Project Firefly

By Stephen Yoham

Secret Service Agent H. Hunter Mahoy interrogates an intruder caught climbing the White House fence. He learns that in two days' time, a top-secret aircraft prototype, code-named Project Firefly, is to be stolen during its maiden flight. The nuclear-powered 747 jumbo jet has endless range and almost unlimited capacity to remain aloft without the need to refuel. It also carries the latest airborne defense systems of the United States. President James Weber immediately dispatches Hunter, along with two additional F-15-E escort fighter jets, to accompany Firefly to Edwards Air Force Base in Southern California. That same evening, the president's daughter, Kate Weber, is kidnapped in a volley of gunfire: her Secret Service detail lie wounded or dying. Daily photographs of Kate are sent to a Washington Herald reporter, Morgan Lindsay, who witnessed the abduction. Firefly disappears despite all the precautions as Hunter and all four escort fighters fall out of the sky over the snow-covered Sierras. Hunter's fellow agent, Charles Minsk, is in contact with Search and Rescue and with the intelligence agencies. Time is slipping away, so Morgan and Charles join forces to find their friends and the atomic Firefly.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Feb 26, 2018
• ISBN: 9781641385787

Book preview

Chapter

1

Leaving the White House through the East Gate, H. Hunter Mahoy turned up his collar and strode briskly toward the mall. Under the streetlamps, the drizzling raindrops streaked through the artificial light like tiny meteor showers. He was already late in meeting his fiancée, Morgan Lindsey, on that Friday evening. He’d made matters worse by forgetting his umbrella.

He slowed to button his overcoat against the late-November cold front when something near the White House fence caught his attention. The cigarette’s glow intensified dramatically when its user commanded a long drag, like that of someone trying to calm their nerves. Then Hunter saw the silhouette in the shadows. If not for the nasty weather, he wouldn’t have given much thought to the man’s presence there. But some bizarre events had occurred around the White House lately—a few involving gunfire.

Hunter altered his course. As he drew near, the stranger turned away from the fence and hastily crossed the street. Though he caught only a glimpse of the young man’s face, Hunter got a good look at his half-soaked clothing: a U.S. Air Force captain’s uniform.

Hunter hustled up the street, ducked under an overhang, then punched in Morgan’s number on his cell phone. I’m on my way. See you in a few minutes.

As he hung up, he spotted the man returning to the same place near the fence. This guy’s up to something, he thought. He recrossed the street at the end of the block. Hidden by the curvature of the iron fence that circled the perimeter of the South Lawn, he unbuttoned his top coat, placed his hand on his weapon, and continued to advance. His pulse skyrocketed. The persistent drizzle not only muffled his footsteps but also caused poor visibility—a condition he used to his advantage.

Suddenly the man’s ghostly profile appeared in the mist. Hunter drew his 9mm pistol on the run, aimed at the intruder, and shouted, Stop or I’ll shoot! Gripping the gun with both hands out in front of him, he spread his feet to brace himself and blinked at the moisture striking him in the face. He caught the stranger at the top of the fence. Get your ass back down here right now. And don’t make any sudden moves!

Don’t shoot! Please don’t shoot, mister! I’m coming down. As his feet touched the ground, the man turned around with his hands in the air.

Why were you climbing the fence?

Because I need to talk to the president. I have something extremely important to tell him and didn’t know how else to reach him. I’m unarmed and have no intention of hurting anyone.

*     *     *

That same evening in a cramped, dimly lit cockpit not far away, the pilot cued the radio. DCA Approach Control, two-eight-four at ten miles.

Two-eight-four cleared to land ILS on one-eight. Turn to heading one-six-five and descend. Advisory: light rain with intermittent fog; winds: one-nine-zero at five, visibility: one mile, distance: eight miles to the outer marker. Report again at one thousand.

Roger, Approach Control. Two-eight-four cleared for ILS on one-eight, the pilot replied in a thick, Arabic accent. He banked the private jet—a Gulfstream Falcon—switched on the landing lights and windshield wipers, then glanced over his shoulder. We’ve begun our final approach. We’ll be on the ground in a few minutes.

Excellent! the leader said, his olive-skin face awash in the glow of the cockpit lighting. We’re slightly ahead of schedule.

*     *     *

On the rain-soaked tarmac below, two men in a cargo van awaited their arrival. As prearranged, they parked in a remote, unlit area with their lights off and the engine running.

Keep the heater blasting, the passenger said with a shiver, thinking it crazy to be out in this weather. I’m half-soaked and chilled to the bone, thanks to that damned flat tire.

