Split second, p.29
Split Second, page 29
Hamilton had been hoping simply to avoid being snared in Cargill’s trap, but something even better had happened. Entwistle, a talented soldier, had been sympathizing with Knight, had probably been thinking of ways to reach out to him and offer his services. But he had stupidly let Cargill panic him into making the most idiotic of blunders.
Cargill’s ploy had not been an exercise in futility, as Hamilton had expected. Quite the contrary, the man had trapped his one and only mole, after all.
Hamilton had thought Cargill was an idiot for letting the men get so close to his gun as he led them to take the test. But he had been too hasty. Cargill had done this on purpose.
He had been more clever than Hamilton had given him credit for.
As it turned out, too clever.
Because he had flushed out the wrong man. And now he would return to his old, trusting self, confiding in his Inner Circle once again. So now the real fun could begin.
50
Six days had passed since Cargill’s stunt with the polygraph, and this entire time Hamilton had been tasked with an assignment off base, and had only just returned, ordered to a meeting in a conference room within the mountain. During this time Knight’s patience was wearing thinner and thinner—as was Hamilton’s own. He was still no closer to figuring out how to obtain a copy of Wexler’s breakthrough than he had been before.
Hamilton arrived at conference room D with some half-baked ideas of how he could worm his way closer to Wexler’s work, but hadn’t arrived at a concrete strategy. He was joined by three other members of Q5’s Inner Circle, Joe O’Bannon, Tom TenBrink, and Eric Beal.
Lee Cargill and Joe Allen entered shortly thereafter, and everyone took a seat around the large conference table.
Cargill wasted no time on pleasantries. “I’ve called you in today for what is a very important assignment, but one that should be routine—even boring. Nine days ago, as you no doubt recall, we were in position to acquire Jenna Morrison and Aaron Blake. Even though I now have full faith in all of you, I still like to keep information on a need-to-know basis, so I didn’t mention that we were successful in this task.”
“Congratulations,” said both TenBrink and Beal in unison.
Ass kissers, thought Hamilton in disgust.
“Thank you,” said Cargill. “A few other things I haven’t told this group. First, Joe and I have been staying in the north quadrant of this base all along. We didn’t want anyone to know until we weeded out our remaining mole.” He paused. “And along with Blake and Morrison, we also acquired two additional men, a physicist from UCLA named Dan Walsh, and a computer expert named Greg Soyer. All four have now been fully briefed on Q5’s activities.”
“Fully?” said O’Bannon in a tone that indicated he hoped this wasn’t true, and didn’t approve if it was.
“They all know as much as you do,” replied Cargill. “We extended an invitation to all four to join us. Walsh, the physicist, has been off-site with the team studying Wexler’s work. He’s like a kid on Christmas morning. The other three have all been staying here, at least until today.”
“What happened today?” asked TenBrink.
“Greg Soyer has a live-in girlfriend. We’ve provided cover for him, telling her the military recalled him for a classified mission and making up a lame story to account for the mess their shared home was in. But he wants to get back to her. He is being returned home even as we speak. The good news is that he’s agreed to consult with us whenever we need him.”
“Does Knight know about him?” asked TenBrink. “And more to the point, will he go after him?”
“We don’t think so,” said Joe Allen. “Knight only cares about Nathan Wexler’s breakthrough, and Soyer can’t help him with this. Soyer did save the file to the cloud, very securely I might add, and put in a fail-safe mechanism. Unless Jenna and her PI friend both enter correct passwords every week, the data will be automatically made public, which neither we nor Edgar Knight can let happen. If anyone tries to break in or delete the file, the same thing happens. Originally, Soyer could also access Wexler’s file, but he’s had his two friends change the codes so even he can’t get in.”
“Which means that only Jenna Morrison and Aaron Blake have any value to Knight at this point,” added Cargill.
A surge of electricity coursed through Hamilton’s veins. Had he heard correctly? It seemed impossible. “I don’t understand,” he said. “You said these two have been staying here for over a week. But are you saying the file in the cloud still exists? That the fail-safe mechanism still exists?”
