Killed by Death

By Bill MacWithey

Killed by Death

When CIA assassin, John Taylor, receives an assignment to eliminate a top ranking U.S. Air Force General, he draws the line, even though he knows he will be on the companys hit list for knowing about an assignment but not carrying it out.

In an attempt to warn the target he is in danger, Taylor becomes entangled in an operation much larger than the assassination of the general. A top-secret military device has been stolen, and it looks as if the general and his daughter might be involved in the theft.

When he finds himself is on someones hit list, Taylor is on his own to not only stay alive, but figure out what the hell is going on and who wants him and the general dead.

When he goes to London to confront or warn the general (hes not sure which) an attempt is made on his life by a small group of army rangers. But, they dont know the kind of survivor-at-all-costs they have taken on. He kills all the would-be assassins and makes it to the generals headquarters in London.

Taylor isnt prepared for what he encounters, mainly the generals daughter, Tracy, an army first lieutenant. He has never seen a soldier that looks like her, and they soon become lovers. Tracy is a computer expert and works in the Allied Headquarters, Europe. Actually, the headquarters is a huge listening station, staying on top of what European leaders are saying in their phone conversations and communications. It is a spy network headquarters.

Tracy has intercepted a message from a satellite system that isnt even supposed to be online unless the US is involved in a war. Its a highly secret system about which very few people know. The message is a complete dozier on the general and the commander of Army Special Forces. They are both marked for assassination.

Taylors search, which includes Tracy as an assistant, leads him to a top-secret facility in Utah. There, a scientist has developed a device that will see stealth aircraft. Now, that device is for sale by someone to the highest bidder.

John Taylors only living relative is his sister, Doris. Although he is confident no one knows she exists, when his life is in danger, he send her off on a trip to Barbados to get her out of the line of fire. She is kidnapped and held aboard a yacht, so the enemy might lure Taylor into a trap. They believe he knows where the missing device is hidden.

Taylor doesnt disappoint them and walks right into their trap. Then, he finds out Tracy is much more than a lieutenant who knows her way around computers, when she comes to the rescue.

Taylor has always used women and dumped them when it was convenient. But, he finds himself to be truly in love for the first time in his life. Then, as they return to DC from Utah, a passing car fires into their car and Tracy is killed.

Taylor is, to say the least, pissed! He has always done his job without passion, much like a mechanic changing a tire. He was given an assignment to kill someone and he killed him or her, always knowing it was for the good of democracy and his country. But that has changed! They made it personal when they killed Tracy and he vows to kill them all. Whoever they are.

A seemingly unrelated incident takes place in the Caribbean. A team of army rangers fires a deadly missile at a US frigate, then, the army team is all murdered on the shore of Honduras. The helicopter crew, which ferried the rangers ashore picks up the bodies and takes them to an aircraft carrier on maneuvers in the Caribbean. As they leave the carrier, a missile shoots down their helicopter.

A large naval fleet is participating in war games, and the president goes to visit the carrier. Before Taylor killed one of the perpetrators aboard the yacht where Doris had been held, the man told him the entire thing was about assassinating the president. Now, Taylor realizes a team is aboard the carrier to sink it with explosives, while the president is aboard. He and

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 30, 2000
• ISBN: 9781462841219

Bill MacWithey

Bill MacWithey has written many articles and columns on everything from writing to politics. A political advisor and newspaper columnist for 15 years, he conducts fiction writing seminars and teaches creative writing in adult education programs. With fourteen novels in various genres to his credit, Bill MacWithey is one of today’s most prolific authors.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

It began with his presidency falling apart, because of his misbehavior in a number of matters, including illegal campaign contributions and his ongoing affair with a White House staffer. After being the first President forced to testify before a Grand Jury and having to admit his affair to his long-time wife, the president was at his lowest. The previous week, his wife had quietly moved back home to East Texas, leaving him on his own in the White House. She had been his best advisor and, as much as he hated to admit it, he missed her. Not only was he severely depressed, he was pissed. Sure, he’d helped raise funds in a questionable manner, but what the hell, everyone did it. And, half the damned married men in the country had an affair or two over the course of their marriage.

He knew the American public needed something to happen to take their minds off his peccadilloes. Adding to his frustration, it seemed the CIA and FBI were at a standstill trying to nail the people who bombed two United States Embassies within ten minutes of one another in Africa. They were 99 percent certain who the perpetrator was, but couldn’t find the hard evidence necessary to bring him to justice. Well, screw the evidence. He wanted rid of the bastard, along with every other damned terrorist aiming their bombs and ambushes at Americans. International Law be damned! And, he knew the Director was of a like mind.