It certainly was lousy timing. The driver pushed the lever for maximum warmth. And tonight’s weather made it worse. I thought we’d be late because of it. Hey, Sam, what will you do with your share when this is over?

I’m not sure, he said, holding his hands in front of the passenger heat vents. I might just buy a little house somewhere and retire.

Retire? You’re too young for that.

You don’t grow old in this line of work. I’ll tell you one thing I am sure of: this is the last time you’ll find me hanging around a cold, rainy airport waiting for some damned foreigner to— Interrupted by the approach of another aircraft, he asked, Is that it?

The driver hit the wipers and leaned forward. I don’t think so. It looks too large. No, that’s a commercial liner, but it can’t be long now.

*     *     *

To his left, the pilot spied the flashing red beacon atop the Washington Monument then checked the altimeter. Approach Control, two-eight-four at one-thousand on ILS for one-eight.

Roger two-eight-four, cleared for final on runway one-eight.

A minute later, the sleek aircraft touched down. It slowed rapidly then taxied through the rain toward its rendezvous point. Visibility was poor, but the pilot and the leader had been here before, and recently. For a while, the craft’s landing lights, dancing and shimmering on the reflective watery surface, pointed the way. But soon the leader ordered all lighting on the aircraft extinguished. Taxiing in the dark for a few more minutes, the pilot strained to see ahead, then finally turned the jet around, and shut down the engines. The craft had barely come to a complete stop when the van raced to its side and parked close to the door.

The leader returned to the cockpit. I want this jet refueled immediately. Make sure it is ready to go. And remain onboard at all times. We may have to make a hasty departure.

Don’t worry, the pilot said. It’ll be ready.

The van passenger hopped out and opened the side door, while the driver remained behind the wheel. One by one, in rapid succession, eight men, and then the leader—each carrying a fully automatic weapon with spare ammunition—transferred from the aircraft to the van. Not a word was spoken. Moments later, the vehicle splashed across the puddle-laden tarmac as it accelerated into the night.

*     *     *

The young man facing Hunter was good-looking, clean-cut, and fit.

Who are you? Hunter demanded, relaxing his stance. What’s your name?

Captain David Cunningham, United States Air Force, the man said.

Turn around and lean against the fence. Good. Now, spread your feet.

I’m unarmed, Cunningham said again over his shoulder.

Finding no weapon, Hunter stepped back and asked, Why do you want to see the president?

To discuss an event that has recently occurred, and another that’s yet to come.

What events?

That information is for the president, Cunningham said to the fence. And I’m going to talk to no one except the president about it.

The only place you’ll be going is to jail if you don’t—

Please, mister, Cunningham interrupted. It’s extremely important I speak with President Weber! He needs the information I have! Take me to jail afterward, and I’ll go willingly, but I must speak to him. Please.

Something in the young man’s tone struck a nerve with Hunter. You can put your hands down and turn around.

They stared at each other in silence for a few seconds. The drizzle had stopped.

Cunningham wiped his face with his bare hand. Are you a cop?

Hunter had originally aged him at twenty-eight or thirty but now believed him even younger. How old are you?

Twenty-five this month, he said.

All of twenty-five, Hunter said. Do you realize you’ve probably ruined your military career with this stunt?

My military career is what I’m trying to save, along with my life. I simply must speak with President Weber about these events. For me, there’s no alternative!

We’re at an impasse, Captain. I’m not inclined to take you to the president any more than you’re inclined to tell me what you have to say to him. But if you don’t immediately convince me to do otherwise, I will take you to jail.

Are you a cop? he asked again.

I’m a Secret Service agent.

Then you probably could arrange for me to meet with the president! he said excitedly.

Convince me that I need to, Hunter said, lowering his weapon and cautiously watching the young officer.

After remaining quiet for several seconds, Cunningham asked, Can I light a smoke?

Hunter nodded his approval then watched the Air Force captain habitually tap the package into the palm of his left hand twice before artfully directing one cigarette to appear. With it cradled between his lips, he offered the package to Hunter. Hunter refused with a shake of his head. The lighter’s brief glow showcased blue eyes, light-brown hair, and a small scar on the right cheek of a clean-shaven face.

Tilting his head back, Cunningham slowly exhaled a continuous stream of smoke into the night air. I assume you’re familiar with the incident that occurred about a year ago, the one in which the U.S. vice president, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs, and the secretary of the Air Force were all killed in Guantanamo Bay, Cuba, along with Fidel Castro and a few others.

Hunter shifted his weight. I’m quite familiar with that incident.

