Black Sky

By David Rollison

This is David Rollison’s fourth novel in the Mike Kelly Thriller series. He is a good storyteller. He draws us into another sinister warren of intrigue and terrorism, serving up a menu of fast pace action, betrayal in the halls of the White House, murders most foul, and a shattering climax of presidential assassination attempts.

Mike Kelly, ex- Army Ranger, now in specials projects with Homeland Security foils a nightmarish attempt on the president of the United States. Facing the wrath of one of the most lethal terrorist to arrive on America’s shores, Kelly is driven by his own code and instincts to survive taking on one of the world’s worst terrorist.

From the sunny shores of Georgia barrier islands to brownstone townhouses in Georgetown deadly machinations have been set in motion by a shadowy coalition, comprising of some of the highest-ranking officials in government operating above the law. Driven by a professional code of duty and honor, Kelly and his team track down these people who would do anything to kill the president.

A network of terrorists based in Atlanta is responsible for a bloody bombing in Savannah. Mike is assigned to topple the network and capture the ruthless bomb maker. One problem remains it was too late to stop him and they have no idea where he will strike again. Mike Kelly and the team find themselves locked in a race against time to sort it all out.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Rollison
• Release date: Nov 11, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310816352

David Rollison

David Rollison, a graduate of Georgetown University, is retired from the hospitality industry. He and his wife, Sara owned and operated country inns and restaurants for many years. He is an avid sailor, holds a United States Coast Guard 100 ton Master license. He operates Coastal Sailing Charters, out of St. Simons Island, Georgia where he is a sailboat charter captain. David is the author of four books, including The Black Dagger, Indigo Island, Black Fire and Black Sky.

Book preview

To Grace, Isabelle, Heyward, Lilly, Hudson and Polly, whom I love with all my heart.

"Jihad is becoming as American as apple pie

and as British as afternoon tea."

Quoted by an al-Qaeda recruiter

Contents

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

About the author

Prologue

The rainy wet fog was sinister. A torrential downpour was soaking the lone man to the bone. His visibility was reduced to the point where he could hardly make out his target.

The man had spent the better part of his career in some of the worst places the world had to offer, but those places were beginning to look like resorts compared to sitting in a small kayak in a coastal Georgia marsh. All he could see around him was metal grey colored water and marsh reeds. The 360-degree view of flaxen gold marsh grass in the early morning was hidden from the sun. He wiggled his toes. The rain and wind blown salt water squished in his boots. His pants were soaked too, and started to rub him raw. His employer was paying him enough to sit there and be drenched. Money was one thing, but waiting for the kill in the muggy humid wet marsh didn’t excuse his misery. The sooner his target showed up, the quicker he could return to the comfort of air conditioning, dry clothes and a large glass of bourbon the better his temperament.

The killer lowered the infrared night vision monocular, flipped the switch to off to save battery power. Luckily the NVD was waterproof. The rain dripping down over the lenses smeared any hope of a clear image. A sniper can’t let the little things brother him. So he looked at his watch and looked up at the dark sky full of rain and lighting. He felt like he was miles away from civilization. Isolated in a river of marsh grass, the slow flowing water heading towards the Atlantic. He had only been in the contract killing business for a short time. This was his fourth targeted kill for the voice on the phone, but he’d found he had a talent for it. Three have been flawless. This one was causing him unmitigated discomfort.

The target was Charles Jenkins, a two star general working for the National Security Agency and on loan to the White House for special projects. The killer was hired by an unknown voice that sounded like he was from the Middle East. Money transferred to his account from a bank in Dubai confirmed to him that someone paid the contract with serious Middle Eastern interests. The sniper had done business with the source before, and thought he was Syrian, Iraqi or a Saudi. That group of discontents was active in the assassination business.

The sniper was a meticulous planner, something that snipers had to do to be successful and to stay alive. His ability to think through a problem had facilitated his previous career in the US Army. He learned early on while fighting in Iraq and Afghanistan that careful planning was all-important to achieving success. He had developed a skill set and found his method of execution.

