The Missile Game (The Dr. Scott James Thriller Series Book 1) (10 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Farmhouse

Ellsbury, North Carolina

2:31 pm

ELIZABETH KEYES LAID THE cardboard tube on the large table upstairs, and then pulled out the stolen hospital plans. The architectural drawi
ngs of the Jackson City Hospital were immense in size and exceedingly complicated. It was virtually impossible to follow the many alterations that had been made to the structure in the past ten years.

The Penthouse was the problem. This was the logical place, Keyes believed, for the location of Alpha Charlie’s drone controls, but a dozen different renditions had been drawn.

Taking care of Scott James over the last twenty-four hours had diverted her from actively searching for Alpha Charlie. That wasn’t good for her. Her most recently received text had been the most demanding of them all: CELENA, CALL MY NUMBER BY LANDLINE WHEN CHARLIE IS IN HIS CONTROL SITE. IMMEDIATELY MY MISSILES WILL BE LAUNCHED. IF YOU FAIL, THE REPLACEMENT WILL COME FOR YOU. J.H.

On two separate occasions, Keyes had crawled through the ductwork of the Penthouse and had then entered every room and closet in the sixth-floor suite, but she’d been unable to find the drone controls.

Now she couldn’t find them on the drawings, either. Originally, one of the four elevators serving the hospital had opened into the center of the Penthouse. On the latest version of the drawings, however, the elevator going to the Penthouse was closed on all floors except the sub-basement, and inside Waters’ private office. The same was true of the backup stairway for that elevator.

After carefully studying all versions of the architectural blueprints of the hospital structure, as well as maps of the surrounding grounds, Keyes had come up empty. There was no sign of a control center, or a place to
hide
a control center. Maybe the initial intelligence she’d received had been wrong.

She’d have to get deeper inside Herb Waters’ little fortress, but
virtually
. She began working through all the hacking protocols she’d learned. First, she’d need to find out how to get into the hospital’s website.

Then she’d figure out how to get to Herb Waters.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

The Penthouse, Jackson City Hospital

2:35 pm

“GODDAMN IT TO FUCKING hell!” Waters screamed.

Shirley Moss was used to that kind of profane outburst from Waters. But when it was followed by the crashing sound of a chair hitting the wall and his shout to “Get your ass in here!” she knew he was more upset than usual.

Moss walked two steps inside the door and
stood there quietly as Waters hovered over his desk. His heavily-creased face was deeply tanned. Shirley suspected his dark brown hair was mostly gray, judging by the bottles of hair coloring that were often in his desk drawer. His massive, well-muscled chest and arms bulged against his always starched and pressed white shirts.

“Someone was here!” Waters yelled. “Who was it?” His face was red and the large veins in his neck and face bulged.

Michael Jefferson, Waters’ enormous “security guard,” who was much more like a professional intimidator than anything else, waved a silver metal rod over the entry door, the wall around the entry door, and the carpet. A low-frequency hum issued as the rod moved past Waters’ office door. The hulking Jefferson turned to look at Waters.

“Goddamn it to fucking hell!” Waters shouted again as he picked a quarter-inch brown “spot” from the door, just above the upper hinge. He shoved it in Shirley’s face. The miniature transmitting device looked like a ladybug, with three tiny wires protruding from one end. Waters then ceremoniously threw it on the floor and stomped on it.

“Why would someone want to plant a microphone in your office?” Shirley asked.

“Who the fuck knows?” Waters barked, lying, knowing that there were lots of people who wanted to bug his office, his car, and his home. Shaking his finger at Shirley, he barked, “I don’t give a fuck who it is; if you ever let anybody else enter this office, I’ll can your ass!”

Shirley looked down and returned to her desk.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Keyes’ Apartment

3:45 pm

I WOKE UP THIRSTY, my throat parched. The ice cubes in the glass of water Keyes had left on the nightstand had melted, but the cold water soothed my sore throat. My back was stiff from lying down. It felt good to stand and walk around after being in bed for so long.

The newspaper Keyes had left was creased as if it had been folded for reading. Opening it, I saw the reason she’d left it. There was a two-page ad by Jackson City Hospital with the headline: “Our Hospital is One of the Best in the Southeast: Let Us Serve Your Every Need.” The ad copy consisted of two columns listing the names and credentials of the outstanding, board-certified physicians on staff, covering all fields of medicine and surgery. On and on the hospital bragged about their caring, competent service to the community.

