautomatic, his favorite .45-caliber pistol. He snatched two magazines, snapped one in place, cycled the slide to chamber a round, and ran back to his driveway.

There were four men. Two had remained with the car and faced the Pruetts’ house. The other two he could only assume had gone after George. Murphy did not take any chances. The Army had taught him that when outnumbered by the enemy, it was wise to fire first and then ask questions. He reached a line of knee-high bushes that ran along the side of his driveway and hid behind them.

He crawled toward the street until he reached the curb. The two men by the car were less than forty feet away. One leaned against the hood, the other against the trunk. Murphy leveled his weapon at the man by the hood and lined him up between the rear and forward sights of the stainless-steel weapon.

“Leave me alone! Get your hands off me, you bastards!”

Murphy shifted his gaze to his left. Two men were dragging George Pruett down the lawn and toward the parked car. Murphy exhaled in relief. He’s still alive.

Murphy made his decision and lined up on the man to the right of George. He fired once. The man flew backward, propelled by the impact of a hollow-point round traveling at nearly two thousand feet per second. Before the second man escorting George had a chance to react, Murphy fired once, twice, aiming at the man’s chest. Another hit. The man arched his back and landed next to the first gunner. George froze, obviously not knowing what to do.

“Get back in the house. George! Call the cops! Hurry!” Murphy screamed, but before George could take a single step. Murphy heard two shots, quickly followed by George falling on the lawn.

“Aghh… my legs…” Murphy heard George cry as the young man rolled over on the grass.

You bastards… you damn bastards!

Murphy watched both remaining men level their weapons at him, and went into a roll, trying to reach the safety of his garage. Gunfire broke all around him. Bullets ricocheted off the concrete driveway.

He felt a burning pain from his leg and knew exactly what had caused it, but he kept rolling, rolling as hard as he could. His elbows and back stung from the roll. Another hit, this time on his left shoulder. The impact lifted him off the ground and nearly flipped him in midair. He crashed against a metal tool chest.

Stunned but conscious, Murphy looked in his right hand, surprised that he still clutched the Colt. He had fired three rounds. Twelve left. He would not go down with a nearly full magazine. He briefly eyed the shoulder wound. Blood gushed out from it. He knew from past war experience the he had maybe a minute or two before he would pass out from blood loss.

The gunfire stopped. The gunmen were out of sight behind the line of bushes, but he knew the general location of the Mercedes. George was wounded but still alive. If I can only keep them away from George…

Murphy aimed at a spot in the bushes where he estimated the Mercedes would be and started firing. His index finger squeezed the trigger, one shot after the other. He developed a rhythm he had not felt in years. He anticipated the Colt’s recoil and kept it trained for shot after shot until it was empty.

Silence.

Murphy set the gun down, and tried to withdraw the second magazine from his pocket but couldn’t. His arms wouldn’t respond. He had overestimated his strength and quickly became dizzy, light-headed. His vision blurred, but he could still see as a translucent figure approached George.

“You? You fucking traitor!” George screamed.

With unbending determination, Murphy inhaled deeply and forced his hand to move, to reach into his pocket. His fingers trembled around the magazine, and he persisted until he got a strong enough grip to pull it out. He set it next to the Colt. He didn’t have much time left. The gunman was now next to George with the weapon leveled at the young man’s head.

Calling upon the last of his strength, Murphy lifted the Colt released the empty magazine, and placed the weapon in between his legs. Then he forced his quivering hand to grab the full magazine and pushed it into the pistol grip. He heard it lock in place and tried to pull on the slide but could not get his hand to do so. Murphy desperately fumbled with the slide and somehow managed to pull it back — too late. He watched in helpless horror as the man fired twice into George’s head. Mother of God, no, no! All the years with the Armed Forces, all the weapons in his garage, and he had failed. George was dead.

With the sound of the Mercedes accelerating down the street, Murphy silently cursed his stupidity as he squeezed the trigger and fired one last time. The weapon fell from his hand. Then everything went dark.

In the back of the Mercedes, and with his pants stained with George’s blood, Roland Higgins tensed as the side window shattered under the impact of a bullet, showering him with glass. His face, neck, and arms stung from multiple lacerations. He felt a numbing pain coming from his left shoulder. For a second he thought he had been hit in the shoulder by the bullet. He covered his bleeding face with one hand and probed the area over his shoulder wound with the other. It had not been a bullet but a large piece of glass.

