Starfire (21 page)

“Wohl,” the man said. “Chris Wohl.”

It took a few long moments, but finally Brad's face brightened. “I remember you,” he said. “Marine Corps sergeant. You're a friend of my father.”

“I was never a friend of your father,” Wohl said in a low voice, almost a whisper. “He was my commanding officer. That's all.”

“You own the house I'm staying in?” Wohl said nothing. “What is going on, Sergeant?”

“Sergeant Major,” Wohl said. “Retired.” He finished what he was doing on the smartphone, which plunged his scarred face back into darkness.

“How did you know those guys were in the house?”

“Surveillance,” Wohl said.

“You're watching the house, or me?” Wohl said nothing. Brad paused for a few moments, then said, “Those guys sounded Russian.”

“They are.”

“Who are they?”

“Former Federal Security Bureau agents, working for a guy named Bruno Ilianov,” Wohl said. “Ilianov is an intelligence officer, with an official posting as a deputy air attaché in Washington with diplomatic credentials. He reports directly to Gennadiy Gryzlov. Ilianov was on the West Coast recently.”

“Gryzlov? You mean, Russian president Gryzlov? Related to the former president of Russia?”

“His oldest son.”

“What do they want with me?”

“We're not sure,” Wohl said, “but he's on some sort of campaign against the McLanahans. He had agents break into your father's crypt and steal his urn and other items inside.”

“
What?
When did this happen?”

“Last Saturday morning.”

“Last Saturday! Why didn't anyone tell me?” Wohl did not answer. “What about my aunts? Were they told?”

“No. We have them under surveillance as well. We think they're safe.”

“Safe? Safe like me? Those guys had guns and they got into the house. They said they'd kill me.”

“They tried to make it look like an accident, a drug overdose,” Wohl said. “They were sloppy. We detected them a couple days ago. We haven't detected anyone around your sisters. They might not know about them, or they might not be targets.”

“Who's ‘we'? Are you the police? FBI? CIA?”

“No.”

Brad waited several moments for some elaboration but never received any. “Whom do you work for, Sergeant Major?”

Wohl took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Your father belonged to several . . . private organizations before he took over at Sky Masters,” he said. “Those organizations did contract work for the government and other entities, using some new technologies and weapon systems designed for the military.”

“The Tin Man armor and Cybernetic Infantry Device manned robots,” Brad said matter-of-factly. Wohl's head snapped over in surprise, and Brad could feel rather than see the big man's breathing slow to a stop. “I know about them. I was even trained in the CID. I piloted one back in Battle Mountain. Some Russians tried to assassinate my father. I squished them up inside a car.”

“Shit,” Wohl murmured under his breath. “You've piloted a CID?”

“Sure did,” Brad said with a big smile.

Wohl shook his head. “Liked it, didn't you?”

“They shot up my house looking for my father,” Brad said, a little defensively. “I'd do it again if I had to.” He paused for a few moments, then added, “But yes, I did. The CID is one heck of a piece of hardware. We should be building thousands of them.”

“The power gets to you,” Wohl said. “Your father's friend—and mine—General Hal Briggs got drunk on it, and it killed him. Your father ordered me to do . . . missions with the CID and Tin Man outfits, and we were successful, but I could see how the power was affecting me, so I quit.”

“My father didn't die in a CID robot.”

“I know exactly what happened out on Guam,” Wohl said. “He disregarded the safety of his unit and even his own son to strike back at the Chinese. Why? Because he had a bomber and weapons, and he decided on his own to use them. It was nothing but a pinprick . . .”

“The Chinese gave up right after the strike, didn't they?”

“Some Chinese military and civilian leaders staged a countercoup days after the attack,” Wohl said. “It had nothing to do with your attack. It was a coincidence.”

“I guess you're the expert,” Brad said. Wohl shook his head but said nothing. “Who do you work for, Sergeant Major?” Brad repeated.

“I'm not here to answer a bunch of questions, McLanahan,” Wohl snapped. “My orders were to intercept the hit team and keep you safe. That's it.”