Six months later, somewhere in Southern Iraq:

The small camouflage canvas tent in the bottom of the thirty-foot-deep wadi would have been invisible from the air. In fact, even on foot, one might nearly stumble over it before realizing it was there. Not only did the desert coloring blend perfectly with its surroundings, but several jaguar bushes were expertly placed to break up the triangular shape. Taylor was sure his quarry was inside, but had to wait until he showed himself, so he’d know damned sure the terrorist suspected of the embassy bombings was dead. There was nothing to do but wait for the mass murderer to poke his head out.

Taylor’s only cover was a short thistle bush growing atop the wadi. Out in the open like this, the sun was nearly unbearable. And most likely, his quarry wouldn’t show himself until after sundown. His entire body was wringing wet from sweat and he had emptied the one-quart plastic canteen an hour earlier. He must have checked to see that the wires were properly connected to the small rocket a dozen times, knowing he might get but one chance to kill this bastard and get to hell out of this damned inferno.

Finally, as the sun dropped low enough in the sky for the air to begin cooling, he saw movement outside the tent. When he pulled the small scope from his jacket pocket and looked at the shadowy figure next to the tent, he let out a long sigh. It was the quarry he had tracked too damned long. He slowly and carefully rose to a sitting position and set the small launcher on his shoulder. When he looked through the sight and lined the cross hairs up in the middle of Farsouke’s back, he damned near laughed aloud, but whispered, That’s the very last piss you’ll take on this world, my friend.

It took but half a second for the rocket to reach its target, some three hundred yards distant. Not only did Farsouke disappear, but the side of the wadi caved in big time and buried the terrorist’s meager spattered remains, tent and all. Taylor rolled the launcher off his shoulder, left it where it fell and slid down the steep side of the dry wash. When he hit the bottom, it was on a dead run toward the Humvee, parked a half mile back, toward Saudi Arabia. Smiling that he had finally nailed the bastard, it was going to be good to get back to air conditioning and a decent meal.

CHAPTER ONE

The past months had been the toughest assignment of his career and, now, Taylor sat in his DC efficiency apartment, staring at the recorder. Who the hell did the voice belong to? Only one person had this number, and the voice wasn’t his. John wondered if something had happened to the director while he was off chasing after that bastard. The message on his recorder mystified him. Check the post office.

John Taylor was a professional killer, a hit man for the CIA. He understood what the message meant, but who left it was a matter of great concern. All his assignments were deposited in a box at a far-west DC post office. As he struggled with figuring out who besides the director could possibly have left the message, it occurred to him that even the director shouldn’t know he was back in the country. He hadn’t reported in to Director Davidson. Also, it was the first time he’d received anything other than the standard message.

Taylor had returned from Saudi Arabia but two days earlier, after trekking around in the desert for a month. Five months, he’d tracked Elijah Farsouke all over the Middle-East before finally nailing the man the agency suspected had masterminded a half dozen terrorist bombings around the world, including two in the United States. Farsouke had been the toughest sonofabitch he’d ever been assigned to kill. But Taylor took pride in the fact that he had worked at this for a long time, and not once had he failed to complete an assignment. When he set out to track down and kill someone, it was a foregone conclusion the man was dead.

And, as Taylor had heard through the rumor mill, when the president finally got tired of American installations being bombed and American citizens being kidnapped or ambushed, he pulled all the plugs, including giving the CIA Director orders to get rid of every damned terrorist he could identify and find. Enough was enough.

So now, few rules applied to agents like Taylor, and he was pretty much on his own. He’d leave a message that a target had been taken out by calling a specific number, give the director a code number and tell the recorder he was going to the beach. And, that’s usually what he did until he received a message on his answering machine that his dry cleaning was ready to be picked up. Usually, he didn’t bother to check for messages for at least three or four weeks. When he did retrieve a message, he’d return to Washington to check his post office box and receive his next assignment.

It was always an index card inside an envelope, with the name of the target and information on his last known whereabouts. The agency had their own man putting mail up at the branch post office. This was the first time the message had been anything other than, Your dry cleaning is ready to be picked up. Maybe it was because he’d never received a different message, or maybe because he didn’t recognize the voice, or because he hadn’t reported he was back, but he was sure as hell uneasy, as he drove toward the post office. After years of playing cat and mouse with the bad guys, Johnny was naturally suspicious of everything and everyone. But not trusting anyone and never letting anyone know for sure where he was had kept him alive a lot of years in a truly dangerous profession.

