Those Who Betray

By Bob McElwain

Eva has hard questions for Mark about his father's business, manufacturing parts for military aircraft. Mark isn't sure he wants to share. But he has questions of his own. Over dinner, they begin to make connections on a couple of different levels.

But there are those who don't want Eva's questions answered. In fact Eva may need to be eliminated. Mark's fate has already been decided.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Foremost Press
• Release date: Sep 10, 2010
• ISBN: 9781936154500

Book preview

THOSE WHO BETRAY

Bob McElwain

Published by ActionTales.com, an imprint of Foremost Press at Smashwords

Copyright 2002 Bob McElwain

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Note: I finished this tale in late 1991. Some things true then are not so today. For example, you can no longer walk onto the tarmac at Burbank Airport. And certainly not with a pistol. But one could back then.

CHAPTER 1

Watch it, kid. To the left. He strained to see more deeply into the heavy shadows beyond the dumpster. Near the corner of the bank.

Got a lock, Bucky said confidently.

It’s never so, the tall motionless figure snapped back. The hands gripping the Uzi were slippery with sweat. He wiped a palm on his pants. It wasn’t much help.

The coarse blond hair casually pulled together into a ponytail lay heavily upon his neck and the small of his back. In sharp contrast, the full beard was neatly trimmed. He shook his head as if to lighten the burden. It was a futile effort, but he’d known it would be.

It was one of those sweltering Miami nights, the air made heavy by approaching Hurricane Daniel. He squared heavy blocky shoulders. Then focused on obtaining oxygen from air in which it seemed oddly lacking.

The service area behind the mall was dark; yanking the main circuit breaker had assured that. The only illumination came from the half-moon; it faded in and out as storm clouds scuttled beneath it. Even in the near shadowless night, shifting patterns of lesser darkness raced across the asphalt, jumping parked cars and trucks, adding to the illusion that all was in motion. The gusting winds slapped his pants against his legs at odd moments.

He wasn’t expecting trouble, despite Tony DiAngelo’s suspicions of it being a setup. But it was his job to be ready.

Besides, any time five million bucks was being swapped for white powder, there could be trouble of the worst kind.

He and the kid were positioned at opposite ends of the eighteen-wheeler. He’d suggested they’d both be better off at the rear, with the cover of eight heavy tires. The kid had opted for the front, claiming there was a better field of fire.

He’d placed three other men in the cover of the warehouse to the North; they were responsible for all to their front.

Between him and them, hidden from view, was the limo. Behind the wheel, Tony DiAngelo. Another two men were close by.

All knew the priorities. First Tony D. Then the bucks. It would be unwise to survive if the bucks were lost, unless Tony D was lost as well. The possibility of the latter event occurring was extremely small. The man was sitting in a comfortable cocoon that was more a tank than a car.

Blinding light slammed into him as the black Caddy rounded the corner at the back of the mall, its high beams slashing through the night. Look away, kid he cautioned.

The name’s Bucky, not kid.

Just do it. His own eyes were still fixed on the corner of the bank to his left. He’d checked earlier. Could someone have gotten around that corner into the cover of the dumpster? Without being seen?

To his right, Tony started the engine in the limo. The headlights flicked on, then off. He tensed. They were targets now, if those approaching had brought guns instead of bucks.

As the Caddy closed, he eased up toward the back of the trailer, letting it block the moving headlights, but not his view of the bank.

Tires screamed. The Caddy’s lights suddenly swept to the North. He dashed for the trailer. The night erupted with a different light, a different storm. Rounds slapped at the asphalt beyond where he’d been standing. They’d been launched from beside the dumpster, sixty feet to his left.

Next to Tony’s limo, Carlos grabbed his gut, then tumbled out of sight. As he dove for cover behind the trailer’s wheels, the kid went down. Had it been by choice? He couldn’t say. Goddamn it! he screamed.

Prone under the double axles, he faced a man at either side of the dumpster, revealed in the backlight from their bucking Cobrays. At least their attention was focused on him, not the kid. He loosed three rounds. Then four. As he ducked back, he was rewarded with a high keening wail. Then a dying finger locked on a trigger and rounds arched into the night sky until the clip was emptied.