“I'm not leaving campus, Sergeant Major,” Brad said. “I've got a lot of work to do.”

“I don't give a shit,” Wohl said. “My orders are to keep you safe.”

“Orders? Whose orders?” No reply. “If you're not going to answer, then I'll speak to your boss. But I can't leave school. I just started.” Wohl remained silent. After a few minutes, Brad repeated, “How long did you work for my father?”

“For a while,” Wohl said after a few moments. “And I didn't work
for
him: I was under his command, his noncommissioned officer in charge.”

“You don't sound happy about it.”

Wohl glanced in Brad's direction, then turned back and looked out the window, and was silent for several long moments; then, finally: “After . . . after your mother was killed, your father . . . changed,” Wohl said in a quiet voice. “In all the years I've known him, he was always a guy on a mission, hard-charging and kick-ass, but . . .” He took another deep breath before continuing: “But after your mother was killed, he took on a meaner, deadlier edge. It was no longer about protecting the nation or winning a conflict, but about . . . killing, even killing or threatening Americans, anyone who stood in the way of victory. The power he was given seemed to be going to his head, even after he quit Scion Aviation International and got the corporate job at Sky Masters. I put up with it for a while until I thought it was getting out of control, and then I quit.”

“Quit? Why didn't you try to help him instead?”

“He was my commanding officer,” Wohl responded woodenly. “I do not counsel superior officers unless they request it.”

“That's bullshit, Wohl,” Brad said. “If you saw my dad was hurting, you should have helped, and screw that superior-officer shit. And I never saw any of that other stuff. My dad was a good father, a volunteer, and a dedicated executive who loved his family, his community, his country, and his company. He wasn't a killer.”

“You never saw it because he shields you from all that,” Wohl said. “He's a different guy around you. Besides, you were a typical kid—your head was up and locked in your ass most of the time.”

“You're full of it, Sergeant Major,” Brad said. He again caught a glimpse of Wohl's heavily lined face in the glare of an oncoming truck's headlights. “What happened to your face?”

“None of your business,” Wohl grumbled.

“You've been spying on me for who knows how long, and I can't ask you one lousy personal question?” Brad asked. “I think you were in the Marine Corps too long.”

Wohl half turned to Brad as if he was going to argue with him, but did not, and turned back toward the window. After a few moments, he took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “The American Holocaust,” he said finally. “You've heard of it, I assume?”

“Sarcasm, Sergeant Major? It doesn't suit you, and it's inappropriate. Tens of thousands were killed.”

“Your father planned and executed the American counterattack,” Wohl said, ignoring Brad's remark. “Waves of bombers spread out over much of western and central Russia, hunting down mobile intercontinental ballistic missiles. I was his noncommissioned officer in charge at Yakutsk, the Siberian air base he commandeered.”

It took a few seconds, but then Brad recognized the name of the air base, and his mouth dropped open in surprise. “Oh,
shit,
” he breathed. “You mean . . . the base that was
hit by Russian nuclear cruise missiles
?”

Wohl did not react, but fell silent again for several moments. “Obviously I didn't get a lethal dose of radiation—I was wearing Tin Man battle armor—but I had the greatest exposure to radiation of anyone except General Briggs,” he said finally. “Forty-seven survivors from that Russian underground shelter died from radiation-caused diseases over the years. It's just taking a bit longer for me.”

“My God, Sergeant Major, I'm sorry,” Brad said. “The pain must be terrible.” Wohl glanced over at Brad, a little surprised to hear the tone of empathy coming from the young man, but he said nothing. “Maybe that's what killed General Briggs. Maybe the radiation made him take risks. Maybe he knew he was dying and decided to go out fighting.”

“Now look who's the expert,” Wohl murmured.

They followed Highway 101 north, occasionally taking side roads and doubling back, looking for any signs of shadowing. Every few minutes when they found a highway overpass they pulled over, and one of the men in the SUV would get out, carrying what looked like very large multilensed binoculars. “What's he doing, Sergeant Major?” Brad asked.