When he wasn’t dressed for combat with some known terrorist, or someone the US deemed a threat to security, Johnny looked more the professorial type. He was tall, distinguished, with just enough gray in the dark brown sideburns to say, I’m old enough to be smart, but young enough to get it up. He wasn’t movie star handsome, but what he lacked in looks, he made up for in personality, when he wanted to use it. He couldn’t count the times he’d been told he used a real line of bull to lure the ladies, but, of course, he preferred to call it charisma. Well educated, knowledgeable in many areas and with an excellent command of the language, if one met John Taylor without knowing him, it would never be suspect that he was a professional killer with over twenty successful assignments to his credit.

The message at the post office simply gave a phone number to call and warned him to use an out of the way pay phone. He didn’t recognize the number and, when he dialed it, a recording of the same voice instructed him to be at Room D-2, Global Observation Agency Headquarters at 2 PM. It also said the order came from Director Davidson. As he hung the receiver back on its hook, Johnny automatically scanned the area around the convenience store and wondered softly, How the hell did anyone know I was back? I don’t like it. Not even a little bit. Returning slowly to the car, he debated whether he should go, or if he should ignore the instructions and call his contact number. He was a solo operator, dealing with no one face to face. Like the other agents assigned to his unit, his photo wasn’t on file at the agency, and his entire file was privy only to the director. He’d often smiled to himself about he and his fellow killers being the best kept secret in the world.

Johnny glanced at his watch. An hour and a half. He sat for a moment after starting the engine, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, trying to examine the possibilities. How had the caller gotten his number? Davidson would have to have given it to him. Who the hell was he? His tendency was to say to hell with it. Why would he be called to GOA? Yeah, it was an offshoot of the agency, but why should he expose himself to someone he didn’t know? But, in the end, one of Johnny’s faults was curiosity, and his curiosity told him to go if for no other reason, than to learn how his security had been breached. As he approached room D2, deep beneath the headquarters of the Global Observation Agency, he absentmindedly listened to the slight squeak his soles made on the marble floor and made a mental note to trash them. Hesitating in front of the door, he wondered why the room was called D2. There was no D1 or D3—only D2. Global Observation Agency, like hell. It was but one more way for the agency to pull the wool over congress’ eyes and hide the money it spent. It also allowed the agency to spy on that many more people. Not to mention hiding many of its activities long since outlawed by congress. Who did those idiots on Capitol Hill think they were? Did they really believe they could control or keep track of what the agency did? Hell, if the agency couldn’t fool congress, could they fool anyone?

The GOA was supposed to be an independent agency, charged with operating all the communication and spy satellites put up by the U.S. and keeping track of every satellite put up by other countries. They also tapped into those foreign satellites to retrieve whatever information they contained. The fact that the GOA was staffed primarily by CIA employees was known to no one outside the agency, and possibly, the president. At least, he thought it was likely the president knew. Actually, he knew little about the man, except that he’d been an obscure US Representative from East Texas, who came out of nowhere to narrowly win the last election. Johnny never worried much about politics—just went out and did his job to eliminate whomever the company wanted rid of. Never, did he question the why of an assignment.

As he punched his ID number into the keypad alongside the door of room D-2, he really didn’t expect it to get him in, but to his surprise, the door immediately slid open and disappeared inside the wall. Whoever called him had evidently programmed his ID into the computer. This made him even more nervous. Who would have access to that number?

Two people sat at the expensive oval conference table. Johnny thought one damned thing for sure about the agency’s new headquarters, no expense had been spared anywhere. If the taxpayers knew about some of this they’d scream to high heaven.

Who in the hell is this guy? He imperceptibly nodded at Charlie Marshall with his eyes, but the other man was a stranger. Short, balding and soft spoken, as if trying to keep a secret by making his speech hard to hear.

Mister Taylor, you are ten minutes late. Have a seat.

Even though Charlie knew him well, and was the only other agent who did, Johnny didn’t like his identity being exposed, and his first impulse was to ask the dumpy little prick who the hell he was. But he smiled broadly and said, Not the best connections in the world to get here from where I’ve been.

His comment was answered with a grunt. Then, the little jerk looked straight at him and said, Now that you’re here, I’ll get right to the matter. Each of you has a unique qualification. You’re the very best at what you do. He smiled and hesitated to see what their reaction would be.