Notably missing were any references to any of the events of the past few weeks.

I was worried about Waters and I knew he was going to sell the hospital. It reminded me that the world was still turning, and that I had to return a phone call.

I called the home of my friend, Andy Fowler, who’d been in a master’s program in hospital administration while I was a resident surgeon in plastic surgery. He now worked at American Hospital Systems (AHS), and when I was doing research on the hospital sale the previous month, Andy was my primary source of information. After several unanswered rings, the call went to voicemail, and I left a message. “This is Scott James. I need to talk to Andy as soon as possible. It’s important.”

A minute later, my cell phone rang and a sobbing Frances Fowler spoke four words before hanging up: “Don’t call here. Ever!”

Ten minutes later, my phone rang again. It was Frances Fowler. “I was afraid to talk on the home phone. They’re listening to all my calls, so I use my cell phone. I buried Andy three weeks ago. They said it was a heart attack, but I know they killed him.”

“I’m sorry, Frances. I had no idea.” I was so stunned and devastated to hear of Andy’s death that I didn’t absorb her last words at first. “Who killed him?”

“They’re after me now, and it’s your fault!” Frances said. “That letter you wrote to your newspaper led to Andy’s death. They told him not to give out any information about AHS buying your hospital. His boss ordered him a month ago not to talk to you. The day after your newspaper article was published, Andy went to work feeling fine. He called me when he got to his office and whispered that he was in big trouble.”

Her voice trembled as she spoke through her tears. “He told me he was scared. That he’d been beaten. And if something happened to him, not to call you. He was afraid they’d do something to me. An hour later, I got a call saying he was dead.”

“Did you go to the police?”

“Yes. But nobody listened to me because I had three psychiatric visits for… a little problem … over a year ago, and they found out.”

“Who found out?”

“The men Andy worked for. Doctors’ records are supposed to be confidential, but they knew of my office visits and that I had two prescriptions for Prozac.”

“Didn’t the police see the body? If someone beat him, there would have been cuts or bruises.”

“No. Andy was cremated—without me first seeing his body and without my consent.”

“That’s against the law!”

“These people at AHS
are
the law. They own the police, the coroner, even my psychiatrist. I’ve read about your situation, Scott. Aren’t they doing the same thing to you?”

“Yes, Frances, they are. I just need to find out who ‘they’ are. That’s why I was calling—”

She started to cry. “There’s one. He’s horrible. He was with Andy when he died. His name is Joshua Brightman. He’s a scary-looking man, tall, maybe six-five, huge, built like a pro wrestler, with a long stringy ponytail and strange blue eyes that seem to stare right through you.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. A shot of adrenaline bolted through my veins. “Oh my God. Did you say a huge guy with a blond ponytail?”

Abruptly, her crying ceased. “That’s them!” she said. “They’re right behind me!”

“Who?”

“A woman and two children! They’re following me!”

The connection cut off.

Is Frances Fowler just paranoid? Am I paranoid? Did she just describe the attendant I saw in the ICU leaving Keyes’ bedside?

Frantic, I tried calling her back. I tried three times. It was clear she’d turned off her phone.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Hangar 4

Camp Peary, Virginia

3:46 pm

THERE WERE MANY MORE targets, and Alpha Charlie was the man to take them out. First, though, he wanted to make the DE Laser operational. Once that was accomplished, the DE system would be transferred to the drones in the Middle East. The afternoon’s practice run was important to him.

As Charlie was getting comfortable in his chair, the MQ-1 Predator rolled from its hangar and flew into the air from Camp Peary. At the same time, a remote-controlled Jeep left a helicopter hangar at Fort Eustis, drove slowly away from the airport, past the shooting range, and then down a variety of dirt roads constructed by the base engineers to mimic battlefields. As the Jeep approached an open field surrounded by bunkers, a blue light glowed on the dashboard, signaling that missile targeting radar was surveying the area. Practiced in evasive moves that simulated what an expert driver would do in combat situations, the Jeep’s remote control operator accelerated the vehicle and moved it to the center of the field.

The Jeep’s brakes slammed on. The vehicle reversed itself.

Charlie sat, impatiently tapping his foot, until an Apache helicopter, hovering roughly five miles away, launched a Hellfire missile aimed at the Jeep.

