tested by this evening.'
Wintersole nodded his head slowly.
'And besides,' Lightstone added, 'I think I know how to get this guy to tell us anything we want to know.'
'Lots of luck on that,' the young Ranger commented.
'What do you have in mind?' Wintersole's pale gray eyes expressed far more interest than usual.
'You familiar with the expression 'psychological warfare'?'
Wintersole nodded.
Yeah, I'll just bet you are. Lightstone allowed himself a few moments to watch Wilbur Boggs's ragged breathing settle into a steady rhythm before he turned his attention to the man who — for whatever reason — clearly represented the greatest threat to Charlie and Bravo Teams.
'Good. Then I'll let you guess what I plan to do once I find myself a nice, big, poisonous snake.'
Chapter Fifty-one
According to the paperwork filed with the FAA, the brand-new Falcon 900-EX that took off from Washington Dulles International Airport at 3:00 Eastern Standard time that Tuesday afternoon was one of three such aircraft owned by an international conglomerate of oil executives who leased the luxuriously appointed jets to clients on a trip-by-trip basis… and usually on very short notice.
Which explained the availability of planes, pilots, maintenance and ground crews on a twenty-four-hour call- out basis.
In point of fact, however, Samuel Tisbury, the Chairman and CEO of Cyanosphere VIII, as well as the number two man in the industrial conspiracy known as ICER, owned, operated, and piloted the very expensive three-engine jet. And, in a testimony to Tisbury's incredible wealth and infamous lack of patience, the ground and maintenance crews managed to completely reconfigure the plane internally, fuel and flight-check it a good half hour before Tisbury and his companions arrived at the private hangar.
The Falcon was still climbing — rising high over the Appalachian Mountains, on a basically straight-line course for the Rogue Valley International Airport in Medford, Oregon, with Tisbury and a copilot at the controls, an extremely attractive flight attendant solicitously attending Regis J. Smallsreed and the backup pilot in the forward cabin, and an extremely professional paramedic monitoring a deeply sedated Simon Whatley in the rear cabin — when Larry Paxton notified Special Ops Chief David Halahan that they hadn't heard from Special Agent Henry Lightstone or any of the agents of Charlie Team in the last fifteen hours.
The plane had leveled off at its cruising altitude of twenty-seven thousand feet, and was passing over Columbus, Ohio, when Lightstone decided that he'd slept enough for one morning — make that afternoon, he corrected himself, as he glanced down at his watch and discovered that it was already 1:15 — and then proceeded to stand up, slowly and carefully, so as not to wake any of the loudly snoring members of the Chosen Brigade, most of whom sprawled belly up in their military-issue sleeping bags strewn over the dirt floor of the low-ceilinged cave.
The reserve pilot had just taken over the controls above Kansas City, Missouri, so Sam Tisbury could join Regis J. Smallsreed for an exquisitely prepared dinner in the forward cabin, when Lightstone — moving carefully through the rocky outcropping above the Chosen Brigade's training facility theoretically in search of a particular variety of snake supposedly prone to sunning itself on rocky outcroppings at this time of year- spotted Wintersole and three of his men carefully setting the last of their high-explosive packets in and around an old and decrepit horse barn mostly filled with sacks of homegrown chicken manure that the Brigade men never quite found the time to spread in the fields as they promised the women they would.
However, in spite of its odorous contents, the Brigade leadership felt the building would make a perfect trial site for Federal Wildlife Agent Wilbur Boggs and his fellow Special Agents from Charlie Team, to say nothing of the entire federal government as a whole in absentia.
The plane was approaching the Rocky Mountains, and climbing again to escape some mild turbulence — to the delight of Congressman Regis J. Smallsreed, who helpfully placed a steadying hand directly across the flight attendant's ample chest as she leaned forward to refill his and Tisbury's wineglasses — as Henry Lightstone watched the first sergeant carefully lock a small transmitter in the SAFE position, then hand it to the young Army Ranger with the cast on his hand.
As the plane passed directly over Salt Lake City, Utah, and began its initial descent, Lightstone retrieved his new cellular phone from one of his cache sites and called Mike Takahara to tell the tech agent what he wanted… which, in turn, enabled Bravo Team leader Larry Paxton finally to contact Halahan and advise the increasingly anxious and frustrated Special Ops chief as to the current status of Special Agents Henry Lightstone, Wilbur Boggs, and all of the members of Charlie Team.
And as the Falcon 900-XE crossed over the high desert of eastern Oregon at precisely 5:42 P.M. local time — with Congressman Regis J. Smallsreed enjoying a delightfully sensuous neck and shoulder massage from the multi- skilled flight attendant, while Sam Tisbury nodded sleepily under the equally soothing influence of a half bottle of expensive Chardonnay — Henry Lightstone finally met Tech Agent Mike Takahara in the woods about a half-mile west of the Chosen Brigade's training compound…
And obtained his snake…
And then went on to describe, in great detail, the final necessary elements of his plan.
At exactly 5:45 that same Tuesday evening, an exhausted A1 Grynard, who was determined to maintain as much contact as possible with the agents assigned to his special investigations team, finally returned to the FBI's resident agent office in Medford, Oregon.
'Looks like you had a long day,' Senior Resident FBI Agent George Kawana commented as Grynard collapsed into the chair behind his borrowed desk.
Sighing heavily, A1 Grynard closed his eyes and leaned as far back as he could in the amazingly uncomfortable government executive chair.
'So help me God,' he vowed, half to himself, 'if I ever agree to take on another assignment like this, somebody please have the decency to collect my gun and credentials, and file my retirement papers.'
George Kawana nodded sympathetically. 'I think everybody in the agency agrees that you definitely set a new standard with this investigation.'
'A new low, you mean.'
'Well, yes, as a matter of fact, that is what I meant,' the senior resident agent conceded. 'But I was trying to look at it from a positive point of view.'
'There is no positive point of view on this case, George,' A1 Grynard announced tiredly, keeping his eyes firmly closed as he tried to find a comfortable position in a chair obviously designed for someone with no lower back. 'The whole thing sucks, no matter how you look at it.'
'I suppose that means you don't want to see the latest set of, uh, surveillance photos?'
A1 Grynard's left eye slowly opened.
'What do you mean by 'uh'?' he inquired suspiciously.
'Oh nothing, really.' The senior resident agent shrugged indifferently. 'I mean if it was my case, I'd certainly want to see those photos. But I can see where someone in your position might not necessarily want to know what…'
A1 Grynard came straight up in his chair with both eyes open.
'Where are they?'
'Manila envelope, right in front of you.'
Grynard reached for the envelope and hurriedly unwound the string tie.
'And then, too,' Kawana went on as he watched his longtime friend and fellow agent pull a dozen eight-by- ten glossy color photos out of the envelope, 'if this was my case, and I knew I'd be held completely responsible for anything that went wrong, I'd probably be a little curious as to what…'
A1 Grynard emitted an explosive curse that almost caused the senior resident FBI agent of the Medford office to choke in surprise.