“Dammit!”

“Are you all right, sir?” asked the driver.

“Son of a bitch! My face, my shoulder… damn!”

“Should I go to a hospital, sir?”

“Ah… no, no. Take me to the — safe house and get some — bandages — oh, damn!”

Higgins breathed heavily and tried to force his body to relax. He had to remain in control in spite of the terrible pain.

Pruett walked into his office and noticed his secretary’s pale face. “What’s the matter, Tammy? You look as if you’ve just seen a ghost.”

“Oh, dear. Oh, my!”

“What? What’s the matter?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Pruett. I’m so sorry.”

Pruett inhaled deeply. The burning pain in his stomach came back. “What, Tammy? Can you tell me what in the world you’re talking about?”

“It’s about your nephew, sir, your nephew George.”

“What about him?”

“He’s been killed, sir.”

“Wh — what? George? When — when did it happen?”

“Just a few minutes ago, sir. Your sister-in-law just called. There was a shoot-out in front of her house in Bethesda.”

“Call my sister-in-law and tell her I’m on my way there!”

“Yes, sir.”

Pruett ran inside his office to get his car keys and ran back outside. He reached his car in minutes and drove off.

Cameron Stone stood by the front entrance of the hotel dressed in a pair of Levi’s 501s, a white long-sleeved shirt, and a black leather jacket. That, plus the black horn-rimmed glasses he’d picked up at an optical store several blocks away, made him feel a little less paranoid.

“I want to go with you, Cameron.”

“You’ll be safer here, Marie. Trust me. There are a lot of people looking for us. Besides, you don’t have a passport.”

She shifted her gaze toward the Seine. Her eyes filled. “I feel safer with you. I’m scared.”

He smiled reassuringly. “Don’t be. Everything will work out. No one will find you in this hotel. I’ll contact you as soon as I get some help. Remember, don’t trust anybody, not even the CIA. It’s better to play it safe for now until I figure out who can be trusted.”

She took his hands in hers. “This is very awkward for me to say, Cameron, but I’m also scared for you. I care about you. I don’t want to see you getting hurt again.”

Cameron locked eyes with her. They remained like that for several seconds. He rubbed a finger over her cheek and gently brushed off her tears. “I’ll be back. I promise. I’m not one to voice my feelings, but I can tell you that I care about you, too. That’s exactly why I can’t let you come. It’s too dangerous. I’ll be back. You can count on it.” He kissed her forehead gently.

Without another word, Cameron turned and headed down the stairs that led to the street. He looked up and down the Quai Saint Bernard. Street vendors filled the sidewalk, selling everything from miniature Eiffel Towers to cheap reproductions of Da Vinci’s Mona Lisa.

He spotted a taxi and waved it down. The cab stopped a few feet from him. Cameron briefly scanned the street and got in the back seat.

“Bonjour, monsieur.”

“Bonjour. Conduisez-moi a l’aeroport Charles de Gaulle.”

“Oui, monsieur.”

The taxi leaped forward. Cameron was pressed against the back seat and closed his eyes momentarily. He had allowed himself to become emotionally involved — a mistake. Feelings and logic didn’t mix well. He had to put Marie out of his mind for now. She was safe.

He reached into his leather jacket and retrieved two manila envelopes. He opened the first one and extracted a half-inch-thick stack of one-hundred-dollar bills. Half of his emergency money. Marie had the other half in the second envelope.

He placed half the bills in his wallet and stashed the rest back in his jacket’s inside pocket. He opened the last envelope. There were three sets of passports and matching driver’s licenses. All American, all his, but under different names. Two sets had been given to him by the CIA as part of his cover. The third was a contingency passport and license he had had made in Mexico by a top counterfeiting artist for a handsome amount of money. At the time he had thought it would be worth it one day. Cameron smiled. He’d been right.

The taxi dropped him off by the Air France entrance. He proceeded through the revolving doors and stared at the long ticket counter across the wide hall. Cameron counted eight check-in stations, each handling a line of passengers. Each station had two clerks. He smiled when he found what he was looking for: a single customs agent nearly running from station to station stamping passports. Although he knew the fake passport was a work of art, it didn’t have a stamp showing when and where he had entered the country. He had traveled into France using his standard Diplomatic passport, which he’d left at the embassy.