“Searching for aerial pursuers,” Wohl replied. “We know the Russians employ unmanned aircraft to spy on military bases and other classified facilities over the United States, and Gryzlov was a Russian Air Force officer. He would definitely have that kind of hardware. He's using infrared binoculars that can detect heat sources in the air or on the ground for several miles.” A few minutes later the man reentered the SUV, and they were back on their way.

About an hour after leaving San Luis Obispo they turned in at the airport road outside the city of Paso Robles. The driver entered a code into an electronic lock, and the tall chain-link gate opened to admit them onto the airport grounds. They drove along quiet, dark taxiways, illuminated only by small blue lights on the edges, until coming to a large aircraft hangar surrounded on three sides by another chain-link fence, with only the aircraft entrance to the parking ramp and taxiway open. This time, instead of a code, the driver pressed a thumb against an optical reader, and the lock opened with a quiet buzz.

The interior of the very large hangar was dominated by a gray General Atomics MQ-1B Predator remotely piloted aircraft parked on the left side of the hangar. The words
CUSTOMS
AND
BORDER
PROTECTION
and the agency's shield were emblazoned on the front side of the aircraft, but this definitely didn't look like a government facility. Brad went to look it over, but a guy wearing jeans and a black T-shirt and carrying a submachine gun slung in a quick-draw rig on his shoulders moved between him and the Predator and stood with his hands crossed before him, silently and plainly warning him to stay away.

Brad walked back over to Chris Wohl, who had been speaking with the men that were in his SUV and some others. In the half illumination of the hangar he could get a better look at the deep etchings on Wohl's face, and he could also see skin damage around his neck and on both hands. “What is this place, Sergeant Major?” he asked.

“Someplace safe, for now,” Wohl replied.

“Who are these—”

“I'm not going to answer questions right now,” Wohl said gruffly. “If you're supposed to know any more, you'll be told.” He motioned to a cabinet along one wall near the Predator. “There's coffee and water over there if you want. Don't go near the aircraft again.” He turned away from Brad and began speaking with the others again.

Brad shook his head and decided to head over to see if they had anything to eat, regretting not taking Jodie up on any of her offers—meals or otherwise. He found a bottle of cold water in a refrigerator, but instead of drinking it, he put it on the side of his head to soothe the impact area where the Russian had clubbed him. A few minutes later he heard an aircraft of some kind outside the hangar, approaching the area, sounding as if it was moving very quickly. Wohl and the other men stopped talking and turned toward the hangar door as the aircraft sounds outside became a bit quieter as the engines were pulled back to idle. Just as Brad was going to go back to Wohl and ask him what was going on, the lights dimmed even further and the bifold hangar door began to open.

After the door was fully opened, a twin-tailed C-23C Sherpa small cargo aircraft taxied inside. It had an American flag and a civil N-number on the tail, but no other military markings, and it was painted jet black instead of the usual gray. It taxied right inside the hangar with its big turboprop propellers turning, and Brad, Wohl, and the others were forced to back away as the aircraft moved all the way inside. Directed by a linesman with a submachine gun on a shoulder rig, it taxied forward until it was signaled to stop, and then the engines cut off. The big bifold hangar doors started to motor closed as soon as the engines began to wind down. The smell of jet exhaust was strong.

A moment later a passenger door on the left side of the aircraft behind the cockpit windows opened up, and there appeared a big soldier-looking guy wearing a suit and tie—and with the noticeable bulge of a weapon under his jacket—followed immediately by a shorter man with a suit but no tie, rather long gray hair, and a neatly trimmed gray beard; at the same time the cargo door/ramp on the rear of the aircraft began to motor open. Wohl and the other men stepped over to the second newcomer, and they all shook hands. They spoke for a few moments, and then Wohl nodded toward Brad, and the second newcomer approached him, unbuttoning his jacket.

“Mr. Bradley James McLanahan,” the newcomer said in a loud, dramatic, very politician-sounding voice when he was still several paces away. “It's been a long time. You probably don't remember me. I certainly wouldn't have recognized you.”