Aftershock: A Donovan Nash Novel (A Donovan Nash Thriller) (7 page)

“Amazing—what’s the endurance on the
Scimitar
?” Donovan asked.

“Fourteen hours with a thirty-minute reserve.”

Donovan thought how difficult it must have been to engineer all the complicated systems and still keep the aerodynamics intact. “How do you keep the corrosive aspects of the ash from destroying the optics? I wouldn’t think it’d take very long for the ash to eat away at the lenses, and then all you’d have is one very expensive, but blind, airplane.”

“Yes, you’re correct. In laboratory tests, we discovered that the typical ash cloud renders the
Scimitar
’s optics unusable in about eight minutes. I devised a rotating lens cover system that continually slides a new protective film into position when needed. The optics system is unproven, and that’s one of the necessities of flying the
Scimitar
from inside your airplane. In the event that the
Scimitar
is blinded, our pilot can guide the drone to a safe landing by actually looking out the window of the
Galileo
and visually controlling the flight.”

“Professor, thank you for the tour. I’m looking forward to seeing the
Scimitar
in action.”

“As am I,” Professor Murakami replied, as he nodded a farewell and went to resume his work.

“Incredible,” Buck said. “I’ve seen firsthand what these things can do out in the field, at least the militarized version.”

“Here we are.” Malcolm held open the door to a small office connected to the hangar itself. “We set up a makeshift office here at the airport to be closer to the
Scimitar
and the data we hope to recover from the test flights.”

Donovan could see that the room was small and hastily put together. The air was filled with the acrid smell of over-cooked coffee. Donovan guessed that this place was manned twenty-four hours, and coffee was a by-product of that vigilance. Along one wall were several computers situated on old metal desks, the floor snaked with the wires of multiple connections going to printers and phone lines. On the facing wall was a row of seismographs, each contained white rollers with long metal pointers etching lines on the drums. Donovan knew enough to understand that each small variation of the ink reflected some unseen movement deep inside the earth. Seated at one of the terminals was a smallish woman with straight, mostly gray hair tied in a ponytail. Her glasses were pushed up onto the top of her head.

“Honey,” Malcolm called out. “We have company.”

The woman turned, and Donovan saw that she was probably in her early sixties, similar in age to Malcolm. Her features were sharp, but the lines of time and obvious exposure to the elements were visible around her eyes. She struck Donovan as someone who spent a great deal of time in the outdoors, thin and tall, almost stately, she was the perfect match for Malcolm. She rose from her chair to greet them. As she neared, Donovan could see in her eyes what looked to him to be a great sadness. She didn’t smile, but Donovan immediately felt a kinship with this woman.

“Gentlemen, this is my wife Lillian,” Malcolm said. “Honey, I’d like you to meet Donovan Nash and Howard Buckley. They’re with Eco-Watch.”

“Nice to meet you,” Lillian replied, then turned toward her husband. “There were a series of three small-scale earthquake swarms about twenty minutes ago.”

“I’d like to see what that looks like,” Donovan said, as he turned and tried to figure out exactly which instrument in the room might show an earthquake swarm.

“It’s right here,” Lillian said, pointing to one of the seismograph drums. “See how we get a big spike and then it gradually goes back to normal?”

Donovan could clearly see what she was talking about. It looked like a drawing of pine tree, the lower, bigger branches indicated the start of the swarm, and it gradually got smaller like it would at the top of the tree.

“Where is this being detected?” Donovan asked. “It’s my understanding that Atitlán doesn’t have a seismograph.”

“This one is located south of here on Mount Fuego,” Lillian explained. “There are also other seismographs in other parts of Guatemala. It’s not ideal, but it’s all we have right now. The swarms are miles deep, but we’ve learned that earthquake swarms are one of the precursors to a major eruption.”

“How many people do you have monitoring the situation?” Buck directed the question toward Malcolm. Buck had walked closer to the lone window in the room and pulled back the grimy blinds; he glanced outside, and his eyes swept the immediate area.

“There are only the two of us,” Malcolm replied. “We try to split it up into ten-hour shifts and let the Guatemalan monitoring station take over the task when we’re away. There are two other USGS people on their way; they should arrive here in the next several days.”

