Unmanned

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Trip Riggleman’s sense of relief lasted about five minutes. He walked into the amber sunlight of dusk, breathed in the fresh air of freedom, then slumped back into his worries. Did he still have a job, his rank, his status? And if General Hagan wouldn’t take his phone call last night, in his hour of greatest need, would he take one now, or ever?

He was still hurt and disappointed by the way the Air Force had deserted him in the wake of his arrest, although he supposed he should have known better. Hagan had explicitly warned him that this would happen. It was like in the movies, the ones patterned after that old TV show Mission Impossible, where they ran the tape that said, “Should you be caught or killed, we will disavow any knowledge of your actions.” Or something like that. Which he supposed should make him feel like a big-time operative but instead made him feel like a chump, a fool in over his head — out in the woods on a cold night in December, miles from home, in completely unfamiliar territory. And stupid enough to be carrying a sidearm that he wasn’t even supposed to have.

Damn idiot.

The worst part was that the whole experience had scared the shit out of him, convincing him that he wasn’t cut out for any sort of work in covert ops. Do the digging? You bet. Man of action? Only if the action was online.

But in the end maybe Hagan had somehow found a way to save him, because here he was back on the street, his bail paid by an unknown benefactor even though there were still a few charges pending. A weapons charge, that was the big one. Trespassing? A joke. Although the Talbot County cops had actually been pretty cooperative toward the end, and the desk officer who handed him his wallet upon release advised him that, bail or not, the smartest thing might be for him to get out of town for a few days, given all the federal interest in the case. They even brought his rental car up from the impoundment lot to help smooth his departure. Maybe now he should call a lawyer.

He saw right away that the car hadn’t exactly been handled with kid gloves. It had been searched thoroughly, even roughly. The glove compartment was still open, and a door panel was loose. Muddy footprints covered the backseat, and someone had dusted the dash and the steering wheel for fingerprints. Hertz would probably charge extra for cleanup, and it now seemed unlikely that Hagan would let him expense this little adventure.

But he was alive, and after what he’d seen the night before, that was no small accomplishment. As he started the car and headed back toward the motel — would he still have his room? — he replayed the events in his head, a dark memory that he figured would haunt him for quite a while.

At first he’d enjoyed it. It was thrilling to climb out of the car in boots and camouflage, a holstered gun, a pair of binoculars. His senses were on full alert, just like when he was a kid roaming the suburbs after dark. Every noise made him flinch. The cold air prickled on his cheeks. So this was how the big boys felt after they’d been air-dropped into the wilderness of some hostile environment like Afghanistan. He walked slowly and carefully down the shoulder of the gravel driveway, poised to duck into the trees at the first sign of approaching traffic, the wind seeming to whisper his name.

Finally the house came into view, windows dark, like a ghost ship afloat on a night sea. He moved behind a pine and used his binoculars, scanning slowly from end to end. That’s when he noticed the small pool house off to the side. It, too, was dark and silent. Okay, now what? He checked for cars. Three were parked by the house along with a plumber’s white panel van. The van was a surprise. Had Cole rented it, or did he and the journalists have another friend staying with them? The idea of some sort of antimilitary conspiracy seemed quite real to him at that moment. The make and model of the cars matched what he’d expected, although he wasn’t yet close enough to read the numbers on the tags. He decided to move closer, but just as he was about to step forward a stick snapped in the trees off to his left, and the blood rushed straight to his head. Someone, or something, was moving over in that direction. Too large for a fox or a possum, and not deliberate enough for a deer. Coming after him, perhaps? He sank into a crouch and slowly pulled the gun from its holster. The air was colder than ever. He strained his ears to listen.

That’s when he belatedly remembered the night vision goggles, which were still in his shoulder bag. As quietly as possible he holstered the gun, opened the bag, and put on the goggles. The world took on an eerie glow. For the moment, all was silent. Nothing moved. Maybe he’d imagined the noise. Then a large, luminous green body moved out from behind a tree, no more than thirty yards to his left. Fuck! Coming toward him? No. Heading toward the house. Slowly, but in a slight crouch, and with a seeming sense of purpose.

Riggleman was short of breath, his heart drumming. He sank to his knees but kept watching through the goggles. Then, to his alarm, a second person moved into his field of vision from the left. There were two of them! At first he thought it might be a team, some tactical unit preparing to take the sort of decisive action that he could only dream about. But then the second man stopped and raised a rifle into position, taking aim. Riggleman was on the verge of shouting a warning, but the cry caught in his throat as a gunshot banged sharply through the trees. The flash from the muzzle was almost blinding through the goggles. He turned and saw the first man crumple to the ground with a low moan. Riggleman sank to his knees, feeling weak and needing to pee. This wasn’t his game, his style. Why the fuck was he even there? He pulled out his cell phone, thinking maybe he should call 9-1-1, or Hagan — anybody — then worried that the light from the phone would attract attention, so he quickly put it away and tried to make himself as small as possible.

