The Speed of Sound (Speed of Sound Thrillers #1)(95)
It was here that he became acquainted with the National League East fans, when Murphy’s appendix burst three years ago. They appreciated his experience and skill, and recognized a kindred spirit. It was clear that he missed the rush of working in a combat zone, and they needed someone they could trust in the event of a medical emergency. Like now. He had been on private retainer ever since. Not for the money, but for the rush—or, at least, the promise of it. Until this point, all the good doctor had done was set up an ad-hoc emergency room in an old warehouse in an aging industrial park on the outskirts of Haddonfield, where the three met once a month to replenish the National League East fans’ personal blood supplies. Donated blood had a shelf life of forty-two days, and Reggie knew that if his services were ever needed, blood would be the key determinant of success or failure.
The two assassins were about to find out just how well their money had been spent.
Giles screeched to a halt next to the warehouse, where Dr. Portman greeted him and helped carry in the wounded killer. Murphy was placed on an operating table, where the doctor assessed his injuries. His patient looked up, watching him closely. “Why the hell are you smiling?”
“Because I live for this shit.” The doctor had him stabilized in less than seventeen minutes. Without a fresh supply of the patient’s own blood, it might have been a different story. But, as with most tests, preparation was the best indicator of outcome. As soon as the patient was resting comfortably, Dr. Portman explained the outlook for his recovery. His shattered pelvis would need four to six months to heal. Same for his right femur, but the rehab would take considerably longer, depending on the level of performance he hoped to return to.
The baseball fans knew there was no such thing as returning to this game after taking time off. There was no off season. They were done, whether they wanted to be or not. This was the first and last time they would ever need the good doctor’s services.
CHAPTER 100
Philadelphia International Airport, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, May 28, 2:48 a.m.
Philadelphia Director of Homeland Security Albert Shoals and his caravan sped onto the tarmac, where a CH-47 Chinook military transport helicopter awaited them. National Director of Homeland Security Arthur Merrell paced in front of it. He had insisted on personally taking possession of the technology. Shoals resented the implicit lack of trust, but Merrell was not going to allow anyone else to handle it. He might not know what it was, but he was damn well sure going to be part of its delivery.
Shoals handed Merrell the two keys in his possession. Director Merrell and the two men cuffed to the cases boarded the helicopter, which immediately took off for Joint Base McGuire-Dix-Lakehurst, commonly known as JB MDL. The massive complex was a base for the army, air force, and navy, as well as the largest federal prison in the country. The base was as close to an impenetrable fortress as existed in the modern world.
The helicopter landed somewhere in the middle of the sprawling complex, touching down next to a nondescript warehouse with no visible signage. Two men in plain uniforms exited the building and approached Merrell. There was no way to tell which branch of the military they were part of. Or if they were part of one at all. Only one of them spoke. “Director, we will take possession of the packages.”
Merrell took out the two keys and unlocked the cases from the agents’ wrists. The agents handed over the locked cases, along with the keys. Merrell was surprised when the two men in nondescript uniforms immediately turned to go back inside. The director of Homeland Security asked, “Don’t you have anything for me to sign?”
They paused. “What would you like to sign?” one of the men asked.
The director of Homeland Security didn’t appreciate the man’s tone. “Something that acknowledges transfer of this technology to your possession.”
The two men in the plain uniforms glanced at each other, as if they found the statement amusing. “Sir, the ground you are now standing on does not appear on any map of this facility. There was no transfer because there is no technology.” They carried the two cases into the nondescript building as Merrell and his party returned to the waiting Chinook.
Bob Stenson watched the helicopter take off into the night sky. He waited calmly inside his Chrysler until the helicopter’s running lights disappeared from view, then pulled up to the well-lit, windowless building whose use his predecessor had arranged with the elder Bush while he was still director of the CIA. Stenson couldn’t even remember now what favor the founders had done for the then-aspiring politician, but it most certainly involved future residency in the White House.
Bush’s thank-you was to have all official records of the building expunged. The massive facility had gone through so many operational changes over the last decade that no one individual was aware of all that went on at JB MDL, except in their assigned area. This nondescript building was just one of so many others. Nobody knew what went on inside it, and nobody really cared.
Stenson had instructed Indiana senator Corbin Davis to select this site to store the echo box because it was the most secure building on the Eastern Seaboard. It was also the best place for the senator to test the technology, which was set to begin first thing in the morning. Stenson knew that the building being part of JB MDL would give the senator a false sense of comfort because it felt so official.
It worked every time.