He usually handled his own surveillance. It was getting harder for terrorists to sneak into America. No way was a Middle East intelligence officer going to use some swarthy Hezbollah gunmen in the South Georgia Sea Islands to assassinate someone. They would stick out like a sore thumb. Being white, red headed, and fair skinned allowed him to move invisibly throughout the golden isles. No one knew better than him that singleton surveillance efforts were a recipe for failure. The upside to surveillance was his general followed a routine.

He had a simple rule when dealing with Arab clients, never meet face to face in their own backyard. If they wanted to hire him they had to meet him in Istanbul, Athens or in Europe. Most of his hires were through emails and money transfers to banks in Luxembourg. Hiring a freelancer to do the dirty business of the employer was much easier, and even with a one million dollar fee, it was cheaper in the end to insure a successful operation.

After his service in the US Army, he elected to live in Belgium. He enjoyed the Flemish people and lived in the province of Brabant. From there he was able travel to any other EU country without official notice being taken by the authorities. No passport info was recorded. It really didn’t matter about passports, he had one of the best forgers in Europe make his. He spoke French as a native since his French mother married to a Californian spoke to him from infancy in the language. He would have chosen France to live in, but the French Secret Services were renown for their efficiency and brutality to spies and killers for hire.

The rain had stopped. The general was finally out in his small fishing boat motoring in the creek to his secret spot to catch redfish for the day’s dinner. The sniper watched him with fly rod in hand sliding through the slow moving water surrounded by mud and marsh grass, looking for redfish on the feed. He could see the man smiling. He was watching a beautiful scene of man against nature as the general snagged a fish, the rod bowed as if to snap.

Redfish runs often resembles an arrow’s trajectory, they go straight for cover, any tree roots, floating marsh grasses or to oyster beds seeking an oyster shell sharp enough to cut the fishing line. The general bulled his fish to the boat, tipping his line into the water, almost to the shallow bottom. It was over, he lifted his six pound redfish by the lip, its bronze and mahogany skin shining in the fresh morning sun. Before the school moved on, the general stripped some line to cast again.

The sniper eased along in the slow flow of the river towards the fisherman. His kayak was quiet, soundless to the fisherman. Keeping his balance, he brought up his deadly weapon. The crossbow was raised to his shoulder. He sighted through an infrared scope than ran the length of the weapon, and then squeezed the trigger. The carbon steel arrow left the bow at a speed of 400 feet per second. It was silent, deadly and accurate his chosen method of execution.

Chapter 1

St. Simons Island, Georgia

Mike Kelly breathed deeply, appreciating the fresh air off the Atlantic that blew through the sails of his boat. He enjoyed the quietness around him, but was ever watchful for any change in his surrounding that would break the solitude of the moment. As a sailor he was always aware of his surroundings while on the sailboat. Mike felt safe on the boat, always had, but nevertheless he rarely allowed his guard down, no matter how safe the environment even here on his boat.

Kelly was granted a few weeks off after his last assignment in Pakistan. The time had passed quickly and drawing near the end. Down time on the Black Pearl, the name of his sailboat, was one of the few places that Mike felt comfortable and free from being on guard twenty-four seven looking over his shoulder, and the St. Simons Sound was as good of a rest spot as any. He would take the Pearl out for a day sail or overnight doing coastal cruising. Those were times when he could think on the past, the sad lost of his wife, Sarah killed on 9/11, and comrades lost to terrorists. Sailing charged his mental batteries allowing him to return to work of protecting the homeland.

For the moment, though, Mike Kelly would enjoy his sail time. He knew time was running out before he had to return to work.

As can happen in the afternoons, the wind built to a steady fifteen knots from the Northeast. Mike was deep in thought when he heard the jib began to flog, he trimmed the sail by sheeting it in until the it stopped flogging and the boat was headed on a starboard tack for a close reach.