At the sound of fire from the kid, his heart leapt. The Caddy, he cried. He lunged up to one knee, took two precious seconds to sight through the notch in the tires, then fired. Five rounds. Then four more into the screaming figure reaching from cover, grabbing for an ankle.

When certain the man was out of it, he twisted and dove again for the ground. He sprayed the Caddy to the right, trying to decide how many guns were to be faced on this front. As the kid moved toward the front of the truck and fired, he reversed the taped clips, desperately trying to get a feel for what had become a battlefield.

Did the fire from the warehouse to the North outweigh the incoming rounds? It seemed so, but then Solly went down beside the limo. And he could be sure of nothing at all. Except that Tony D would be totally enraged by now.

He had no time for that. Or for the battle to the North. Those behind the Caddy must be driven inside. And away. He struggled to free two more sets of taped clips from his belt. He’d be left with only two. Would it be enough? Dumb. What in hell was enough?

He’d have to chance fire from the North. He settled the clips to the pavement, then hunched out around the heavy tires.

Go for it, kid. Now! he cried.

Both raked the Caddy from front to back with continuous bursts. Heads ducked. Three, maybe four men. He fired at motion, not at a defined figure. A three-round burst. Then four at another. Three figures lunged up together. He emptied the clip, then ducked back, trying to ignore rounds screaming off the pavement after zipping by within inches of his head.

As he reversed the clips, the kid fired again. Then his own Uzi was bucking. They had control. He was sure of that. If the luck held. When the clip hit empty he grabbed another set and jammed one home. He put down fire this time without taking any rounds.

When he heard the engine start, he knew they’d won this fight. The men at the warehouse were clearly winning theirs.

Maybe the kid knew it too. For he lurched out from the cover of the truck and emptied the clip at the moving Caddy. Then thrust the empty weapon at the moon. A gesture of triumph. Or a celebration of victory. Of survival, maybe.

A shot rang out. The roar mocked that of the autos still in use. Tony D’s .44 magnum. The kid crumpled to the ground as if the body had suddenly become old rags, still clinging to the Uzi.

He wasn’t part of any setup! I told you that!

For an instant, Tony’s snarl of rage was visible as the clouds cleared the moon. Slowly, deliberately, Tony lowered the magnum. The window began to close as the limo moved off.

You fucking bastard! He loosed the rest of the clip. But the angle to the turning limo was too small. The window had nearly closed before his finger had moved. The rounds ricocheted harmlessly away.

Suddenly he faced heavy incoming fire. Shaw and the others at the warehouse had a new target. Tony D would expect it to be taken out.

He grabbed the remaining pair of clips, scrambled out from beneath the trailer and ran, keeping the wheels between himself and the warehouse. Rounds notched pavement ahead of him to either side, urging the exhausted body to even greater speed. What had been rivulets of sweat flowed more heavily.

At the last instant he cut sharply left. Rounds followed him. By the time they anticipated his path, he had dived into the cover of the alley. His clumsy somersault brought him back to his feet. He whirled, driving a clip home. He stood swaying in the darkness, shoulders trembling as he fought for oxygen in the heavy air.

Come on, you shits! he screamed. He knew they would, because Tony D would demand explanations of failure. He also knew he had time; they would come slowly, cautiously, for they knew his work.

He whirled at the whisper of sound behind him, his finger pulling the last bit of slack out of the trigger. The shorter stocky man he faced had undoubtedly done the same with his own Uzi.

Brutal images made a joke of his efforts at rational thought. Of a man clutching his gut as he went down. Of the kid thrusting his weapon at the moon. Then a diabolical replay of his collapse to the ground.

What he wanted to do was pull the trigger. To hold it firmly. Until every round in the clip had plundered and pummeled the stout figure he faced. Don’t say it, Hank, he heard himself scream. Don’t say one fucking word!

You said you’d look after him.

