Right on schedule, thought Bauman, who hung up the phone.
They were flying at thirty-eight thousand feet. He gazed around his private stateroom. The DD-10 jet was the most luxurious on the market, however, in order to make his kind of flying machine, its guts had to be literally torn out and thrown away. Hans Steinman had made everything exactly to his specifications. Every window and inner wall was bulletproof, inside and out; even the controls in the cockpit were designed to withstand close-range bullets. The jet incorporated satellite observation and control, stealth capabilities and a Global Positioning System that could pinpoint a fire ant from space. What more, it was entirely self-reliant, not requiring ground control nor a runway. It was a top-of-the-line aircraft and there was none like it anywhere in the world. It was a perfect base away from home, the Blythen Temple.
Bauman ran his fingers along the edge of the high-gloss, cherry-colored desk, feeling the slight imperfections in the thick coating of polyurethane. The knotty-pine wood was inlaid with numerous wood knots of assorted shapes and sizes, and only he knew which one activated his hidden Command Center. He sat up straight and tapped the knot directly beside the red phone, his connection to the soon-to-be ex-president. In front of him on the desk, a rectangular door slid open and a small black control panel rose up, displaying three rows of nameless, colored buttons and four vertical slide controls. Hans Steinman was the only other person who knew how to work the controls and he’d been eliminated.
He pressed the blue button in the middle of the top row and the mirrored wall in front of the desk slid open. Six LED displays with quadruple screens revealed the inside of the jet. He could see beyond the lounge with its ten white swivel seats resting in front of oversized portholes, and into the OPC (Operations Center), where eight of his homemade sons were manning the four terminals on each side of the walkway. The cockpit lay beyond this and the two pilots were busily maintaining the flight. With all the satellites at his command, he could track and obstruct any attempts against his New Continuum.
A red star flashed in the upper right hand corner over Joe’s image.
There’s one more thing I need to take care of.
Word had spread there was a spy within the New Continuum. For an infiltrator to be effective they had to be close; upper level, someone who could be in a position to stop them, and only one person questioned his efforts. Joe. He was chosen by Hans and oddly, didn’t respond well to the brainwashing technique. Rick had traced two of Joe’s hidden emails to an unknown accomplice named “Big Bear”, and both mentioned he’d soon clip the eagle. When they deciphered the message, it was concluded the eagle was Bauman. His eyes focused on Joe.
It’s time.
He stood up and straightened his maroon jacket and then walked out of the room. The thick gray carpet in the lounge was comforting to his feet but stopped at the OPC, where black rubber padded the floor. He took his place behind Joe.
“Did Justin’s boat detonate?”
“Yes,” Joe answered. “It’s gone. I still think killing the doctor was not necessary, Sir. Brainwashing would have been more useful to us.”
He knows!
Bauman immediately gripped Joe’s head with both hands and spun his neck until it snapped. The soldier’s limp body slid off the chair and to the floor. Bauman felt the stares.
“He was a traitor,” he said. None seemed surprised. “Put him in plastic and throw him below.”
Two crewmen vaulted out of their seats.
“Aye, Sir,” they said, their hands raised in salute.
As they dragged Joe away, Bauman stood behind Rick. The young man began sweating.