Good. Then you must also be aware that Castro was blamed for carrying the device that caused the deadly explosion. Well, that’s not how it happened! He took another long drag on the cancer-stick then exhaled the smoke. I know for a fact that the device was intentionally dropped from a U.S. aircraft.

How do you know? Did someone tell you?

No one had to tell me. I flew the mission!

Hunter’s jaw dropped. He really was quite familiar with that incident. In what type of aircraft did you fly this mission?

In an F-117-A stealth fighter, Cunningham replied.

Hunter had no idea the pilot of that mission had survived—in fact, no one did—and the odds of that information coming directly to him through the young man who had actually flown the mission had to be astronomical. What makes you think the president would be interested in that incident? It’s ancient history.

Another drag and another exhale. I believe certain players involved in that incident might be involved in one yet to come, one that I’m sure the president would dearly love to prevent.

And what would that be?

I’ve said too much already. Cunningham dropped the butt and crushed it beneath his foot. I would like to speak with President Weber.

Realizing the young officer had valid information about the Guantanamo incident that the president would want to know, the chances were good that the event yet to come was not only real but also important.

I believe you, Hunter said, holstering his gun. I’d take you to the president right now if I could, but he left town unexpectedly this morning on a three-day trip. He offered a handshake. I’m H. Hunter Mahoy, and I work directly with the president. I’ll arrange a meeting when he returns.

Accepting, Cunningham said, "Thank you, Mr. Mahoy. You won’t regret this. What does the H stand for?"

"Hungry. I skipped lunch. Let’s get out of this weather. Come with me. You’ll remain in the custody of the Secret Service until your meeting with President Weber."

Actually I’m relieved to hear that. I’ve been in hiding for nearly a year now. The only person who knew about this, a good buddy whom I trusted with my life, died recently. I’m eager to pass along the information I have and hopefully regain my life and career in the process. As far as anyone knows right now, including the Air Force, I am dead. I’m a man without a country or a future.

Hunter had almost forgotten about meeting Morgan. They’d planned to attend a speech given by the president’s daughter, Kate Weber, that evening at the Smithsonian. Morgan Lindsey, a reporter for the Washington Herald, would be attending for work as well as pleasure; Hunter, off duty tonight, considered the event strictly social. He’d been assigned to protect Kate at numerous functions in the past year and had come to know her well. Thirty-six, with natural blond hair, soft blue eyes, and a near-perfect figure, Kate was extremely attractive. He always enjoyed her company. He relished—even craved—assignments with her and often pondered the irony of being well paid to spend time with such a lovely companion.

Though Morgan wouldn’t admit it, he knew she disliked his assignments with Kate, especially if they took place out of town. An incredibly attractive brunet with brown eyes and a lovely figure herself, Morgan had mentioned more than once that Kate possessed all the physical attributes every woman longed for and then some. Also, Kate was four years younger, had wealth and power, and her father was the president. Even so, the two beauties had become good friends.

Another beauty who suddenly came to mind was Hunter’s ex-secretary in Miami, Amanda Taylor. Thirty-five and stunning, she had cornflower-blue eyes, long silky blond hair, gorgeous curves, and shapely legs. She also had the sweetest smile along with a most engaging personality. He was really saddened when she had left after a recent visit to see him. Truth be known, all three women had stolen a piece of his heart. Popping the question to Morgan came easy: he was in love with her and had been since college. Kate, on the other hand, had only recently come into his life. By then, he’d already become engaged to Morgan—for the second time. And then there was Amanda. If it hadn’t been for—

Is it all right if I smoke in here? Cunningham asked, interrupting Hunter’s thoughts.

I’d rather you didn’t, Captain, he replied as they stepped into Hunter’s office in the bowels of the White House. He dialed Morgan’s number again. The young man took in the room. His focus traveled from the file cabinets along the far wall to the bookshelf in the corner then to the walnut desk in the center of the room. Next he spied the free-standing globe and the model of the F-16 fighter suspended from the ceiling. Lastly, he turned toward the pictures of the military aircraft hung on the wall behind him.

Yeah, Morgan, it’s me. Something has come up, and I’m not sure how long I’ll be detained. You’d better go without me.

Can’t it wait, Hunter? You know how much I wanted us to attend this function together.

I know, darling, and I’m really sorry. I’ll explain later. Please make my excuses to Kate.

Hunter sat behind his desk and prepared to renew his query of Cunningham but had no intention of disclosing to the young officer that he already knew the answers to many of the questions he would ask. He offered a seat, which was declined. After dropping the device a year ago over Guantanamo, how did you escape? Did you return to base?