After a good run out the ship channel into the Atlantic, the breeze picked up to over twenty knots. The Pearl was flying alone with her sails full and the boat was heeled over a bit and surged ahead on a beam reach as the spray from the waves flew over the bow while Mike was secure and relaxed in the cockpit with Jimmy Buffett’s Havana Daydreaming playing from the cockpit speakers.

Doing a 360-degree scan of the horizon, making sure no other vessels were too close. He engaged the autopilot and went below to make himself a Dark and Stormy cocktail. He was introduced to the drink made with Gosling’s Black Seal Bermuda rum and ginger beer with a squeeze of lime by his pal, Tom Barnaby, MI6 agent extraordinaire. Back up in the cockpit, he still saw no boats in sight, and it was a beautiful, clear afternoon. Sipping his rum cocktail, listening to Buffett, the Pearl sailed along under perfect sailing conditions, and all was right in Mike’s world. To complete his day, a school of dolphin began to play in his bow wake, leaping and crossing his path as they fell back into his wake.

Passing the ten-mile buoy, Mike changed course to head back into the sound. It is almost a straight in and out channel. Mike’s boat had all the modern conveniences with power winches, roller furling headsails and main sail. The boat was too large for single handling without the help of the power winches and autopilot. Below deck Mike had the latest in gadgetry and communications. None of these things took away from Mike’s ability to sail; he was just lucky to be able to afford the best. The art of seamanship wasn’t lost on Mike. He knew the sea and his boat.

Reaching near the marina, Mike turned on the boat’s diesel engine, rolled up the jib and main sails and powered towards his slip at the marina. Docking the fifty-four foot sailboat into the slip was easy. Mike was used to it, the boat had a bow thruster and the work was made easy. Stepping off the boat, Mike tied up the yacht to the floating dock.

On the way in, Mike’s iPhone rang. He read the caller ID and ignored it letting it roll over to voice mail. Back at the marina, he listened to the call. His old boss from the Department of Homeland Security wanted to see him immediately at the new joint counterterrorism facility in the Federal Law Enforcement Center in Brunswick, Georgia.

The new joint counterterrorism center, DHSJCC, was located on the vast expanse of the Brunswick International Airport property. It’s inside one of the new buildings surrounding the Federal Law Enforcement Training Center. Various counterterrorist experts from the CIA, DHS, NSA and FBI were housed inside the new center. Department of Homeland Security provided physical space while the National Intelligence Directorate created a new branch called Terrorist Crisis Center, a/k/a the Op-Center. Mike’s old boss and friend Gene Murphy headed the new division.

The Op Center housed some seventy-five full time employees taken from other agencies including a one star general from the Department of Defense, several intelligence analysts, computer specialists, two psychologists, a few reconnaissance experts, environmentalists, and a team of media specialists. The personnel came from the DOD, CIA and FBI. Mike Kelly commanded a twelve-person tactical strike team of gun dogs. His recruits came from the FBI’s Hostage SWAT team and the CIA’s Special Activities Force.

Gene Murphy was Mike Kelly’s boss while a supervisor with DHS. Later the White House tapped Gene to head up a new counterterrorism command within the overall umbrella of the National Intelligence Agency. The White House wanted to create a better way to manage terrorists threats by putting the major players under one roof to facilitate better analysis of the information flowing into the vast intelligence apparatus on terrorism. The Op Center command could pick and choose events based on criteria from the National Command. The National Command being the current Administration, aka, The White House. It was a great idea on paper, but in reality it was proving a lot more complicated.

Kelly walked into the high tech conference room looking around at the others already seated at the table. He spotted Jan Goodman. Kelly knew Jan. She was his old childhood friend’s partner and they lived on a sailboat at his marina. He had worked with Jan before and knew she was fully capable of doing her job. She was a former Army Special Ops operative with many missions in hostile territory. Special Agent Goodman served as a member on the regional FBI’s CIRG team, the Critical Incident Response Group. She also earned the badge, Servare Vitas, (To Save Lives), while training with the Hostage Rescue Team at the FBI Academy in Quantico, Virginia. She was a shooter and a damn good one at that.

