operation.
He was growing increasingly uncomfortable as the time drew near. There were too many exigencies for his liking. He questioned the effectiveness of the antigravity machine and imagined that even if it pulverized the granite and concrete surrounding the vault, there would be tons of debris blocking the path to the gold. Mills was assigned to work with Conrad to switch the machine over to use its antigravity potential to lift the debris out of the way, but it could just as easily take more time than if the tractor just blazed a trail through the debris. This was a problem that would have to be handled in the field.
Another problem was the vault itself. Conrad’s machine had flattened the Hummer in San Jose, but the steel frame remained. The same would hold true of the vault. Even flattened, it was a significant obstruction to clear prior to loading the bullion. Here again, Mills would attempt to use the machine to remove the twenty- ton vault door, but if the vault didn’t break open, there was no plan for what to do next except crush it again.
No matter the enormity of the problems, Kilmer was willing to risk everything for the payoff of $1 billion in gold. Along with guaranteed compensation from Holloway, the team would keep anything they could bring back over the $1 billion. The trick was not to get greedy. The strict time limit of five minutes was inviolable. Any longer than that and the Army base with its Apache helicopters would be on full deployment.
Irrespective of the number of loads, at the five-minute mark the team would cease everything and make a hasty retreat to Struffeneger’s farm. They would stay hidden at Wildcat until the full force of law enforcement heat died down, which promised to be upwards of a fortnight or more. After this initial period, the men would slowly begin leaving for different parts of the country.
The gold would be shipped by Wildcat in the normal course of operations as they delivered the catfish. Kilmer would stay behind to supervise the loading of gold in each shipment and Colt would handle the receiving end. One of Holloway’s warehouses in Galveston would be used to store the gold until it could be loaded on the Jurassic for final shipment to Russia.
As he reviewed the plan, he couldn’t help but think it was without doubt the riskiest operation he had ever commanded. The number of fatal flaws was too multiple to ignore. Their probable success was no greater than three in ten, but if they pulled it off it would indeed be the crime-of-all-crimes. Failure, however, meant certain death; time would tell if Holloway’s master plan would ultimately prevail.
Kilmer’s plan for the day was to get everyone situated and then to walk through the mission. The hostages would be moved into the main house to guard them more easily. It was also a high priority to have the Coscarelli woman safely ensconced on the premises, so Colt would be awaiting Sully’s arrival. Thereafter, he or Ventura would return to the airport to get Farley. But until he had all the hostages secured and all the men present, the day remained flexible. Early tomorrow promised to be the biggest excursion of his life.
Kilmer decided it was time to move the hostages from the bus to the main quarters.
“We’re movin’ inside…so get yerselves ready,” he said gruffly to Jarrod and Jer in turn.
“It’s time to cycle my laptop, Chief,” Jarrod said irreverently, as Kilmer cut through his handcuffs.
“Blimey…there’s a fuckin’ surprise. It’ll wait ‘til we get inside, and Mills’ll monitor every move…not that I don’t trust ya,” he said.
“Okay, it’s your call. I’d have thought my last demonstration might have convinced you of the consequences of ignoring the protocols.”
“Shut yer trap, Professor. Don’t burr me up.” Kilmer said, trying to maintain his composure. He was determined not to let the man get under his skin once again.
“Just pointing out the obvious, Chief. Let’s go to the house, then; it’s no skin off my nose.”
“Yer such a mug, Professor. Seems ya forgot my demonstration. Every time ya open yer bunghole will cost yer rellie more skin,” he said, banging Jer’s head into the door jamb as he walked him from the back bedroom.
Jer yelled as his head struck the door casing. “You’re an asshole, mister,” he said, rubbing his head. “I going to enjoy watching you get your Aussie butt kicked.
“Woo,” Kilmer mocked, nervously shaking his hands. “Ya scare me, boy. Now git yer arses into the house,” he said, kicking Jer out the door but holding his gun on Jarrod.
Jarrod walked into the fresh air and looked around furtively for anything that would give away their location. His eyes were drawn to the huge feed silo with the dominant Wildcat Catfish logo emblazoned on the tower.
Touchdown! Jarrod thought. I’ve got you now, dumb shit. Wildcat Catfish, Kentucky. That can’t be hard to find. I’ll send this off to Sarah and reinforcements will be on the way. These guys are going down!
Jarrod could hardly wait to show Mills how to run his laptop. One false keystroke and the whole machine would implode. Jarrod smiled at the thought. These guys have no idea what’s coming…
FIFTY-THREE
Washington, D.C.
06:00 hours
Emerson Palmer was hitting nothing but dead ends. Since he had spoken to Jason Henry about their common interest in the Coscarelli matter, he had made little progress. Working with the D.C. Metro Police had yielded almost no leads. What the Washington police had learned was that Dr. Coscarelli was a conscientious research professor at Johns Hopkins, devoting her time almost exclusively to work. She lived alone and had few close personal friends. Many of her colleagues at the university didn’t even know she was related to Senator Coscarelli.
An inspection of her home also yielded few clues about her abduction. It was obvious that she had left in a hurry; her purse was left on the dining room table, and the cat’s food dish was empty even though a full bag of food stood nearby. Inside the refrigerator were a forgotten sack lunch and her monogrammed water bottle. It wasn’t hard to figure from this sparse evidence that the woman had been surprised by her abductors, but willingly accompanied them rather than mount a struggle. Who kidnapped her or where she’d been taken was a complete mystery. Even more quizzical was the fact that no one had called making any ransom demands. It was as if the woman simply disappeared without any cause or consequence.
Palmer was sitting at his kitchen table, perusing the meager facts of his case and trying to figure his next move when he received a call from Jason Henry. His pulse quickened with anticipation.
“Morning, Jason,” he said answering the call. “I hope you’ve got something for me, brother, ’cuz the trail here’s colder ’n a well-digger’s ass.”
“Very funny,” Henry replied. “You’re witty as ever, I see.”
“Hey, I’m not kidding. The trail’s as cold as a Minnesota lake in January. I’m working with Metro…we’ve interviewed all of Coscarelli’s neighbors and work associates and don’t have a clue. And there hasn’t been a word about a ransom demand. I’m beginning to think my case is somehow tied to yours,” he ventured, the frustration evident in his voice.
“Well, hold on; I’ve got interesting information that may give you the needle in the haystack you’re searching for,” Agent Henry began. “Dr. Niles Penburton, the principal owner of Quantum and partner of my missing scientist, was executed late yesterday in a car bomb on the Stanford campus.”
“No shit,” Palmer interrupted nonchalantly. “What’s that got to do with me?”
“Easy, pard’…I’ve been suspicious of Penburton ever since this case began,” he said, bringing Palmer current on everything that surrounded the theft of Dr. Conrad’s equations and his new antigravity technology.
“I picked up a court order earlier today to search his personal records. The guy I’m working with out here got hold of Penburton’s phone records. We found dozens of calls involving Triton Energy dating back over a year. Triton’s involvement makes me even more suspicious,” he said, pausing to let Palmer catch up.
“Yeah, okay…but I don’t get this guy’s connection to Coscarelli, or the missing scientist.”
“Look, it gets better,” Henry said. “It so happens Triton Energy is well-known to DOD. The owner, Alastair Holloway, is politically connected and closely allied to the Secretary of Defense. He’s a self-made billionaire, chiefly from oil, but has his fingers in all kinds of Defense Department contracts. He’s cunning, ruthless, and has a reputation for destroying people that cross him. I’m willing to bet that Holloway’s somehow involved in this scheme. Penburton crossed him and he took revenge. I’m telling you…this guy could be the lead we’ve been