Through the window, Donovan saw that the Boeing 737 was still on the ramp, though in the distance he could see a fuel truck pulling away from under the right wing. He hadn’t
thought to ask William if the Air Force crew and airplane were staying with them, or leaving. From all appearances it looked like they might be getting ready to depart. Donovan shrugged, it probably didn’t matter. He and William weren’t leaving anytime soon, plus, later today, they would have the
Galileo
at their disposal.

“Buck!” Janie yelled from the far side of the hangar. “Hurry!”

In an instant, Buck, gun drawn, was racing across the building. Donovan and Malcolm brought up the rear. As Donovan rounded the helicopter, he saw Janie holding a large envelope. In her other hand was a sheet of paper.

Buck holstered his pistol, and he and Donovan walked around behind Janie so they could see what was written. At the top of the page was a bloody fingerprint, below that were the words:

three million u.s. dollars
to see Stephanie alive again
you have three days

Buck turned to Malcolm. “I need you to call the control tower and stop the Air Force jet!”

“Where did you find this?” Donovan asked Janie.

“It was leaning against the rear door. I heard what sounded like the sliding door on a van open and close. Then someone pounded on the door. I opened it and there was no one there, but the envelope was, so I opened it.”

Buck opened the door and looked up and down the access road that connected the private hangars, as if quietly assessing their vulnerability. “I want everyone inside. I also need something to handle this with besides my fingers. Can someone find me some gloves? Or better yet, tweezers, or forceps?”

“I’ve got some in my kit,” Janie said, returning moments later with a small pair of forceps.

“Let’s get this to the office.” Buck carefully picked up
the letter and the envelope with the forceps, careful not to contaminate the evidence any more than Janie already had.

“The tower said they’d relay your message to the Boeing,” Malcolm said as he rejoined the group. “That was all they could promise. The 737 hasn’t moved, so I think we reached them in time.”

Buck hurried back to Malcolm’s office. They quickly photographed the contents of the envelope as well as the envelope itself. With Lillian’s help, they carefully secured all the items in a large plastic bag, which Buck then sealed.

Malcolm eyed the plastic bag. “Are you sure we shouldn’t call the police, or the embassy, first?”

“The Air Force jet we flew down here on is headed back to Washington, DC. In four hours this can be in the hands of the FBI. I’m hoping they can give us some clues. I also have to ask everyone to keep everything you’ve seen here to yourselves. As far as Eco-Watch goes, it’s business as usual.” Buck looked at Malcolm and Lillian. “I’m not sure why they delivered this here, but I’m going to request round-the-clock security for the two of you. I don’t think you’re in danger, but I’d like to err on the safe side.”

“Thank you,” Malcolm replied with genuine gratitude.

Donovan led the way as he and Buck headed out the door. As they burst from the hangar, Donovan saw that the Boeing was still on the tarmac. Buck took off running toward the jet. Standing helpless on the ramp, Donovan felt like he’d been punched. The ransom note pounded at him on different levels. Whatever small hope he held that she was in hiding had just vanished. Even if they gave in to the demands, there was every possibility she’d be killed anyway. Stephanie had been taken and the clock was ticking.

Lauren sat at the desk, moved the mouse, and the screen on the computer came to life. She deftly went through the steps until she found what she was looking for—in front of her was the Internet site history Donovan had looked at the night before. Lauren had no qualms about what she was doing; she’d been with him and was fully aware he was reflecting on his past. What made last night different from other nights was her presence as he battled his past. He obviously blamed himself for mistakes made, real or imagined, but what she had no idea was how wounded he’d been by the fact that the repercussions over Meredith’s death had come so swiftly.

She clicked the mouse and flinched as the first image filled the screen. It was a full-screen image of Robert Huntington. It was probably taken when he was in his mid-twenties, already at the helm of Huntington Oil, a private company that Robert had inherited at the age of twenty-one—an inheritance that had made him one of the ten richest men in the world.

The photo was before all the surgery. Nothing about it reminded her of her husband, except the eyes—they remained the same. Robert had always been a good-looking man, Lauren mused. He was often referred to as the billionaire playboy, dating starlets and other high-visibility women. A cross between a young Howard Hughes and John F. Kennedy Jr. For many women it was an intoxicating combination of looks and power.