The other members at the table were people that Mike did not know that well, except for Gene Murphy. Every single one of them knew of Mike’s exploits to some degree or another.

On the conference table, Mike noticed several eight by ten-color photographs of a man’s body. He was stripped naked on a morgue slab, gave no clue to his identity. Mike didn’t recognize him.

He was shot through the heart with an arrow, said Jan Goodman.

Who was he? asked Mike.

His prints came back from the FBI as classified. FBI HQ finally got an answer from DOD after emailing the morgue photos to them. He is a retired Army two star named Charles Jenkins. In his Pentagon days he was a deputy director of Joint Operations, Middle East, specializing in Syrian military affairs. His position answered to the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Your other boss, Major Kelly, said Special Agent Jan Goodman. Jan was referring to Mike being a major in the US Army answering to a higher military command.

Mike did a double take at Jan. He said, You’re talking about the General Jenkins, the former deputy of the National Security Council?

The same.

Kelly knew the name well, as did most anyone involved with The White House’s national security staff that was involved in covert operations for the Administration. Jenkins had spearheaded many projects dealing with Mideast regions. His guidance and assistance with the Department of Defense resources had tipped the scales in achieving success in those missions. His passion for America’s fight against terrorism saved many lives. He significantly reduced the number of terrorist attacks in America, and the chances of another 9/11 on American soil.

Kelly knew that General Jenkins graduated in the top five percent of his class at West Point. He completed Ranger School, and then blazed a trail through the Army with positions with Army Command and General Staff College and doing advance studies in international affairs at the John F. Kennedy School of Government at Harvard. In the first Gulf War he was a company commander of a Ranger Battalion. He did a couple tours in Iraq and Afghanistan.

Where was he found?

Dead in a boat. Evidently he was fishing for redfish early yesterday morning about twenty miles northeast of here near Wolf Creek. The Georgia Natural Resources dispatched a marine unit after a VHF call from a passing fisherman. The general's boat had drifted up on a mud bank at low tide. The GPS coordinates were 31.21 N 81.18 W. We think he was a guest on Hogg Island, a few miles north of that location. So far, no one at the island will confirmed that General Jenkins was a guest, answered Jan.

I’ve heard of the Hogg Island Lodge. Isn’t it a luxury retreat for the moneyed crowd? I think the Vice President goes there often to hunt and fish, said Mike.

Hogg Island is about fourteen thousand acres. It is a privately owned barrier island bordering on the Atlantic Ocean to its east and vast marshland on its west side. It runs North to South approximately ten to twelve miles by three miles at its widest point. By all accounts, it has miles of white sandy beaches, imported animals be hunted, all the wild hogs anyone would want to shoot, and sea island red ringed pheasants. A big automobile magnet, Walter Chrysler, once owned it. There are several cottages and a twenty room Lodge, along with an airstrip suitable to land corporate jets. Our database has the registered owner as the Dundee Foundation. No corporate officers are listed. It is, to put it in simple terms, an off shore shell company holding ownership of another shell company ending up as some kind of environmental save the sea turtle foundation, added Gene reading from a paper he was holding in his hands.

Sounds a little like a CIA off the books holding company, doesn’t it, smiled Mike.

There is a question of jurisdiction since the body was found by the locals. I have contacted the Justice Department, so we are clear to investigate the general’s death. He was still a federal employee flagged in the system.

Mike nodded. I will contact Dave Greenbaum at the White House, Jenkins was a major player in national intelligence. He will hate to hear this bad news.

The Bureau has directed me to be lead agent on this. I have send a full blown forensic investigation team to Wolf Creek and the island. Investigators will interview the personnel at the Hogg Island Lodge. This will be considered a national security matter, so the FBI is already mounting a major manhunt. Goodman said.

Mike left the conference room to use Gene Murphy’s office to call