Jesus Christ! Another goddamned politician. He hadn’t chased around the goddamned desert for the last month to listen to this kind of bullshit. While chasing after Farsouke, he hadn’t gotten nearly enough sleep, not nearly enough to eat, not nearly enough to drink, and he still hadn’t caught up from the jet lag. He deliberately put his hand to his mouth and faked a yawn, as he put his feet atop the edge of the expensive walnut table and slouched down in the chair. He thought, Why don’t you just come out and say we’re assassins, asshole? But he said, If you don’t mind, I’d like to know who the hell you are.

Doesn’t matter who I am, but the name is Brett Mason.

"And what is your expertise, Mister Mason? Since you seem to know what we do for a living, maybe you should explain your qualifications to visit with us folks. And as long as I’m getting my ass in trouble, I’m a little pissed at being called in so soon. What the hell’s the emergency?"

He expected his query to evoke anger from Mason, but he was evidently good at controlling his temper. An utterly phony politician’s smile bespoke the man’s hypocrisy. Why, my business is the same as yours, but on a slightly different level. Satisfied?

Not really. I’d like to know who this other gentleman is. He put on his best look of concern and anger as he continued, You’re standing there revealing my identity. I’ve stayed alive a lot of years by no one being aware I exist. I don’t know what you have to do with the company, Mason, but if I’d known there would be someone I don’t know present, I’d have been a hell of a lot later than ten minutes—like never. He glanced at Charlie Marshall as he spoke and saw Charlie’s grin, even though he tried to hide it with his hand. Johnny had hoped he’d force a laugh from Charlie.

The short asshole shook his head and seemed to be losing at least a bit of his self-control. He’s in the same business as you. Mason got to his feet and shuffled a couple of envelopes in his hands. His red complexion became even redder, and his voice was no longer all softness and friendship. He slapped the envelopes against his leg repeatedly, as he spoke. Look, I don’t have time for this. I’ve been assigned a job, and you’ve been assigned to help. If you don’t feel you want to be involved, you’re free to leave.

You have my curiosity aroused. Johnny couldn’t help but see the jerk through a scope sight. He’d find out what this was about before he told him to kiss off. He leaned back in the chair, folded his arms across his chest and smiled.

Mason walked back and forth the length of the room, continuing to tap the envelopes against his thigh. Finally, he stopped opposite them and said, It seems we have something of infinite value missing. As much as I hate to say it, some highly placed people in the military are involved in its theft. We have to get it back.

When he paused, Johnny said, Whoa, retrieving stolen merchandise isn’t exactly my forte. What was stolen?

I have no idea. All I know is that it’s something the size of a breadbox. We don’t need to know what it is. We just have to recover it.

Johnny deliberately gave him a disgusted look and shook his head. I hate to keep interrupting, but how the hell does one look for something if one doesn’t know what the hell one is looking for? And you say there are highly placed military people involved in the theft? Who did they steal it from? Uh, I mean, from whom did they steal it?

The man quickly became irritated and emitted a long sigh, obviously trying hard not to raise his voice above its already elevated level. This item was stolen from the agency. All I know is, the agency wants it back. My best guess would be that it’s a weapon or a part of a weapon, but frankly, I don’t know exactly what it is and I don’t give a damned what it is.

Charlie Marshall spoke for the first time. Who are these people who stole it? How did they manage to steal it?

No one needs to know who all these people are. I have an assignment sheet here for each of you. Both of these people were involved in the theft. You are to concentrate on eliminating your target as quickly as possible. Just worry about your own assignment. The only reason you’re both here at the same time is because these people have to be taken care of immediately to keep this stolen item from falling into the wrong hands.

Johnny again shook his head and wanted to laugh. The little redhead sounded like he was auditioning for a damned movie, with all his theatrics. He reared back in his chair and said, Whoa, Kemo Sabe. What you’re saying is . . . He pointed to Charlie, then himself. . . . you want us to take out high-ranking people in our own military?

Exactly. Any problem with that, Mister Taylor?

He started to tell him there damned sure was, but stopped himself. Knowing about the hit after refusing the assignment could be his own death sentence. Who issued these orders?

Mason became more annoyed, and in a louder tone said, Not that it’s any of your business, but the orders came from the top. Look, I’m aware of your reputation. You’re an arrogant, hard to get along with bastard. You’re also one of the best at what you do. I was prepared not to like you before you walked in that door. You sure as hell haven’t disappointed me. Just take your target out and don’t worry about the rest of it. All you have to do is take out one man. You have any further questions, go talk to the president. He waved the envelopes around in the air as he spoke.

A look of go play with yourself sufficed to tell Mason what Johnny thought of him, but he said nothing. He always had the option of pulling out of any assignment he didn’t want to carry out. That’s why he’d stashed over four million dollars in a foreign bank over the last twelve years. He could disappear and settle down on a nice warm Caribbean island, or perhaps some cozy little hamlet in South America. Can we enlist any help from the agency? He knew better and only asked to irritate the little peacock.