Come off it, Hank. It’s the action that turns you on. You don’t give one shit about the body count.

A silence settled between them. An even greater tightness.

Then Hank asked softly, Why the play for Tony? Why toss away five years’ effort? The muzzle was steady.

Fuck you, Hank. His Uzi slammed into the concrete wall of the building, its tumbling clattering fall interrupted only by the asphalt. He listened. As if to something vitally important. Until the last echoes faded. Until silence reigned. Then, as if unaware of Hank’s weapon, he said more quietly, but with no less intensity. I’m outa here.

Who gave you the right to say it’s over?

Fuck you. He knew Hank wouldn’t fire. But his feet seemed suddenly to be frozen chunks of ice as he closed on the barrel of the Uzi. His dark blue eyes were black holes, unblinking, fixed on Hank’s. Then he was past, and the ice that had been his feet seemed to have shifted to the small of his back. Cold. Growing infinitely colder.

Two bursts ripped through the alley. He whirled, grabbing for the Smith in his belt. He dove for the cover of the wooden crate in time to see that Hank had done the same, clutching his left leg. Shaw and Rollins had made it into the alley.

He kicked the crate aside and fired. Twice. Shaw crumpled. As Rollins swung his piece, Hank loosed half a clip that cut the man in half.

Any more surprises? Hank growled.

There’s one more. I’ll cover.

Hank lunged up, hobbling quickly, awkwardly on the bad leg. The Smith remained fixed on the alley entrance until Hank muttered, Go.

Seconds later he was clear. Sirens screamed in the distance. Closing.

Why? Hank asked. We’re not exactly buddies.

Maybe because you didn’t shoot.

Tony will. First chance.

That’s so. The sirens were closer. He could see blue lights flashing in the distance.

Suddenly he was running. From the sirens and lights. From Hank. From the kid who’d never taste another steak. From other times. Other places he should not have been.

He dashed down a street he did not know. Did not care to know. In the distance Joe Robbie Stadium loomed against the racing clouds.

With each hundred yards he reached more deeply for remaining strength, wondering why the fans weren’t cheering the way they used to do. He decided it was because he now carried a gun.

CHAPTER 2

Admiral Shorn, Whip to all who knew him, sat at the long conference table flanked with other officers. Although the uniform had been tailored by one of the best in Washington, it hung on the barrel chested frame as if rented for Halloween night. The unruly silvery white hair was tended by the barber occasionally, but otherwise ignored. Bemused detachment was reflected in the dark brown eyes, but not in the heavy jaws and jowls. He wasn’t amused. He was bored.

General Bart Jordan was repeating his lecture on the importance of air power. Again he was dangerously close to claiming that all other services had but one fundamental mission, support of the United States Air Force.

Whip knew these men. Had known most of them for years. And prior to these meetings, he had studied every report available on each, some of which they would have been surprised to know existed. Except for Admiral Bennington Daniels, the driving force within Naval air operations, these were not the movers and shakers. But they did represent them. The power of each a measure of the weight each service thought appropriate to throw into this particular fray.

The room itself was buried deeply in the bowels of the Pentagon. Security was tight. Whip knew it needn’t be, for it was Friday. And getting late. He could feel it; the group was disassembling. Inwardly he sighed, then willed himself to listen. If he had it right, Bart was about done with his litany.

Every fighter has a specific role, Bart said, accenting the words by pounding his fist soundlessly on the table. None missed the intensity behind the youthful demeanor, the boyish good looks. To cut even one imperils the overall force. It unnecessarily weakens our ability to respond, and thus our nation’s power. We can talk of cutting back on quantity, but it’s unreasonable to shut down production of any weapon system available.

We weren’t given that option, General Peter Tate commented. A soldier’s general in all respects. He had enlisted, then risen through the ranks. He was the most capable field officer Whip had known.

We should have been, Pete, Bart snapped. Does the President run the military? Or do we?

He’s Commander-In-Chief. General Frank Masters mouthed the words as if speaking around a cigar. That makes him boss to the Marine Corps.