Keeping his head low, he approached the shortest of the eight lines. A middle-aged couple with two young daughters stood in front of him. They were Americans. The mother played with the girls while the father pushed a load of suitcases forward.

Both clerks serving his line became available at once. The family headed for one. Cameron for the other.

“Bon soir, monsieur,” a man well into his fifties said from behind the counter.

“English?”

“Of course, monsieur.”

“Blair, Steve Blair.”

“How may I help you, Monsieur Blair?”

“I need to get back to the States as soon as possible. When is the next available flight?”

“To what destination, monsieur?”

“Washington, D.C.”

The clerk punched several commands on the keyboard, waited a few moments, and punched a few more. He looked at Cameron.

“Were you planning on leaving today, Monsieur Blair?”

“Yep. The sooner the better.”

“Well, I’m afraid that might not be possible. All of our flights out of the country are booked for the next five days. It’s the end of the tourist season, monsieur. Everyone wants to go home.” The clerk pointed to the crowd lined up in front of the ticket counter. “Most of these people made reservations months in advance.”

“Are you absolutely certain of that? It’s very important that I leave today. There must be some flight available.”

“Perhaps with another airline, monsieur, but not with Air France.”

Cameron reached for his wallet, pulled out three one-hundred-dollar bills, folded them twice, placed them on the counter, and put his hand over them. “Hmmm… that’s strange. I could have sworn there was at least one first-class seat available on the next flight. I even remember it being a non-stop flight.” He slid his hand over the counter toward the clerk, who looked in every direction and quickly placed his hand over the table.

Cameron kept his hand on the money. The clerk gave him a puzzled look. “Well, is there such a seat available?”

The clerk inhaled, his eyes trained on Cameron’s hand. “Why don’t I check one more time, monsieur.”

“Yeah, why don’t you?”

The clerk typed more commands and paused several times for the next couple of minutes. He shifted his gaze away from the keyboard and looked at Cameron again.

“It appears that you’re in luck, Monsieur Blair. There just happened to be a last-minute cancellation on Flight 1143 leaving forty minutes from now. You can still make it if you hurry. It’s not direct, though. You will have to change planes at JFK International. Is this acceptable?” His eyes briefly looked at Cameron’s hand once more.

Cameron smiled. “Of course that will be all right. I appreciate your patience.” He lifted his hand off the counter. The clerk quickly slid his over, pulled the money toward him, and continued working on the keyboard. Cameron eyed the family to the right as the father placed two large suitcases on the scale between the counters. He noticed the small tray on the counter with their passports, and also saw the customs agent hastily walking toward them.

Cameron pulled out his passport and quickly flashed the first page to the clerk, who briefly checked the photo, nodded, and pointed to the tray. Cameron tossed it in a few seconds before the customs agent, a short, heavy man with greasy black hair, arrived and grabbed the tray. Cameron could hear the fat man breathing heavily as he quickly checked photos and expiration dates before stamping all five documents in quick succession, throwing them back on the tray and racing as fast as his short legs could carry him for the next station.

Cameron slowly exhaled as he snagged his passport off the tray.

The clerk addressed him. “You’re confirmed for Flight 1143, leaving Paris at 6:40 P.M. and arriving in New York at 9:00 P.M. local time. There the flight changes to 477 leaving New York at 10:30 P.M. and arriving in Washington at 11:46 P.M. The fare for a one-way, first-class ticket will be three thousand one hundred eight dollars, including local taxes.”

Cameron pulled out a stash of bills, counted out the appropriate amount, and handed it to the clerk.

“Merci, monsieur. Your gate number is 22A in the international section. You have exactly forty-one minutes. Do you have any luggage?” He passed the ticket to Cameron.

“And, no. Thanks for your help.” He grabbed the ticket, walked away from the counter, and headed for his gate. As he approached the line for the security checkpoint, Cameron spotted two intense-looking young men staring at him by the TWA counter. The men began to walk toward Cameron. He recognized them as the two rookie operatives who were with Marie at the hospital. Both reached into their dark-gray trench coats.

Instinctively, Cameron began to walk the other way. The CIA men picked up their pace. Cameron did the same to keep them from closing the fifty-foot gap. He walked as fast as he could without calling attention to himself; just another traveler trying to catch a plane at the last minute. Cameron glanced backward. Their hands remained inside their coats.