Only if it’s absolutely necessary. If you do, don’t breathe a word of what it’s about. He walked around the table and handed each of them an envelope with their name written on the front in pencil. When you’ve accomplished your assignment, call in your regular code to let us know your man’s eliminated, but don’t mention this assignment to the director. That’s all. Mason turned and walked out of the room without so much as a good luck, go to hell or kiss my butt.

Johnny forced himself not to laugh out loud, as he gave Charlie a glance that said, I want to talk to you, stuffed the envelope in his inside jacket pocket and walked out himself. He stood in the corridor outside D-2 for a minute, not wanting to ride the elevator back to ground level with the little redhead, whoever he was. Maybe he should go talk to Loren Davidson, the new CIA Director. He‘d been appointed some six months earlier by the president from Texas. Go talk to the president, his ass. Sure, the president was going to grant a lowly agent like himself an audience. Fat chance. When Charlie came out of the room, he ignored him, as they walked toward the elevator. Both were well aware that most likely, cameras watched every square inch of the building and any conversation would be duly recorded to use against them.

Johnny drove back to DC, and once ensconced in his apartment, opened the envelope. General William A. Bickman, Commander Allied Forces—Europe, or CAFE, as those who liked to use acronyms called him. „Jesus Christ! They got to be kidding!" He left his apartment and walked out into the evening chill. Should have worn a heavier coat. What a damned change from the desert. Wonder who Charlie drew. Screw that Mason or whatever the hell his name is. My God, a four star general? Johnny, boy, this might be the right time to retire. Gotta talk to Charlie.

He had worked with Charlie several times in the past, and if there was anyone in the agency or anywhere else he thought he could trust, Charlie was it. Few people knew he or Charlie existed. Loren Davidson and a couple of others at the agency. That was about it. Gerald Barker, the previous director had known, but he‘d never tell. He‘d met with a terrible accident—hit and run, as he was getting into his car, which he‘d been dumb enough to park on the street. One in such a position didn‘t park on the street in DC. Not if one liked living. Too easy a target.

Being in his particular profession, Johnny was suspicious as hell about everything and believed the worst about such incidents until proven wrong. That included Barker‘s death. In fact, more than being suspicious about the former director‘s supposed accident, he was sure Barker had been murdered. The dead director was but a year or so from retirement, and . . . well . . . hell, it might not be a good idea having him write a book of memoirs about the company.

Although he knew of many of the agency‘s past illegal activities, now, being assigned to kill a four star general, Johnny wondered if things were really getting out of hand at the CIA. Yeah, Barker was probably offed to put this Davidson at the top. The dead director had probably been too straight.

CHAPTER TWO

Cien Fuegos Canyon, New Mexico:

It was nearly dusk, as Bill Bickman watched the Eagle helicopter stir up a huge cloud of dust on the canyon floor. Two Apache gun ships hovered above the river, one on either side of the canyon. When the pilot killed the huge twin ramjet engines and brought the rotors to a complete stop, it took several minutes for the dust to settle before the passenger door slid open. When General Wainscot reached the door of the dilapidated little building, Bickman opened the door to what looked like an abandoned miner’s shack, set against the rock wall of the canyon.

The wall rose nearly six hundred feet behind him, dotted by hundreds of small tunnels, where early prospectors dreamed of striking it rich. The small, sometimes dry, Eagle River ran through the canyon and still held a bit of color for the eager modern day adventurer, struck with gold fever.

As General Wainscot arrived at the door, Bickman shook his hand and directed him toward a door at the rear. As soon as Wainscot was inside, Bickman waved to the chopper crew, and the loud hiss of compressed air slowly built up pressure in the jet turbines. The hiss of air was replaced by the loud, explosive burning of fuel, the giant rotors slowly revolved and the whine of the engines once more became deafening. Again, the canyon was filled with dust so thick one couldn’t see beyond arm’s length. Bickman smiled at the fact that the wind created by the machine wiped away the footprints left behind by his guest and any evidence of the chopper having landed.

The door at the rear of the shack opened into a tunnel seven feet high, three feet wide and 200 hundred yards long. It ran back into the canyon wall to a large room carved out of solid rock. It was what the general would have called a bare-bones warfare center. A number of computer terminals sat side by side along a table against one wall, and a wooden table sat in the middle of the room, surrounded by a dozen chairs. The only other accouterments were a small refrigerator and the natural air conditioning deep inside the rock. With the outside temperature hovering a bit over a hundred degrees, it was a comfortable seventy-five in the room. Generals Bickman and Wainscot were the only two present.