Mine too, Frank, Bart snapped. But hell . . . He paused. The man cuts deals. We can try, he finished lamely, refusing to look toward the end of the table.

Whip decided Bart had made a reasonable recovery. There’d been a nice touch of hesitancy at the end. Into the momentary lull he said, You men don’t have much focus. Suppose we talk of only two planes, the Raider and the Invader. They’re untried as yet. So unless Bart has already fitted them into the vast scope of air power, we might get further cutting one or both.

Not the Raider, Admiral Bennington Daniels said with that bold, winsome smile that was the foundation for a yet-to-be political career already beyond the planning stages.

So tell us again, Ben. Why not?

Lets keep it simple, Ben replied in a conciliatory manner. It carries a bigger payload further than any fighter in service. The Navy needs that. We don’t always have a flying gas pump handy, the way Bart does.

Whip wasn’t amused, which he indicated with a deliberate frown. Your turn, Pete. What’s the Army need?

Something we sure the hell haven’t got, Pete said easily. Look. He leaned out on his elbows. The Lockheed Falcon is everybody’s dream come true, right?

It’s no dream, Bart commented. It’s the most successful fighter ever built. The hottest plane ever to fly.

It’s hot, all right. And that’s the rub, Pete said earnestly. When a grunt is lucky enough to pick up a radio link, he’s got five seconds to set up a run. That F-16 will hit and be gone before he hears it coming.

It’s being modified, Bart said. Specifically for ground support.

So we’ll have ten seconds to pick a target? Face it, Bart. Your boys don’t give a damn about anything on the ground smaller than a tank. There’s no glory in taking out a machine gun. Or even a platoon. But it’s those kinds of hits that make the difference to my people. What we need is the Warthog. We only have to point at something and it disappears. And before the pilot finishes his run, he’s asking for another target.

The Warthog was cancelled months back, Whip commented.

Lets reconsider it. Put it on the table with that deal Bart wants to cut with the President.

Suppose you had to choose. Right now. How would you go?

Oh, hell, Whip. The Invader, I guess.

Hell of a plane, Frank added. Modular maintenance built right in. And the price is right. A third less than the Raider. Damned near expendable.

We can’t simply chuck the Raider, Ben said. It’s the only product Darriot has. Think of the jobs lost. The skills and technologies as well.

The Invader is Sentech’s basic product, Frank pointed out. And it’s a much larger company.

Whatever we decide, Whip said quietly, a lot of jobs will be lost. He knew that not one of these men gave a damn about any job being lost, unless it was their own. Technologies, maybe. But what they really wanted was to keep their pet projects alive. Top jobs at that. It can’t be avoided.

Personally, I don’t care if the Raider is built by Santa’s elves in their free time, Ben said with his broad beaming smile. It’s the product the Navy needs. As for ground support, Pete and Frank need to look more closely at the performance data. When they do, they’ll go along with me. I kinda think you yourself favor it, Whip. So where’s the problem?

I’m not paid to have an opinion, Whip replied. I am supposed to figure out what yours is. He leaned forward. Suppose for a minute that we select the Raider. Where do you expect to find the extra funding?

Chuck the B-2, Ben offered. You save twenty to thirty billion in one move. Besides, no one has shown me that Stealth technology works.

It did fine in the Gulf, Bart snapped.

While you’re at it, Frank said, leaning back in his chair, scrap the Stealth fighter. Seems to me Stealth and fighter are a contradiction in terms.

Pete looked at Bart and said bluntly, The way the Iraqis were shooting, your boys could have been flying Cessna 120s.

Bart leaned closer. We can save a bundle dropping the Abrams tank. It won’t help much in the mountains of Yugoslavia.

They were handy in the Gulf, Pete snapped back. And it was grunts who followed them up.

If we’d had a few more days in the air, a Sunday school class could have taken Kuwait with water pistols.

Can we get real? Frank asked. Nobody’s said anything about the Eagle. Where does it fit in?

Ben turned to Pete and quipped, I thought it was the Beagle.

No, a beagle is a small short-legged hound, Pete said with a grin. A real friendly sort.