When he looked up again the second man had reached the first and was pointing the barrel of the rifle down at his head from only a few feet away. A second shot cracked into the night. The first blob convulsed and then lay still, a horrible moment. Riggleman again grasped his sidearm, wondering how much noise it would make to unholster it. The shooter was back on the move again, but thank God he was retracing his steps, heading away from the house and away from him. It was all Riggleman could do to maintain his balance on his knees as he watched the man depart, even as his butt and his toes began to tingle. His entire lower body was going numb. He wondered if he would even be able to stand.

The shooter gradually disappeared from sight. Riggleman then counted to thirty before painfully rising from his crouch, gripping a tree to steady himself as blood rushed back into his legs with a prickly surge. When he looked back toward the dead man he was sickened to see that his green glow was already fading, as if his very life was draining from him. He had no interest in a closer inspection, and to call 9-1-1 now would be pure folly, given the manner in which he was armed and dressed. Better instead to get the hell out of there, because the shots had been damned loud. Fuck! A light was on in the house. Then another. To hell with stealth. Riggleman heaved a sigh of great effort and began lumbering back toward his rental car as fast as his numb legs would carry him.

Hours later, after he finally drifted into a restless sleep back at his motel, the police burst into his room, guns drawn, shining a bright light into his face. Rough handling and humiliation, plus the sinking realization of his own laxness and stupidity as he saw the cluttered room the way they must have seen it — the camouflage uniform tossed on a chair, the holstered gun on the bedside table, the night vision goggles over by the television, and, worst of all, those reams of paper with their incriminating names and addresses. And him, caught red-handed, the homicidal paramilitary loon with a death wish.

But now, back in the car and turning onto Route 50, Riggleman felt certain he had survived the worst of it. To his relief, the key card still worked in the door to his room. To his further relief, his suitcase was still on the floor. The housekeeper had even made the bed and left fresh towels. Maybe the police had phoned the manager to let him know that everything was okay. Yes, he was going to be fine, which called for a private celebration, courtesy of the minibar.

Riggleman stooped to open the door of the small refrigerator and surveyed his choices. He was about to grab a cold beer when a forearm locked around his neck from behind and a gun barrel poked into his back.

“Don’t make a move! Call out and I shoot.”

“Okay.”

“Drop your hands to your side and lay down on your stomach.”

“Okay.” Meekly, sadly. Was this guy going to shoot him? Was it the guy from last night?

“Hurry up!”

“Okay.” It was the only word he felt capable of speaking.

Riggleman moved slowly, not wanting to alarm the guy. He didn’t dare turn and glance, didn’t dare do anything other than what he’d been told to do, or keep saying “Okay.” He’d never felt more helpless in his life. He stretched out, just as ordered, and pressed his forehead to the motel carpet, which smelled like cigarettes and cleaning fluid.

“Slowly put your hands behind your back. Slowly.”

Riggleman did so and felt plastic handcuffs slip around his wrists and tighten. The toe of a boot dug into the right side of his rib cage, nudging hard enough to roll him onto his back. He felt like an overturned beetle waiting to be smushed. A fairly tall man, mid-forties, black commando sweater and blue jeans, stared down at him. Arctic blue eyes, a five o’clock shadow.

“You owe me for the bail money, but we’ll work that out later.”

These were the most comforting words Riggleman had ever heard. Not only had this man delivered him from the legal system, he was now speaking of some indeterminate future in which Riggleman was expected to play a role. Even the suggestion of a future seemed wonderful right now.

“Sure. Be happy to.” It felt like a big improvement from “Okay.”

“Shut up until I ask you to speak.”

“Okay.”

The man seemed to relax then. Riggleman was pleasantly surprised to realize that he must have been tense as well. The man then put his gun down on the table next to the minibar. Riggleman was beginning to get an inkling of how soldiers must deal with the fears of combat from day to day. It wasn’t courage so much as a matter of becoming inured to it, of moving on from one moment to the next as a matter of instinct. Once you gave yourself over to fate, you could breathe again and be yourself. The realization freed him to speak his mind, come what may, and he said the first thing that popped into his head.

“You’re the guy from the woods last night, aren’t you.”

“So you were there. Just to the west of me, right?”

“Yes. You passed within thirty yards of me coming and going.”

“Damn. I’m slipping.”

“I almost peed my pants.”

“Shut up for a second.”

And that’s when it hit him. Not only had he seen this man before, he had also spoken to him on the phone. He even knew his name. Or the name he worked under, anyway. And at that instant he realized, with feelings of deepest gratitude, that General Hagan hadn’t abandoned him after all. The general must have seen his email late Sunday. And then, through whatever channels and whatever means, he had worked nimbly and quickly to ensure that someone else had been there to watch over him. This fellow had saved his life.

“You’re him, aren’t you?” Riggleman said. “I should’ve guessed it before now. Your voice sounds a little different, but you’ve probably got some kind of special software installed on your phone to disguise what you really sound like.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Harry Walsh,” Riggleman said, smiling now. “Your code name.”

The guy actually laughed at him.

“You stupid ass. You saw Harry, all right. But he’s dead. He’s the other guy.”

Riggleman immediately thought of that dimming blob of light. The twitching body, the stillness. Protoplasm gradually losing its heat while he watched.

“Then who the hell are you?”

“That’s not important.”

“But if—?”

“Shut up and listen. We’ve got work to do.”

“Okay.”