General, thanks for coming. Have a seat.

Wainscot asked, What the hell is this place, Bill?

General Bickman had never been known for his sense of humor, and had, in fact, earned the nickname Stony over the years, because he seldom smiled. Now, he grinned and asked, Like it? Believe it or not, it’s the only place in the world the CIA, DIA and GOA doesn‘t know about. It‘s sort of a private communications center. All the signals between here and anywhere go through so many changes of satellites and terminals, it‘s impossible to trace them back here.

„But, what the hell is it?"

„You mean, what‘s it for? It‘s something the president put together that only he, myself and a few others know about. Now, you know about it. He felt everything else that could be used for an emergency command center was too well known and vulnerable to sabotage. But, let me tell you why I asked you here. General Bickman‘s smile was replaced by a brooding expression, and he stared at the man he‘d known for many years and who he considered to be a hell of a good soldier. Bickman only hoped he could convince him that what he was going to say was true. „Bob, what if I told you we were both slated for assassination?

Bob Wainscot, an imposing figure of a man, came up through the ranks from a foot soldier, and now commanded the Army‘s elite Ranger Corps. He at first smiled broadly, then frowned. „What the hell are you talking about? You‘re serious, aren‘t you? Assassinated? By whom? Are you okay, Bick?"

Again, his lips curled slightly upward. „Yeah, I‘m okay, Bob. I wish to hell I knew by whom. Look, you‘ve known me a long time. You know I‘d never make a joke about something like this." He knew Wainscot was thinking he‘d lost it—went off the deep end, somehow. Sure, he‘d been upset as hell since Tony died last year. What father wouldn‘t be? He‘d thought it was just another training accident. Indeed, the report said Tony flew directly into the path of the missile. It wasn‘t even supposed to be a hot missile, but it left only tiny pieces of the aircraft and his son scattered over miles of Nevada mountain and desert. Maybe it hadn‘t been an accident. With what he‘d recently learned, there was a good chance it wasn‘t. But why Tony? Because he was his son?

Wainscot interrupted his thoughts. „Bill?"

„Uh, oh . . . yeah. Listen, Bob, you‘d have every right to think I‘ve lost it, making such a statement. And . . . I‘ll admit, I‘ve been really in the dumps since Tony was killed. But I hope you know me better than to think I dreamed this. You know, I‘ve spent a lot of time at UNHE in London since taking on the European Command." Bickman grimaced slightly and moved his head back and forth slowly as he spoke. „I spend half my damned time trying to keep peace in the ranks of all the different petty little people all over Europe that I have to deal with. And you know, of course, I also have a headquarters office in Paris.

Bickman sat down and leaned back in the chair, shaking his head. „The place in Paris is exactly what it‘s supposed to be, a command center. But the London headquarters is filled with exotic electronics. A hell of a big communications and message center, as we call it." He hesitated a moment, staring at the man he considered a trusted ally. „Bob, what I‘m going to tell you doesn‘t leave this canyon. The truth is, the installation in London serves one purpose. We listen to everything that everybody in Europe is saying, including our British hosts. A month ago, a young lady lieutenant brought me something that didn‘t make sense to her.

Didn‘t make sense to me. But it was unusual enough she came directly to me. Some kind of scrambled information picked off a satellite."

Wainscot leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. „What‘s so unusual about a coded message from a satellite?"

Bickman stared at him, as if searching for a way to approach an explanation. „Well . . . normally, we‘d pay little attention, if it was some sort of code we recognized. Or at least a code our computers recognized and could decipher. That‘s why Lieutenant Smith brought it to me. It was a complete unknown. There were twenty-five pages of scrambled information in the folder, and I left it in a desk drawer for three days.

„Just for the hell of it, when I came in early one morning, I sat looking at the pages for some time before I went to the message center and pulled out the Upstart book. He hesitated to see if Wainscot would guess what he was going to tell him next. When he said nothing, Bickman continued. „The information was sent via Upstart. And to answer your question, no, we hadn‘t had any kind of an alarm.

Wainscot looked at him quizzically and said, „Upstart isn‘t even operational. How could it have been involved?"

„Yeah, how could it? That‘s what made it so hard to believe. Strange thing was, the message wasn‘t intended for us. Let me explain how this lieutenant happened on this information. It seems, to relieve the boredom of sitting in front of a computer screen for hours, Lieutenant Smith was in the habit of running an all frequency scan for unusual mixed carrier waves."

