Cobra Clearance Read Free Page A

emergency. But to make detection even more difficult, he flew VFR to avoid filing a flight plan and talking to air traffic controllers. For two days he leapfrogged from one small field to another to refuel, while a freshly-shaven, western-attired Amahl remained inside the cabin at all times.
    When the props stopped spinning the salt and pepper-haired pilot turned to Amahl. “Okay,” Brent Kruger began, “you’ve rid us of the mongrel president. That was a great touch lopping off his head, by the way.” He looked Amahl in the eye. “Now my people will fulfill our end of the bargain.”
    â€œYes, Brent. Now you shall kill the Zionist. Or else.”
    Kruger stiffened.
    Amahl regarded Kruger and said in a cold voice, “Do not think for one moment that you and I are equals. We are not. I am far beyondyou, in intelligence as well as in depth.” Kruger opened his mouth but Amahl held up a hand. “It is true that you assisted me when I disposed of my men, but do not fool yourself into thinking that you are more ruthless than I. You are not.”
    Brent Kruger held his tongue. Deep inside the dark room of his soul that he dared not open, he knew Amahl was right, and Kruger cursed himself. He had underestimated this man he had known for two decades, and his error was a grave one. Despite this he put up a bold front. If Kruger valued nothing else, he put a premium on bravery. “Don’t push it, Amahl. We’ll uphold our end of the contract.” He uttered a harsh laugh. “And you’re invited to join us when we carry it out. Yes, sir. I’ll be sure to notify you of the exact time and place for
that
particular party.”
    â€œAnd now? What party do you attend now?”
    Kruger considered telling Amahl to attend to his own business, but said, “I’ll refuel and head back to Albuquerque.” He grunted. “To handle some contractual details.”
    â€œBe certain you keep our pact in mind, for although we vowed to bring the world to its knees, we cannot recast it in our favor until you are reminded of one thing. There shall be but one authority, one god. And that god shall be me.”
    â€œAmahl? Once we’re done, you work your damn side of the street and I’ll work mine—beginning with a boom of white babies.”
    â€œYou may reconstitute the Caucasian race all you wish. I have not expressed any misgivings. But in due course I will rule whatever realm evolves. That, my friend, shall be my side of the street.” He fixed Kruger with a cold stare, released his seatbelt, then turned toward the plane’s rear door as a bald, tattooed man opened it.
    Amahl descended the short set of stairs and stepped into a waiting van. The bald man drove him straight to a marina on Shelter IslandDrive where a thirty-foot sloop was tied alongside the far end of the pier. The sea smells were pungent. Gulls cried and circled overhead, while cooking smoke from a small weather-beaten eatery promised good chowder inside. To the few passersby, the chap in the Brooks Brothers outfit and wraparound sunglasses was one of many men of means frequenting the marina. Few paid attention as he climbed from the van and boarded the sloop.
    A red-haired skipper started the inboard engine and cast off at once. The bow swung south, then picked up speed on the receding tide. Ten minutes after motoring past the imposing hills of Point Loma, the three-man crew hoisted the sails and caught the offshore winds. Inside the sloop there were fishing licenses for each person aboard, as required by the Mexican government. There were also assault rifles and RPGs to deal with any Mexican marine patrol officers who got too curious.
    This was the best escape. The U.S. air and sea ports would be on high alert. So would Canada’s. Flying out of Mexico was far simpler. But a land crossing into Mexico could be suicidal, given the scrutiny of facial recognition scanners brought about by