Damn it, Frank said, My slide-rule types have shown . . .

My people use computers, Ben said pleasantly. Slide rules are yesterday’s news. As obsolete as your Bagel.

Whip glanced at the wall clock. Only fifteen hundred. He frowned down at his watch as if hoping the one on the wall was wrong. It was too early to quit. It wasn’t hard to find his classic scowl, to stand slowly, to place the meaty fists on the table. It wasn’t hard to find the words, either. Now you men best listen up. Or I’m going to whip me some ass.

The fact that he still could get it done in a variety of ways brought an instant seriousness to the faces about the table.

Pete leaned over to Ben’s ear and whispered, A bagel is a hard glazed donut-shaped roll.

* * *

In front of the only window in the small room, Eva Starling crouched over the computer keyboard, sea-green eyes fixed on the screen. Long slender fingers flew over the keys, vainly trying to keep up with her racing thoughts. Bleak gray walls reflected the chatter of three printers. Echoes were lost in the clutter of earlier printouts in stacks of unequal height that hid nearly every horizontal surface. And in three bookcases of various sizes haphazardly stuffed with books and reports.

As frequently occurred, given Eva’s rush of demands, the computer choked, unable to accept another character until it dealt with at least some earlier commands. She looked up, out across the maze of buildings and streets choked with traffic. In the growing dusk, the lights of the city were beginning to have their way.

She reached up, stretching the tall lean slenderness as if pulling herself toward the ceiling. When she relaxed, she reached with both hands to massage the shoulders through the simple white cotton blouse. Finely crafted features were enfolded within milky white skin. The whole effect altered dramatically by a maze of freckles. Very large freckles. Which she claimed were the consequence of a diabolical curse of unknown origin. Under the very ordinary short brown hair, extra-ordinarily large bright eyes looked inward, ignoring the panorama before her.

Was it time? It wasn’t happening, that was certain. She had never been one to linger at a party gone sour. Or with a client who wasn’t listening.

Her hand dove to the desktop beside the computer. From the disorderly stack of papers, her fingers sorted quickly, then extracted the sheet of stationery upon which she’d been doodling. Centered across the top was her name and an address in Atlanta.

Years ago, she had agonized over an appropriate title, but in the end had assigned none. Printed across the bottom in a light italic was, Consulting Economist, The General Motors’ Saturn Project. Beneath other thoughts, she’d written in a bold tight script, Aide to Admiral Gerald Shorn, Presidential Advisor.

Pretentious, she muttered, thinking back to the admiral’s first call. Back to the not so gentle twisting of her arm that had been relatively pain free. What had finally decided her was not his quiet persistence. It was memories of the way he had stood beside then candidate Governor Wardell and announced full confidence in the man. This, at a time when many had little or none.

So now what? she murmured, frowning. The bright eyes flicked briefly about the drab gray walls that seemed to define a prison cell. Mentally she ticked off the contents in the stacks scattered about the room. She’d accomplished all that had been asked of her. What remained was the collection and organization of nit-picking detail. And the polishing of final forms. But her staff could manage all that.

She embraced these heady, hectic times. It often seemed as if only the new President was taking it all in stride. She had been swept up in the excitement of inauguration. And the challenge Admiral Shorn had offered seemed a natural extension of that. A chance to effect real and positive change. Or at least to be part of it. So far, that hadn’t happened. She’d been given no indication it would.

The admiral was not easy to know. He was a very private man, despite his notoriously bombastic outbursts. One who seldom revealed his own thinking. A determined man, but he didn’t seem to be in any hurry. Perhaps that was it. That it wasn’t clear to her where he was headed. Or what her role might be.

Looking again at the sheet of stationery, she brushed an errant shock of hair out of her eyes. Determinedly she grabbed a pen and crossed out all that she’d written. Then crossed out the printed line. Better. If my name’s not enough, so be it. Then long slender fingers rippled across the keyboard bringing the screen alive again.

The nearest printer complained. Be..ep. Be..ep. Be..ep. She leapt from the