General Wainscot smiled broadly. „Whoa, General, you just lost me. What are we talking about?"

„Let me get us a cold drink." He reached in the small refrigerator and withdrew two soft drinks, handing one to Wainscot and popping the tab on the other. As he sat back down, he said, „Let me put it this way, there are just so many frequencies available for broadcast. But you can create what amounts to a new frequency that‘s actually a set of frequencies broadcast together—sort of like picking up two stations on a radio at the same time. Each frequency broadcasts a tiny bit of information, and by itself, would be meaningless. But when you put the small bits from all the frequencies together, you have a complete, albeit, coded message. Lieutenant Smith set a receiver connected to the main computer to detect combined random frequencies. Any time the receiver picks up a multi-band signal, which it doesn‘t recognize, it automatically locks on and sounds an alarm. Not a real alarm—just a prompt to notify the operator something new is being picked up.

„You‘ll have to bear with me. I have little idea about all the technical aspects—just repeating what Lieutenant Smith explained. Anyway, if you want to really confuse any listener, or computer to be more precise, you rotate the several frequencies as your message is being broadcast. But we have one up on that system. Our computers can follow the changes and stay with the signal. And, that is how Upstart would work if activated. It‘ll combine a dozen or more frequencies to relay information—like trying to listen to a dozen radio broadcasts at the same time and make sense of it. „Here‘s why I wanted you all the way out here. The information the lieutenant brought me, once we figured how to unscramble it? There was a complete file on myself. It listed my tentative itinerary for the next three months. It listed the names and addresses of every friend and relative I have—all the way to distant cousins I wasn‘t even aware existed. A complete description of every vehicle I own or drive, my daily routine, including every place I‘ve eaten Stateside and overseas for the last year. I‘m telling you, it was better than any diary I might have kept."

General Bickman smiled and shook his head, still amazed that anyone had gathered such detailed information about his life. „To whom was my file sent? Far more important, who sent it, and why? The file was sent via an Upstart downlink. Of course, like you said, Upstart isn‘t even supposed to be active yet. It‘s not supposed to be activated unless we‘re involved in big time hostilities somewhere."

Bob Wainscot asked, „Who the hell activated the system?

Outside of the people who launched the birds from shuttles, you could count on your hands and toes the people who even know it exists. Even the shuttle crews didn‘t really know what they were launching. The whole damned idea was to let the entire system lay dead, so it couldn‘t be detected."

„Exactly. Then someone sends my personnel file on the system. Why the hell would anyone send such mundane information on such a secret link? I asked myself that question a thousand times, trying to figure it out. At first, I thought it might be some kind of test of the system. Bickman had gotten out of his chair and paced back and forth until now, but he stopped and looked at Wainscot with a big smile. „Guess what, Bob? You were recently in Europe for two months. Top secret stuff, wasn‘t it?

The Ranger commandant nearly came out of his chair. He quickly leaned forward, his hands outspread on the table and said, „You damned right it was top secret. How did you know?"

General Bickman reached to a manila folder on the computer desk behind him and handed it to Wainscot. „Look at it." He stood with his arms folded across his chest and waited for a reaction.

Wainscot looked at the exact type file Bickman had intercepted on himself—a complete file from the time he graduated high school. The file listed every relative and friend he knew about. Finally, Wainscot asked, „Where the hell did you get this? What does it mean?"

„I haven‘t told you the worst. He handed Wainscot a sheet of paper covered with what seemed a million tiny dots. Wainscot‘s name was written in ink across the top of the paper. „Doesn‘t make any sense, does it? A sheet like this came out of the printer with each set of files. My people, especially Lieutenant Smith, puzzled over these for a week before they figured out what they were. It‘s a damned digital picture code. If you hold them at arm‘s length, you can almost make out what looks like some sort of a picture painted by one of our modern day artists. But it‘s digitized code. Once Lieutenant Smith figured out what it was, she had to learn the key to translate it. That‘s why I‘ve been so long in getting to you. It took billions upon billions of calculations to decode what the sheets really are. We had four of our ten thousand megahertz computers running the possibilities twenty-four hours a day for two weeks. Interested in seeing what that sheet actually says?

Bickman gave him a second piece of paper, again with Wainscot‘s name across the top. He sat down, leaned back, and waited for the brigadier‘s reaction to reading his own death sentence.

Wainscot had fought long and hard in Nam, Bronze Star and every other decoration possible out of the Vietnam „bullshit", as he described it. Although Bickman had been less than happy when he learned what the codes were, Wainscot made him look like a Sunday school teacher. He looked up from the paper and asked, What the fuck does this mean? Disbelief mingled with anger in his tone and expression.