Cargill frowned. “Yes. Q5 killed the man Jenna Morrison loved, and Aaron Blake has had some bad experiences with politically driven military decisions, which make him slow to fully trust the judgment of his government. We’ve tried to get them to destroy the file, but they’ve refused until they’re certain they can trust us.”
Hamilton couldn’t believe his ears. What a pussy this Cargill was. Even more so than he had known.
“With all due respect,” said Eric Beal, “if this file gets into Edgar Knight’s hands, or out into the public, the world is pretty much fucked. If this doesn’t warrant enhanced methods of . . . persuasion . . . to get these two to take it down, nothing does.”
Hamilton almost grinned. When a pussy like Eric Beal thinks you’re a pussy, then you’re really a pussy.
“Valid point,” said Cargill. “First, until it’s taken down, my highest priority is to make certain that they reset the fail-safe every week, which they just did. Second, I have every reason to believe these two will come around, because I’ve been truthful with them, and both really will make valuable members of the team. But if I use force to get them to disable it, they’ll never join. Yet they’ll know all about the most classified black program in America. So what then? Kill them? Hasn’t Jenna Morrison been through enough? Wasn’t killing Nathan Wexler, in front of her, enough abuse for her to take?”
Cargill surveyed the men across from him, but none chose to respond.
“So far,” he continued, “Jenna sees no reason not to join us. But she wants to reserve judgment for two more weeks. During this time she wants to continue to get to know us, and spend more time with me and Joe.”
Cargill sighed. “But not here. She’s feeling a growing sense of claustrophobia. Knowing there’s an entire mountain poised a few feet over her head is getting to her. And living here, without getting any natural light, is making her more depressed than she already is—and believe me, that’s saying something, since she did lose someone she loved deeply.”
“I see,” said TenBrink. “So can we assume you’ve agreed to relocate her?”
“Yes. And also Aaron Blake. He’s very loyal to her, and wherever she goes, he’s going to be there to protect her.”
“We’ve chosen a nearby military base for her two-week sojourn,” said Joe Allen. “Very close so we can visit often and continue to get her comfortable. Schriever Air Force Base, to be precise.”
“There are a number of bases fairly close by,” said Cargill, “but Schriever is only thirty miles from here. For those unfamiliar with this base, it’s home to the 50th Space Wing, which controls satellites. Warning satellites, navigational, communications, spy—you name it. There are almost six thousand personnel based there. Schriever is also where the GPS master control station is located, as well as the Master Clock used to synchronize all GPS satellites.”
“Schriever is perfect for our needs,” said Allen. “It’s in the middle of nowhere, with miles of mostly flat, barren ground all around, so there’s no way to sneak up on it. No one there will know who these two are, or why they’re important, but they’ll have security that a visiting president would envy.”
“This is where all of you come in,” said Cargill. “We’ll move out at 0700 tomorrow. We’ll take a midsize truck, one so reinforced it could take a missile strike and not slow down. The outside will read, Colorado Carpeting Discounter. I’ll be driving, so I can show our two guests around once we arrive. The four of you will be in the trailer minding them. Once we arrive on base, you’ll also be stationed there, as added protection for Morrison and Blake.”
“Will one reinforced truck and five men be enough for this transfer?” asked O’Bannon. “Knight would give his left nut to capture these two. Shouldn’t we put them in a convoy of tanks with a fighter jet escort?”
Cargill shook his head. “No. Knight has to know we have them, but by now he also has to believe they no longer have access to Wexler’s file, so they aren’t useful to him. And he’s run out of moles, so he has no way to know where they are. So the goal is to make this casual, to not draw attention to ourselves. It is virtually impossible for us to run into trouble this time. It will be one of the easier assignments you’ve ever been given.” He smiled. “But that being said, make sure you’re armed to the teeth.”
“While we can’t imagine Knight still wants them, ” said Allen, “or has any idea where they are, just to be paranoid, we’ll still ring the base with dark energy sensors. That way, in the unlikely case we’re wrong, he won’t be able to get any mobile time travel units within the fifty-eight feet he would need to infiltrate the base.”
