The Omicron Legion (11 page)

“Which makes you his friend.”

“You ask me, everything’s relative. You get offed when I coulda done something about it and I got McCrackenballs to answer to.”

“Not a warm prospect.”

“Let me put it this way, lady: Given the choice of facing a pissed-off McCracken or climbing into a meat oven, I’d get the tenderizer ready every time.”

Chapter 11

THE BLACKHAWK HELICOPTER
sped McCracken and Wareagle north out of the jungle and Brazil. They crossed the border into Venezuela and landed at a small airfield, where a twin-engine plane was waiting. This brought them to a larger military airport just south of Caracas, where they were locked in a steaming, windowless room for nearly eight hours before being escorted back to the tarmac. Resting there was an unmarked 707, which had obviously been dispatched to pick them up.

“Where we headed, soldier?” Blaine asked a lieutenant who seemed to be in charge.

“I’m not at liberty to say, sir.”

“Classified info, is it?”

The lieutenant shrugged. He had been supervising the eight-man team that had attached themselves to Blaine and Johnny from the time they’d been lifted out of the jungle. On the plane the soldiers kept their guns at the ready. The men were keeping their distance, too, which told Blaine they had been briefed on exactly whom they were dealing with.

He didn’t bother contemplating the details of what had brought the Blackhawks into the jungle. There could have been any number of causes, including the ravaging of the complex and the loss of contact with Ben Norseman’s team.

Blaine asked the lieutenant no further questions, and the flight passed in silence, which gave him the chance to get much-needed rest. When the beginning of the jet’s descent jolted him awake, he could see the Washington skyline ahead in the early morning light. It was Friday, according to Blaine’s watch, 6:30
A.M.
It wasn’t much of a surprise that they were going to Washington. Word had obviously reached the capital that McCracken had interfered in the operations of a foreign government. A diplomatic nightmare, reparations certain to be demanded. The Brazilian authorities needed to be somehow appeased.

Through it all, when Blaine and Johnny’s eyes met the message was clear: The
Wakinyan
had fled the jungle ahead of them. They had somehow survived the fuel air explosive that had torn away a patch of the Amazon Basin. They had stolen Luis’s boat and escaped. Above everything else, whoever was waiting for Blaine in Washington had to be made to understand the ramifications of that. The Omicron Project had to be fully investigated. Somebody’s problem was running free now, and, if what Blaine had seen was any indication at all, the mayhem was just beginning.

The 707 came in for a landing at Dulles Airport and pulled up to the diplomatic terminal situated off by itself to the south of the main complex. Again Blaine and Johnny glanced at each other and nodded.

Blaine looked out his window and saw a black stretch limousine parked just off the tarmac. He could see nothing through its blacked-out windows. The lieutenant came down the aisle and beckoned him to rise.

“Let’s go, Mr. McCracken.”

“I still hold my rank, soldier. It’s captain to you.”

“Yes,
sir.
”

Blaine realized a congestion of soldiers had taken up positions enclosing Wareagle.

“He goes or neither of us does, soldier.”

“I have my orders, sir.”

“They come from that limo out there?”

“I wouldn’t know, sir.”

“Wanna go out and check?”

“Negative, sir.”

“Look, son. The Indian and I have been nice to you fellas. Didn’t embarrass you all by escaping, and didn’t give you any trouble at all. Now there’s eight of you and two of us, and you got guns, sure. But either you let the Indian walk off with us, or he and I will end up walking out of here together and alone.
Capisce,
Lieutenant?”

The soldiers stood there like mirror images of each other, thoughts straying to the guns they would still have to raise or draw to make use of. McCracken looked at Wareagle and watched him tighten just a little.

The lieutenant relented with the slightest of smiles, his own way of saving face. “I can take the two of you as far as the limousine, Captain. From there on, you’ll have to deal with whoever’s inside.”

“For sure.”

One of the limo’s rear windows slid down as they approached.

“I should have known better than to expect a private conference,” came a woman’s voice from within.

“Maxie,” said Blaine, “what a pleasant surprise.”

“Save it, Blaine, dear, and just get in here with your Indian friend.” And then, to the soldiers, “They’re in my charge now. You’ve done well to all still be in one piece.”