Lauren scrolled down to the biography. Robert Huntington had lived a privileged life accorded to the ultra-wealthy.
His grandfather had founded Huntington Oil and two generations later, it was one of the largest private petrochemical conglomerates in America. Robert had been orphaned at the age of fourteen by a boating accident that took his parents’ lives—while sparing his own. Robert Huntington attended both Dartmouth as well as Oxford universities. He’d been a collector of expensive automobiles, a three-handicap golfer, an avid fly fisherman, as well as an expert marksman in both skeet and wing shooting. Despite being gifted at many pursuits, his overriding passion had been flying, and he was recognized as an exceptional pilot. Upon graduating from Oxford with an advanced degree in international business strategies, he took his place at the helm of Huntington Oil.

A frown came over Lauren’s face. Why was Donovan looking at this? It was ancient history. Another click brought up a later picture of Robert, one taken near the end. Though not even thirty, he’d aged appreciatively, his features hardened and strained. Lauren scrolled down to discover Robert’s obituary. The article was from the
New York Times
. It detailed the known events leading to Robert Huntington’s death. He’d been flying his own plane from Reno, Nevada, to Monterey, California, when air traffic controllers lost radio contact with the flight. They tracked the plane as it flew far out over the Pacific Ocean before running out of fuel and plunging into the ocean. The embattled Robert Huntington was dead at the age of twenty-eight.

Lauren skipped to another page and found a picture of Meredith Barnes. Under the photo were bold letters proclaiming her murder at the hands of Robert Huntington. Lauren winced as she read the article, one of thousands that had surfaced after her death. Each piece had soundly condemned Robert Huntington as the instrument of Meredith’s murder. Her global message of environmental activism had been silenced at the hands of big oil. A horrific crime viewed as against not only Meredith—but the planet itself. The entire world mourned her, while at the same time convicted Robert in the court of public opinion.
Lauren knew the rest by heart. Robert hadn’t died in the plane crash—he’d engineered his death and fled to Europe, where he’d undergone plastic surgery. Lauren had met him years later, when he was firmly entrenched in his new identity as Donovan Nash running Eco-Watch.

Lauren wondered what had compelled Donovan to come downstairs in the middle of the night to relive his past? What had he been feeling when he saw the man he used to be? Did he regret the change?

Lauren needed to know more. Not just about Donovan, but what was happening in Guatemala. Technically, she worked for the Defense Intelligence Agency, though her current title was analyst consultant, which didn’t allow her access to ongoing investigations. At one time, she was the lead climatologist with the DIA, her PhD in Earth Science from MIT had bolted her to the top of a special projects division. Her particular skills were in deciphering mass amounts of satellite data and forming weather models that could affect ongoing military operations. She’d resigned her full-time position, but she still put in ten to fifteen hours a week studying reports. Her DIA credentials would only get her so far into the government’s intelligence network, and the FBI was certainly out of reach.

She tried to think of anyone she knew at the Bureau, someone high enough on the food chain to keep her in the loop about Stephanie’s kidnapping. Her scientific mind began to process what little she knew. She drummed her fingers on the table as she processed the facts, and as she did, her frustration began to build. Her husband, Abigail’s father, was, in her opinion, riding the crest of a wave toward oblivion. Donovan had suffered devastating losses in his life. He’d been unable to do anything to save his parents as they both drowned in a boating accident. His fiancée, Meredith Barnes, kidnapped from his side and later murdered. As if that hadn’t been enough, there had been other people in his life he felt he should have been able to save. Lauren
had heard most of their names over the years, in the dead of night, as her tormented husband murmured names in his sweat-drenched nightmares.

She glanced at the secure line that her boss, Calvin Reynolds, the deputy director at the Defense Intelligence Agency, had installed for her home use. It allowed her to freely discuss DIA business from home. She could easily picture Calvin sitting at his desk; even at this early hour he would already be working. She had the pull to be invited to the investigation, but with Donovan’s current mindset, she was hesitant. The more high-level investigators brought into the mix, the harder it was to operate within the lies about his past that she and Donovan had told over the years. She debated a minute longer and then discarded the entire idea, electing to leave Calvin and the DIA out of the picture for now. Which left her with one lingering thought—what if she asked for help from someone who operated outside official channels, someone who already knew the truth about Donovan’s past?