Sigma Division

Chapter 27

No one was tailing him, Ned was pretty sure of it. He had only followed a rudimentary course on evasive driving when the CIA had hired him but he remembered the basics. Look for patterns. Look for anything out of the ordinary. So far nothing jumped out at him.

Still, his hands tightened around the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white.

“They’re not gonna get to me. What do I know anyway? They’re doing some illegal shit and they tried to kill Old Spice about it. No big deal.”

The pep talk didn’t work. He looked once more in his mirrors but this time he only stared at himself.

Motherfuckers!

His conscience creeping up on him, he grabbed his phone and hit the first speed dial.

“Honey, it’s me.”

“Ned, what’s going on? Something has to be wrong for you to be calling me in the middle of the day.”

“No, listen. I want you to pack whatever clothes you can grab in 30 seconds. Then, you go to the hotel where your sister stayed on her honeymoon.”

“You mean the…”

“Don’t say it out loud, please,” he interrupted.

“I knew something was wrong! You’ve been acting weird all week and…”

“I love you but don’t argue baby, okay? I can’t explain anything right now. But I need you to leave the house for a while. I’ll call you there tomorrow morning.”

“You’re scaring me. Please tell me what’s going on, Ned.”

“I can’t. I’m gonna hit redial on this phone in one minute. If you answer the phone I’m gonna be real mad.”

He hated doing this to her but he had no choice. His wingman was in trouble. He hung up and threw the phone on the passenger seat.

He grabbed the wheel with two hands, cut two lanes to the left, and made a U-turn.

It took almost an hour to drive to Andrews Field and even though Ned no longer had CIA credentials, he still had his Uniformed Services ID. Getting onto the base proved relatively easy since he’d been here so often lately and he parked at his usual spot at the 89th Airlift Wing.

Heaven was smiling down on him when he made out a young Senior Airman he’d seen half a dozen times through recent transports. He got out of the car and jogged to him.

“Hey man, how’s the new baby? Listen, I need a favor.”

The Air Force man looked around. Was this guy talking to him?

“It’s a big favor that I need. In terms of aircraft, what can you give me?”

The kid’s double take alone had been worth the trip, Ned thought.

Houseman hated going to the subbasement. On the one hand, this excited him because it harkened back to the real shadowy work of the CIA. But on the other hand, the journey down through the long corridors was exhausting. He forgot the weakness of his legs by focusing on the problem at hand.

“How could he commandeer a plane without IDs?”

Dr. Michaels shrugged. “Apparently, they know him.”

“Do we know where he’s heading?”

“Not so far.”

They reached their destination and a security officer checked out their credentials before they were admitted into what everybody called the War Room. It wasn’t much different from the White House’s Situation Room or the Pentagon’s National Military Command Center.

It was here that CIA operations could be witnessed and controlled. Sometimes a high-ranking senator was brought in so he could see a covert drone strike. It never failed to make politicians feel important, like they were part of the action. And when they were pumped up with testosterone, they were much more inclined to approve budget increases or wave oversight on some shady operations.

The room was windowless though extremely bright from both artificial lighting and a dozen large screens. As many technicians were monitoring live satellite feeds and communication channels. Houseman and Michaels walked in but remained on the elevated platform instead of going down into the pit where the action was.

Michaels turned to the supervisor. “Do you have the link up?”

“We are online, sir.”

His own assistant was in communication with the Pentagon. “So far, Andrews is tracking the bogey. Its current heading is one-seven-five degrees. They’ll lose him in nine minutes.”

That wasn’t good news to Houseman. And it was freezing in here.

“Is there an AWACS in the area that can take over?”

The supervisor was prepared for these kinds of questions. “The closest one’s in the Gulf of Mexico, sir. Rerouting it could take a few hours and we’d lose the target in the meantime.”

Michaels muttered a curse and then led his boss to a less crowded area where they could whisper without being overheard.

“Listen, there’s not a hundred ways to look at this. The little bastard’s heading south, probably to the same place we’re going. And if he’s going there, that can only mean Spicer’s already there.”

Houseman nodded somberly. “We really don’t have a choice, do we?”

“I’ll tell Clara to get ready. We have to terminate the problem once and for all.”

“Get that AWACS to track the east coast of Florida,” Houseman said while heading for the exit again.

Michaels turned to the supervisor. “Call me as soon as something pops up. I wanna know where that fucker lands.”

The two men stomped out. They might as well have been charging with bayonets.