Cunningham crossed the room and studied the pictures on the wall. That’s what I was supposed to do, but I strongly believed something would happen to me if I did. You see, I already knew that I’d be hitting Castro. My superiors offered me an exorbitant amount of money to do so. That in itself seemed strange, because they could’ve simply ordered me to fly the mission. They said the extra money was for my silence. I was to never mention to anyone that the flight took place. That worried me. Also, they kept me confined to an underground base: no news, no contact, no telephone, no radio, no anything. I would’ve had more privileges in jail! He turned and faced his interrogator. Were you in the Air Force?

Hunter smiled. Six years, not counting the time I spent at the academy. Did you accept the money?

Yes, but for only one reason: I felt trapped. I had the distinct feeling that if I didn’t agree, they’d simply kill me. It sounds strange, I know, but you had to be in my situation. Anyway, I figured I’d better take the money, make the flight, then disappear. He thumbed over his shoulder at the pictures. Did you see any action, Mr. Mahoy? What was your rank?

I flew in Desert Storm. Fifty-six sorties over Iraq in F-16s—mostly out of Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. I left the Air Force as a major. So a year ago you made the run over Guantanamo and released the device. What happened next?

Cunningham seemed more relaxed and sat down, perhaps because he was now speaking with a comrade—a fellow fighter pilot. After releasing the bomb, I watched until I saw the explosion, then turned due south, and started counting. I’d already promised myself I’d wait thirty seconds, then eject from a perfectly good aircraft. I figured the stealth would crash into the sea, no traces would be found, and that would be that. They would assume I didn’t survive. An interesting thing happened, though: less than ten seconds after I’d punched out, my stealth exploded into a huge fireball! They meant for me not to return, and I’ve been hiding ever since.

Hunter leaned back and laced his fingers behind his head. How did you return to the United States?

I’d arranged with a buddy of mine to have his boat stationed off the southeastern coast of Cuba. I carried a small strobe light and a handheld radio. He knew when to look for me. This buddy is the one who died recently.

Did you know Air Force Two would be in Guantanamo with the vice president and the others onboard at the time you released the device? Hunter asked, eager to see the reaction.

Cunningham rose immediately, his blue eyes boring into Hunter’s own. Absolutely not! I didn’t know any U.S. aircraft or any U.S. officials would be there. I was told Castro was given permission to visit Guantanamo for a very limited period of time and that they wanted to hit him while they had the opportunity. You can’t imagine how awful I feel to be responsible for the deaths of the vice president, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs, the head of the Air Force, and others who were there on that fateful day. That’s one of the things I want to tell the president.

Hunter wished he could ease the young man’s guilt. The official account of that incident—the one the newspapers had printed and the public accepted—claimed that Fidel Castro had unwittingly carried an explosive device to the scheduled meeting with the vice president at Guantanamo Bay. The bomb had been planted on Castro’s helicopter in an assassination attempt on him. When it detonated, it completely destroyed the chopper, Air Force Two, and all the occupants aboard both crafts. Fidel Castro and his brother, Raul, had been killed, along with the U.S. officials and a few other unfortunate souls.

The truth of the matter was Castro did not transport any bomb. The U.S. vice president had planned to assassinate U.S. President Nelson Weber during that meeting with Castro by dropping a device from a stealth fighter—the one dropped by Captain David Cunningham. The chairman of the Joint Chiefs and the secretary of the Air Force were both cohorts in the assassination attempt.

Hunter had accidentally stumbled on the men’s evil plan. He had escaped being caught after nightfall by stealing one of their stealth fighters that couldn’t be tracked on radar. Soon after that, he and Morgan had teamed up to warn the president. Hunter smiled inwardly: that nimble black jet was still hiding inside an aging hanger at a sleepy little airfield in Florida. There’s no telling when a personal stealth fighter might come in handy again, he thought.

President Weber, through a series of clever events, had trapped the murderous traitors in their own plot. He had tried desperately to warn Castro in time, but because that effort was in vain, he’d allowed Castro to take the blame. The world could never know what actually happened that day, and Hunter knew he couldn’t allow Captain Cunningham to leave the White House—or talk to anyone—until after he’d met with President Weber.

Chapter

2

Nearly late for the beginning of Kate Weber’s speech, Morgan Lindsey had to be seated immediately upon her arrival. She hadn’t planned a solo entrance. Her short black dress with its low-cut front clung nicely to her well-proportioned body and flaunted her recently acquired tan, courtesy of an assignment in the Bahamas. Accented with a pearl necklace and matching earrings, her appearance pleased many male members of the audience. She noticed the attention given her. Hunter had not only planned to attend, he had been looking forward to it.