Michael Palmer - A Heartbeat Away

“We’ve landed at Garden City Regional, ready for phase two,” he said.

Seconds later he heard a beep and Cain’s baritone voice.

“What’s your ETA to Kalvesta?”

“We’re forty miles west. Once we get the paperwork done, we should have our first visuals of the facility within an hour.”

“Very good,” Cain replied. “You’ll be able to send me photographs?”

“Yes. Cain, let me go in. I know I can get to Rhodes and finish this once and for all.”

“Negative,” Cain said. “This is a reconnaissance mission only. We dismantled our surveillance of the facility after the lab was closed down. I need to see how it’s been resurrected before we make our next move. But I promise you, Fink, you’ll get your chance soon enough. We can’t have Rhodes messing things up at this stage.”

“Roger and out.”

The mercenary snarled and returned the phone to the front pocket of his fleece-lined flight jacket. The blown missile strike at the Capitol wasn’t totally his fault, but he was the one with the visual, and he was the one who pulled the trigger. He took great pride in his near-perfect record of mission successes. He would wait for Cain’s kill order, but not for too long.

Ramirez had unloaded the duffel bags of equipment and weapons, and was waiting for Fink on the tarmac when he deplaned.

“Stay here, sport,” the older man ordered. “I’ll go sign for the Cessna.”

Five minutes later, the killer was seated in a small wood-paneled office in an outbuilding near the air traffic control tower. The portly rental agent across from him, Jim Kinchley according to his desk plate, turned down a small portable television that was broadcasting the latest CNN news report from the Capitol.

“Crazy stuff happening out there,” Kinchley said.

“Crazy,” Fink agreed.

“Well, I got your fax and was able to get started on the paperwork. Just need to finish up the rental agreement is all.”

The documents Fink had used to rent the Learjet from Baltimore-Washington airport included his own pilot’s license with the name changed, and a master forgery of one for Ramirez, who couldn’t fly anything more complex than a paper airplane, but was needed to fulfill the requirement for two pilots. Only one would be needed now for the Cessna 172 Skyhawk.

This was a stealth operation and Fink took every precaution to ensure there were no mishaps.

“So, Mr. Keegan,” the agent said, “how long will you be using the one-seven-two?”

“I don’t know,” Fink replied. “Does it matter?”

“Have to put a specific time on this here form.”

“Well then, put down two days.”

Fink fixed the man with a baleful look that made him agree to the vague answer without objection.

“Mind if I ask what sort of business you’re in?” Kinchley quickly pointed to a line on the rental agreement. “It’s required, you see.”

Another hard stare.

“Debt collector,” Fink said.

With the papers signed, and an inspection completed, he taxied the aircraft over to where Ramirez was waiting. The Cessna was airborne forty-five minutes from when they had touched down. Not wanting to burn fuel on a long ascent, Fink leveled out at four thousand feet, and proceeded on an easterly course that took him over a barren, flat patchwork of square and rectangular brown fields flecked with snow.

The Kalvesta facility came into view forty minutes after takeoff. Ramirez peered through the lenses of his high-powered Brunton binoculars and made some initial observations while they were still several miles away.

“I’ll need to get closer to take any useful pictures, but from what I’m seeing we’ve got ourselves a mini Fort Knox,” he told Fink. “Lots of manpower, lots of guns, and lots of fencing.”

Fink retrieved his phone to report that initial assessment to Cain, when his cockpit radio sparked to life.

“Unidentified aircraft, you are flying in restricted U.S. military airspace. Alter course heading two-seven-zero and maintain at least ten miles from point north thirty-eight degrees, three minutes, thirty-four seconds; west one hundred degrees, seventeen minutes, eleven seconds.”

It was not a smart move to have passed so close. Clearly with so much at stake, including his own life, Allaire was moving quickly.

Fink altered their course without hesitation.

“Roger that and all apologies,” he said into his headset. “Was unaware of any military activity here. Changing to a heading of two-seven-zero as instructed.”

“Thank you, aircraft. And have a pleasant day.”

Fink switched the radio to intercom mode, cursed out loud, and then spoke to Ramirez via their headset microphones.

“For now is right, there, sport,” he said. “We’re going to have to make this a ground operation.”

“No problem,” Ramirez replied, with the binoculars still pressed to his eyes.

The Cessna completed its sharp turn to course correct and again leveled off. Ramirez no longer had visual of the facility that was now directly behind them. But moments later, he tapped Fink on the arm because something else had caught his attention.

“Take a look,” Ramirez said, passing over the binoculars.

The heading change had put the Cessna directly above a red Ford Taurus that was pulled over on a particularly barren stretch of road, just five miles from the entrance to the Kalvesta facility. Fink piloted the plane with his knees as he studied the scene below through the binoculars.

“You see?” Ramirez asked.

Fink nodded.

“Not a lot of traffic on this road at this hour,” he said.

“Or any hour, I would bet.”

“Not every day you see somebody being helped out of the trunk of a car either.”

“Not every day,” Ramirez agreed. “Doesn’t look like she was in there unwilling either.”

“Not if after you get out of the trunk, you jump into the front seat like she just did.” Fink handed the binoculars back to Ramirez. “Can you get a plate number from here?” he asked.

“I can.”

Fink took out his phone.

“Cain, it’s Fink. You read me?”

“I’m here,” Cain answered.

“Can you run a license plate for me?”

“Give me the numbers.”

Fink kept the Taurus in view while he recited the plate numbers to Cain. The Taurus had pulled back onto the road and was continuing west on Route 156. A few minutes later, Fink’s phone beeped.

“The car is registered to the Kalvesta lab tech Melvin Forbush,” Cain said. “What’s going on?”

Fink explained the situation.

“Follow him. The no-fly zone tells me enough about security. Getting to Rhodes is going to take some planning.”

“Roger that.”

Fink increased the plane’s altitude, but not so much that he lost sight of the car as it traveled past Garden City and turned south onto U.S. 50.

“Anything of interest on Fifty South?” Fink asked.

Ramirez checked his map and said, “The only thing between here and Cimarron is Garden City Regional Airport.”

“Well then,” Fink said, “it looks like we’ll be returning the plane sooner than we planned.”

Angie’s odyssey from Denver was something of a nightmare. Engine problems delayed the flight for several hours, and then canceled it altogether. By the time she arrived in Midtown Manhattan it was nearly eleven in the morning. She used the time before her noon meeting with Sliplitz to buy some toiletries, makeup, a large Giants T-shirt, and a pair of yellow sweatpants, which she packed inside the carry-on she had borrowed from Melvin.

She slept in short bursts on the flight from Denver, awakening damp with perspiration from dreams reliving her clandestine departure from Kalvesta. The adventure began with a problem—Melvin reported that all vehicles leaving the compound were being inspected. After scouting the search procedure for more than an hour, he came up with a plan based, not surprisingly, on something he had seen in a movie.