“So we’ll be babysitting for two long weeks?” complained Tom TenBrink .
“Don’t think of it as two long weeks,” replied Cargill with a smile. “Think of it as fourteen short days.”
TenBrink didn’t return the smile. “I know you’re sure Jenna Morrison will eventually join us,” he said. “But what if she doesn’t? What if she decides to get back to her life and leave the fail-safe in place?”
“I’ll just have to convince her that she can’t,” said Cargill. “That she’d be too exposed to Edgar Knight. Even if he doesn’t think she has access to Nathan’s work anymore, I know him too well. If she was that unprotected, he’d never leave this stone unturned.”
“And if that fails?” said O’Bannon.
“Enough!” barked Cargill, having suddenly lost his patience. “She’s going to join us! But be assured that if I’m wrong, I’ll do what I have to do. Even if it isn’t pretty. So no more questions. Just be ready tomorrow morning.”
Hamilton’s comrades all wore grim expressions, but he was ecstatic. This transfer was the exact break he needed. This was his chance. Not only to be a hero, but to finally end this double agent shit.
In just one more day, Hamilton could finally begin fighting alongside Edgar Knight to forge a glorious future.
51
Jenna Morrison and Aaron Blake sat with their backs against the wall of the trailer compartment of the midsized truck, facing the doors at the back of the vehicle. Cargill was just a few feet away from them, driving, but the cab compartment was separate from the trailer and he couldn’t be seen. Hamilton and O’Bannon sat against the right wall, and Beal and TenBrink against the left. Other than its human cargo, the small trailer, proudly proclaiming the false identity of a carpet discounter, was empty.
Hamilton was tingling with anticipation. He studied the girl carefully and noticed that she looked almost ill.
“Are you okay?” he asked Jenna, deciding it couldn’t hurt to play the role of the concerned Samaritan.
She forced a smile. “Sure. It’s just being in the back of a semi with a bunch of soldiers brings back memories I’d rather not have. Last time, it didn’t work out so well.”
“Don’t worry, ma’am,” said Eric Beal, “I promise this time will be very different.”
“I know it will be,” she said with a sigh. “Thanks.”
They drove in silence for ten more minutes. Hamilton and his three comrades had rucksacks beside them, filled with weapons, just like the team that had been assigned to extract Jenna Morrison and Nathan Wexler originally. And just like this team, they had been instructed not to carry any weapons that would be visible to their guests, so as not to panic them.
This just served to further reinforce Hamilton’s low opinion of Lee Cargill. If the girl saw that each of them had an MP5 on their lap, it would make her feel less panicked rather than more.
As for Aaron Blake, Hamilton was familiar with his file, and this man never panicked. Even now he seemed hyper-alert, hyper-vigilant.
The truck rolled to a stop. Almost a full minute later, Cargill activated a microphone that broadcast his voice into the trailer compartment. Apparently, this wasn’t just another red light.
“There’s a minor fender bender blocking the road,” he explained. “But a tow-truck is already on site, so we should be on our way in less than five minutes. This is not an ambush. The drivers of the cars in question, as well as the tow-truck driver, are harmless civilians, and I’m watching them closely. No suspicious vehicles or pedestrians are approaching. Finally, I have a good field of vision, and can get around them if I need to.”
Hamilton’s eyes narrowed. “What are the odds there’d be an accident blocking our path?” he said, posing the question to no one in particular.
“I’m thinking maybe one in a million,” said TenBrink uneasily.
“It is an unlikely coincidence,” said Joe O’Bannon, “but Cargill obviously knows this, too, and he isn’t worried.”
Hamilton could tell TenBrink was biting his tongue, wanting to express how he felt about Cargill’s judgment in these matters, but not wanting to do so in front of their two guests.
“Even so,” said Hamilton, unzipping his ruck and removing an H&K .45 caliber handgun. “I’m gonna check it out. Just to be sure.”