The light on the Jeep’s dashboard changed to red; the Hellfire radar had locked on; The missile would strike in eight seconds. Before it hit, Charlie would have to fire the DE Laser and incinerate it. The laser beam traveled at the speed of light and would strike the target at almost the same time it was fired. The challenge, therefore, was in holding the sights on the fast-moving target.

The Jeep shifted gears and screeched forward, circling the field at thirty miles per hour with the red radar warning light flashing.

Knowing the brevity of his opportunity, Charlie kept his eye on the missile from the second it launched. Weizman’s laser had sufficient energy to discharge eight times. In the excitement of his first testing of the system, it took Charlie precious seconds to get his sights on the Hellfire. He felt stiff as he pulled his trigger twice.

And missed.

He sighted and fired four more times, but each time he was too late. He couldn’t score a hit on the Hellfire before it blew up the Jeep—in spectacular computer screen glory.

He had failed.

He pounded the desk with his fist and shouted, “Goddamn it!” into his mic.

Edwards’ star trigger man had missed.

Edwards barked out his analysis. “First of all, that Hellfire was moving at Mach 1.3, 950 miles per hour. Even though Weizman thinks his laser will kill at Mach 2, 1,500 miles per hour, that may not be a reality. But before you undercut his prediction, you should practice more with your controls. Practice is something you’ve done little of, Charlie.”

Charlie bristled. He squeezed his fists so tight that his knuckles went white.

Edwards continued. “You overpowered the targeting mechanism. Weizman said the DE controls respond to electrostatic charges of hands near the controls. You should manually sight the gun up to the moment of firing and then ease your hands off to allow the target reference to take over.”

Charlie stood and put his face in the camera. “I know what the fuck I’m doing! I wanna try again. Now, get off your ass and recharge the DE. Call me when you’re ready!”

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Keyes’ Apartment

3:50 pm

THE NEWS OF ANDY’S death unnerved me, to say the least. And the name “Joshua Brightman” echoed in my head. My sole ally in researching Waters’ dealings with AHS, Andy Fowler, was dead. Swiftly cremated, in fact. The only people, besides me, who’d ever questioned Herb Waters’ management of the Jack
son City Hospital, Cabot Barnes and Quinton Jolly, were also dead. Were the deaths truly related? Were they indeed
murders
—all of them? Could Waters’ be so desperate to keep things a secret that he would go on a killing spree? He could if he could make it all look like an accident.

My mouth was still dry and still tasted awful, no doubt from the drugs I’d given myself. I brushed my teeth over the kitchen sink, threw some water on my face and combed my hair. I looked around for a razor, but couldn’t find one.

I went into Keyes’ bedroom, to go to her bathroom. With all the power cables stretched across the floor, connected to a dozen odd-looking electronic boxes, it was difficult to walk without tripping. She was into electronics big time, apparently. Every surface was covered with them.

Brushing past her worktable, I saw a canvas shopping bag filled with documents, lying on its side, next to two TV screens and an electrical circuitry diagram. There were several papers splayed over the carpet beside the bed, too, including some official looking documents that she’d obviously wadded up in anger, and flung off the bed. In the middle of the debris, I saw a page of rough brown stationary, with handwriting on it: “Celena, Bombings resuming in Islamic State. Hormand is ready to proceed. Target must be located soon. Our missiles are ready to fire. Quasart.”

I stopped in my tracks.

There was another handwritten message in what looked like Arabic.

I couldn’t help but start to look around.

I knelt down and picked up a blurry memo that had been photocopied numerous times. It was from a CIA director in Langley, Virginia: “Terror alert red. Target, Mid-Atlantic region. Pakistani Operatives possibly assisting ISIL/ISIS.” It was dated four days ago.

My mind started racing.

I looked nearby for anything that might explain what I was looking at, but found nothing. Standing up, I looked around the room and spotted a shredder next to the dresser filled with strips of stationary of the same type as the intact message from Quasart. In the jaws of the shredder I found a business card made of a thicker version of the coarsely textured paper. The shredder had chewed away only a third of the card. After flattening the ridges created by the shredding, I could decipher the printed name: “Harold Simpkins,” and a phone number. Below it was a handwritten address. It was hard to read, but I finally made it out. It was in Chapel Hill, 4360 Emmaus Church Road. There was another phone number, but I could read only five of the numbers: 919 55. The rest was smudged.

What does Keyes have to do with bombings in Pakistan? Why does Keyes have a CIA memo? Target?
I cringed.
What target is this Quasart going to strike?