Virginia Maxwell opened the door herself so Blaine and Johnny could step inside the limo. Maxwell was an elegantly dressed and coifed woman in her mid-forties, her glamour evidently better suited for a different post. Barely six years before she had taken over the directorship of the most secret of the country’s secret organizations. Several years prior to that, when the CIA had come under increasing scrutiny and the methods of the NSA under fire, a gap resulted in what the intelligence community needed to accomplish and what it could effectively get away with. The new organization created to handle the stickiest matters worked between traditional three-letter organizations in order to fill the gap. Hence its name: the Gap.

Virginia Maxwell was only its second director, and she had proved to be an effective one. Her most important contribution had been to pull the Gap even further out of the mainstream, away from jurisdictional squabbles and congressional scrutiny. She held no meetings with presidents or their advisors unless she was the only person in attendance. If the Gap was to deal with what slipped into the crevices, then it had to be treated as a crevice itself.

Of course, this did not mean Virginia Maxwell had any desire to reside in a crevice herself. Her hair was perfectly styled, perfectly blond. Not a wrinkle showed anywhere on her face, including the soft skin around her eyes. Her teeth were actress bright, the same shade, it seemed, as the pearl necklace around her neck. She wore a mink coat and the biggest diamond McCracken had ever seen. One wrist showed a sapphire bracelet, the other a diamond-studded Rolex watch.

Wareagle followed McCracken inside and had trouble positioning his head comfortably under the big car’s roof.

“I only wanted him to wait in the jet for his own comfort,” said Virginia Maxwell.

“Whatever you say, Maxie,” Blaine followed.

“But as long as he’s here…”

“Just why
are
we here?”

“Patience, my dear. Look at you, Blaine. All that time in gorgeous Brazil and not a bit of tan to show for it.”

“The jungle makes for a great sunscreen.”

“There’s less of it to make for anything now, I’m told,”

“The Indian and I got careless roasting marshmallows.”

“Not the only thing that got roasted I’ve heard.”

“Just what have you heard, Maxie?”

“Let’s take a drive, shall we?”

“Whatever you say.”

The limo left Dulles and headed for Washington. Traffic was just beginning to thicken, and they made decent time.

“Awful the things we get that no one else wants to touch, my dear,” Virginia Maxwell told him.

“I know the feeling.”

“Ben Norseman—I think you know him?”

“Not anymore.”

“Of course. In any case, he sent out a distress signal that reached several of our South American strongholds. Had the big brass scrambling, let me tell you, dear. But that doesn’t mean they knew how to handle it, or that they wanted to. They woke me out of a sound sleep, and I wasn’t too happy about it.”

“The troops in the Blackhawks…”

“Gap men, dear. Finding you was quite a surprise to them. That gorgeous young lieutenant opted to ferry you out in one of his birds, while the other went to survey Norseman’s last known position. Actually it’s quite a coincidence, because I’ve been trying to track you down for days.” Virginia Maxwell reached into her Gucci briefcase and came out with a handful of file folders. “Do you play Trivial Pursuit, Blaine, my dear?”

McCracken shook his head. “I wasn’t around for too much of the trivia.”

“Then let’s play our own version, shall we? I’ll hand you a file, and you tell me what you know about the subject, starting with this one….”

McCracken accepted the first folder and opened it. A thick Oriental face looked back at him. The photo was grainy, obviously pulled from another source and enhanced by computer.

“Hired killer named Khan,” Blaine said, without checking the nameplate. “A Mongolian. Especially brutal. Big man. Bigger than me. Not as big as Johnny.”

“One for one, my dear. Now number two.” Virginia Maxwell handed him the second folder.

“Israeli named Moshe Berg. Killed lots of Arabs illegally and then disappeared before he could be brought to trial. Has been a free-lancer ever since and does quite well.”

“Two for two,” the head of the Gap said, and handed him a third folder.

McCracken opened it. “Here’s a good one. Female killer known only as Mira. Lots of aliases. Specialist in political assassinations. Equally legendary in bed.”

“Let’s move on to number four, Blaine.”