“Good idea,” said Blake, whose instincts were obviously also screaming at him that this had to be trouble, despite Cargill’s assurances.
The trailer had two doors that met in the center and opened outward. Hamilton opened one a crack and looked out. He turned back to face the others. “The coast is clear, and it looks calm. When I return, I’ll knock twice, pause, and then three times, so you’ll know it’s me.”
Not waiting for a response, he exited the truck and shut the door. He moved rapidly to the passenger’s side of the cab and motioned for Cargill to lower the window.
Cargill glared at Hamilton as he powered the window lower. “What are you doing?” he snapped angrily. “Get back in the trailer!”
Hamilton began screwing a silencer onto the end of his gun, doing so below window level and out of Cargill’s sight. “I just wanted to check things out,” he said innocently. “You know, make sure this isn’t an ambush.”
“I told you it wasn’t!” said Cargill. “Sometimes an accident is just an accident. And Knight has no idea we’re even here.”
“Wrong on both counts, jackass,” said Hamilton, raising his weapon and depressing the trigger three times in quick succession, sending three rounds ripping through Cargill’s chest.
Before he had fired he had surveyed the area, and was satisfied that no one would witness this long overdue execution. Knight had paid the most harmless-looking civilians he could find a king’s ransom to stage this accident, and others on his team had put up barricades out of sight to limit the number of possible witnesses.
Hamilton walked to the back of the truck and took a deep breath. From one pocket he removed a reinforced padlock, and from the other a small canister of gas. He knew for certain his comrades—soon to be ex-comrades—hadn’t packed any masks.
He knocked. Rap Rap. Pause. Rap Rap Rap.
He waited another few seconds and then began opening the door, secure in the knowledge that no weapons would now be pointing in his direction. He pulled the pin on the canister, tossed it inside, and slammed the door shut, padlocking it firmly closed.
He returned to the cab, pushed Cargill’s lifeless body to the passenger’s side, and checked the time.
Right on schedule.
Now all he had to do was take a detour into the woods to meet with others on Knight’s team tasked with transporting Hamilton and his two prisoners back to Lake Las Vegas, taking care to exercise appropriate surveillance countermeasures, including a few that Knight’s Brain Trust had only recently developed.
Hamilton turned to Cargill’s blood-soaked corpse as the truck began rolling forward, happier than he had been since he could remember.
“Mind if I drive?” he said with a broad grin.
52
Jenna and Blake were given shots to reverse whatever knockout agent had been used on them, and the effect was immediate and dramatic, bringing them back to full alertness.
Their wrists were locked together with hardened plastic strips, ratcheted into place, and they were led at gunpoint to the room they had seen on their television screen at the Best Border Inn, the office of Edgar Knight.
The building they were in was twenty-two stories tall and it was magnificent: modern, bright, and reeking of opulence. Once a luxury hotel, several of the floors had been converted into luxury offices and apartments. Many others had been torn out and turned into havens for scientists, complete with individual offices, conference rooms, virtual reality rooms where inventors could immerse themselves in virtual 3D representations of their work, and expansive labs—biology, physics, chemistry, electronics, artificial intelligence, and so on—each packed with the most advanced equipment and technology money could buy.
Along with an office that appeared to be the electronic nerve center of an empire, far more extensive than they had glimpsed during their call, Knight’s twenty-second-story residence was a lavish penthouse apartment that took up the entire floor, thousands of square feet in space, and one that would satisfy the most spoiled of high-rollers. The outer wall of the entire floor was a single seamless window that looked out upon several shorter buildings nearby and a land bridge that carved a path across a soothing blue body of water. The floor plan was open and expansive, with magnificent arches leading to bedrooms, a kitchen a professional chef would envy, and even a small indoor pool and Jacuzzi.
Knight’s lackeys led them to four steel chairs at one edge of the office area, spaced at about five-foot intervals, bolted to the floor. The chairs clashed horribly with the modern decor, introducing a psychopathic prison-warden vibe into the otherwise sophisticated elegance.