Forty feet. The men were getting closer. Cameron needed a diversion. Something that would give him enough time to lose them and reach his gate. He checked his watch. He had to hurry. He saw a pair of doors leading to the covered parking garage.

Cameron cut right and disappeared through the doors, instantly breaking into a run for several seconds before crawling underneath a blue sedan.

Just as he’d expected, the double doors swung open and Cameron heard their footsteps getting closer.

“Where the hell did he go?” one voice said.

“Dammit. He’s gotta be here somewhere,” the other responded.

Cameron pushed himself over the oil-stained concrete floor toward the front of the sedan to get a better view of his attackers. He peeked from underneath the front bumper and saw one of them clutching a semiautomatic with a silencer attached to the muzzle. That alone told Cameron plenty about their intentions. Field operatives seldom carried bulky silenced weapons unless they were working on a termination order.

But there was no time for those thoughts now. Where is the second man? he asked himself as he continued to stare at the first man near the double doors. Cameron looked at his watch. Time was running out. He had to act quickly or risk missing his flight.

The first CIA operative began to walk down the twenty-foot-wide aisle between two rows of cars running the length of the garage. Cameron noticed the operative checking in between the cars and also… underneath!

Then he heard a second set of footsteps behind him, and Cameron understood their tactic. One operative was checking the front of the cars while the second checked the rear. They were going to sandwich him!

He knew he had only one choice. Stay here, Cameron, and you’ll be shot. At least running he had a “sporting chance” of getting away. Oh, if I could only have my Beretta!

He glanced toward the CIA man checking under a car fifty feet away. Fifty feet. He estimated the silencers reduced the accuracy of their weapons by over sixty percent.

Cameron made his decision and, in a blur, rolled from under the sedan and rocketed across the aisle toward the adjacent row of cars. To his surprise, gunfire did not start right away, but it did come. The shattering windshield of a compact car next to him definitely confirmed his fears. The CIA men had fired without warning, without asking him to give himself up. Cameron knew then that he had been labeled for termination.

Cameron heard a shriek… a woman! Then a yell from a man. Security forces would come. A round ricocheted off the concrete floor and crashed through the plastic grill of another compact car.

The screams seemed amplified inside the concrete structure. Cameron came to the next aisle, crossed it, and reached the next row of cars. He dropped to a crouch and cut left, moving up the aisle behind the cars. Cameron heard other voices and screams in the distance as he counted fifteen cars. He abruptly stopped and hid in the space between two vehicles, moved near the front tires, and searched for the operatives.

He spotted one running down the aisle away from him. The second moved in his direction but with the weapon trained on a row of cars across the aisle from Cameron. The man had not seen him yet.

Cameron dropped to the ground and listened intensely for the footsteps. He waited. The man continued at the same pace. Cameron shrank back. The footsteps got louder. The figure loomed in his field of view.

Cameron plunged forward with both arms in front. The rookie operative spotted him and began to turn the weapon in Cameron’s direction. Too late. Cameron intercepted the man’s arm with his right hand, and gripped and twisted the man’s wrist, keeping the weapon pointed away from him. In the same motion, he rammed his left hand against the operative’s face, two fingers extended like a snake’s tongue. The operative instantly released the weapon and brought both hands to his face with an agonized scream. Cameron drove his right knee into the man’s groin and watched him fall over and curl into a fetal position on the concrete floor.

Cameron snagged the suppressed pistol — a Colt .45—and spotted the second agent bringing his weapon around. Cameron leveled the Colt on the operative and fired twice. The CIA agent fell with a scream, dropping his weapon while reaching down to his wounded thighs.

Sirens blared in the distance.

Cameron reached down and grabbed the first agent by the lapels.

“Why? Why are you trying to kill me?”

Cameron saw blood coming out of the man’s eyes. “Fuck you, Stone. Go… ahead. Kill me… you bastard. Kill me just… like you killed Potter.”

Potter? What in the hell is going on?

“Tell me who gave the order! Tell me!”

“You’re as good as… dead, Stone.”

“Tell me, you fucker! Who gave the order?”

“You don’t… get it, do you? You’re… beyond salvage, asshole.”

Cameron released his grip. The agent fell on his back. Beyond salvage?

The sirens got closer. Cameron dropped the Colt and ran for the double doors. The airport lobby seemed undisturbed. Cameron mixed with the crowd and headed for his gate. He briefly checked his watch. The entire incident had taken under two minutes. He still had time to make his flight.