“This is Nelson Fox, the size of a whole offensive line. Big-time mercenary and now an equally big-time assassin. Maxie, what the hell is going on here?”

“Still two to go, my dear, and you’re batting a thousand.”

Blaine accepted number five. “Shahim Tafir. Learned his trade under Abu Nidal and graduated to the international contract arena. Money is most dear to him. He’s even worked for Israel on a few occasions. Maxie—”

“Just one more, dear.”

“Jonathan Weetz. Got his start in the mob before he had hair on his balls. Killed his first man at the age of fourteen. This guy’s an anachronism, built for the days when the five families would hit the mattresses and war it out with one another. He likes to kill, and if the price is right, he’ll kill anyone.”

Virginia Maxwell slapped her well-creamed hands together. “You made a perfect score.”

“What gives, Maxie?”

“What would you say if I told you all six were in this country at the same time?”

“I’d say maybe Disneyland appeals to them as a vacation spot.”

“And if it didn’t?”

“I’d say, given their backgrounds, that it was impossible.”

“Almost. Odds of roughly a million and a half to one against it happening. Except it did. Each of these killers has been positively identified sometime in the past ten days.”

“On business, you think?”

“That’s what I need you to find out. Just how good are they, my dear?”

“Six of the ten best in the world maybe, and you’re looking at two of the others right here.”

“My, my, my…Eight of the top ten in my jurisdiction as we speak. Two working for me…and the other six for someone else.”

“That’s jumping to conclusions, Maxie.”

“Not really. They couldn’t all be in America if the circumstances were any different. The odds, remember?”

“I meant about Johnny and me working for you.”

“You’re the only ones capable of finding out what they’re doing here. You’re the only ones who can stop them.”

“Running short of field men at the Gap?”

“None of them are fortunate enough to be in the top ten, Blaine, dear,”

“Love to help, Maxie, but the Indian and I’ve got some other concerns on our mind.”

“Brazil?”

“Not anymore.”

“Pray tell. I’m dying to hear.”

“Lots of people are going to be dying, Maxie. Lots more than already have….”

McCracken proceeded to outline everything that had happened. He started with receiving Carlos Salomao’s phone call, springing Wareagle from jail, and then their trek into the Amazon. He became more specific when it came to the ravaged complex and their cat-and-mouse game with the
Wakinyan.

“They escaped the jungle because they had somewhere else to go,” Blaine said at last.

“Interesting conclusion, dear.”

“And obvious.”

“Thirteen of them, you say?”

“That’s how many cubicles there were.”

“Twelve along the corridor and one behind a door at the end of it.”

“You’re a good listener, Maxie.”

“Apparently not good enough. I lost you somewhere around the time you claimed these—what did you call them?”

“
Wakinyan.
” Blaine nodded toward Johnny. “Indian word that means Thunder Beings.”

“So you claim these Thunder Beings lived at a secret American research station they later destroyed.”

“And it’s part of something called the Omicron Project.”

Virginia Maxwell seemed to lose the slightest bit of her legendary composure. “As in the Greek letter?”

“For sure. Believe me, I’ve had experience with Greek letters before.” And he produced the leathery report cover recovered from the complex’s shredder.

“The Omicron Project,” read Virginia Maxwell, both bemused and mystified.

“Ever hear of it?”

“Absolutely, my dear. The Gap, and thus the humble I, was in charge of security for the project.”

“Not up to your usual standards, Maxie.”

“You didn’t let me finish. I spoke in the past tense for good reason. The Omicron Project was abandoned three years ago.”

“Then what did Johnny and I come across in the jungle?”

“Haven’t the foggiest, but let me check something….”

She shifted over to the center of the limo, where a seat faced a CRT screen and computer. She pressed a few keys, selected the proper menu entry, and waited for her selection to appear.

“Pentagon liaison for the Omicron Project was General Berlin Hardesty.”

“Is that supposed to mean something to me?” McCracken asked her.

“It will. General Hardesty was murdered in his home ten days ago by a woman believed to be Mira.”

“So Hardesty gets whacked, then a week later the installation under his jurisdiction gets wiped out.”

“
Omicron
was under his jurisdiction, my dear, not this installation.”