It’s instructions for your death, my friend. Plain, simple English, once you figure it out. Read aloud how you’re supposed to die.

Wainscot stared at Bickman and slowly shook his head.

DG to Orbere. General Wainscot will return US on 6-20-99. Best bet at Bragg Ranger Headquarters. Target to make surprise inspection of facility. Will arrive at two five approx. eleven hundred, 7-1-2000. One chance only. Do not miss.

The Rangers’ Commanding General looked up at Bickman and asked, Like I asked, what the fuck does this mean?

Are you supposed to pull a surprise inspection, as noted?

"Yeah. As a matter of fact, I am. And, it was supposed to be a surprise. Wainscot looked worried, as his voice trailed off to a whisper. Then he asked, Could this be someone’s idea of a joke? Jesus Christ, if there’s anything to it, who the hell would be behind it?"

DG. Bickman didn’t crack a smile. For the last ten days, since they’d solved the code, he had pondered who DG could be. No one he could recall ever having met or heard of had the initials DG.

He sat forward, his elbows on the table and asked, You know anyone who fits those initials?

Wainscot slowly moved his head from side to side, still staring at the paper.

Bickman continued, I’m more interested in why than whom. Hell, I think we can protect ourselves, but why would someone want you and I in particular dead? That’s what stumps the hell outa me. Why us? It would have to be for a reason—a reason bigger than either of us or both of us. What do we have in common that we’d be singled out? Any ideas?

Now, it was General Wainscot’s turn to get out of his chair and pace back and forth. Bill, you’re sure this stuff came on an Upstart downlink?

Positive.

Then we can sure as hell drastically narrow the field of suspects. You know, there are safeguards built into the system to keep it from being activated. Didn’t want someone doing just what has happened and exposing the birds to a potential enemy. But think about this, there aren’t but a handful of people with the codes to fire the birds up.

Bickman said, Bird.

What do you mean?

Whoever sent this knew how to activate an individual bird without disturbing the others.

That’s even weirder. I thought the entire system was up or down. I had no idea they could selectively fire up individual satellites.

Neither did I until we tracked the source of the incoming. It all came from one bird. The others were dead in their orbits. I know the president, vice president, speaker of the house, CIA Director, and GOA Director have access to the start-up codes for the birds. Who else?

Brigadier General Robert Wainscot spoke for the next ten minutes not to who had marked them for assassination or why someone wanted them dead, but why the two of them? Why would anyone particularly want them dead?

Wainscot was a youngish looking fifty-two year old. After being accepted to attend Officer Candidate School, he did a stint at the pentagon as a junior officer, then decided he wanted to do something more exciting and applied for ranger training. He surprised even himself when he turned into one hell of a soldier and leader. Rank came swiftly, and last year, he became commander of the eighteen thousand member Special Forces. Until becoming a ranger, he had really not thought about doing anything in a particularly serious way, but rangers changed all that. Now, with someone out there supposed to kill him, he was mad as hell.

After retrieving another soft drink and downing it, he crumpled the can and threw it hard into the wastebasket. I don’t know about you General, but I’m pissed. If it was the enemy trying to kill me, hell that’s what he’s supposed to do . . . before I kill him. But, by God, this has to be someone high up in our own government. If we’re going to get out of this, we’d better figure out what it is that makes us a target. We figure that out, we’ll probably know what bastard issued the orders. The other thing that bothers the hell outa me, who the hell told them I was going to pay a surprise visit to Bragg? Damned few people knew.

Taylor left his apartment, drove toward Wisteria and didn’t spot anyone following in the thirty miles to the shopping mall. Pulling his nondescript sedan into a parking space on the first level of the underground parking garage, he walked down the iron steps two levels and climbed behind the wheel of the nine eleven. With a ball cap and sunglasses on, he started the engine and drove up the ramp to ground level.

All this bother to escape anyone who might be watching was a real pain in the butt, and he thought perhaps he had grown too paranoid after years of sneaking in and out of places and eluding anyone who might be after him. Maybe it really was time to retire. He’d thought a lot about it while running around the mid-east after that damned Farsouke.

Normally, he didn’t think twice about taking out a suspected subversive or a known druggie, or for that matter, anyone he’d ever been assigned to eliminate. He’d lost count years earlier. But damn, this was an American General the bastards wanted him to pop. He didn’t like it, and damned if he’d do it. Johnny knew what the consequences were for not at least attempting