by David Spell
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Good people do not need laws to tell them to act responsibly, while bad people...
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Storm Clouds Rising
A Chuck McCain Novel
David Spell
This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to events or persons, living, dead, or fictitious are purely coincidental. Some actual locations are used in a fictitious way and the descriptions included here are not meant to be accurate. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author.
Copyright ©2020 David Spell
DavidSpell.com
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 9798682585724
Imprint: Independently published
Good people do not need laws to tell them to act responsibly, while bad people will find a way around the laws.
Plato
The world is a dangerous place to live; not because of the people who are evil, but because of the people who don't do anything about it.
Albert Einstein
An unarmed man can only flee from evil, and evil is not overcome by fleeing from it.
Jeff Cooper
The wicked are stringing their bows and fitting their arrows on the bowstrings. They shoot from the shadows at those whose hearts are right. The foundations of law and order have collapsed. What can the righteous do? (Psalms 11:2-3)
King David
CHAPTER ONE
THE PACIFIC OCEAN, Malibu, California, Wednesday, 0520 hours
The blue and white boat bobbed in the dark waves. Sunrise was still almost an hour away and vehicle headlights shone like small pinpricks of light a mile off in the distance on the Pacific Coast Highway. Four figures huddled together on the dive platform at the stern of the thirty-six foot vessel. A fifth man stood at the bow, keeping watch with a powerful set of night-vision binoculars.
On the dive platform, a tall African-American clad in cargo shorts and a black t-shirt was performing a last-minute check on one of the two divers. Both were wearing wetsuits and Draeger rebreathers. These are different from standard scuba tanks in that they recycle the carbon dioxide and do not release the bubbles of a normal rig, thereby protecting the divers from being spotted by an enemy.
Eric Gray held a flashlight with a red filter, allowing him to check Jay Walker’s equipment without destroying either man’s night vision.
“Good to go, Jay.”
A wiry white man with close-cropped hair was assisting the other diver, checking him carefully to ensure that he was also ready to enter the cold Pacific. Andy Fleming patted Chris Norris on the shoulder and took a step back, giving him a thumbs up.
The divers adjusted their masks, lowered themselves into the water, and disappeared under the surface. A moment later, Walker’s voice came over their earpieces.
“Fish One to Bravo One, radio check.”
“Bravo One to Fish One, we read you loud and clear,” Fleming answered.
Each of the men on the boat had a molded earpiece that also served as a transmitter. After Norris performed a similar coms check, their two heads popped back above the surface. The technology for underwater communication had a limited range, even with the state of the art equipment that the former SEALs were using. They would be able to communicate clearly with each other, but would have to come near the surface to get a message to their support team.
Eric and Andy lowered down two gray, three-foot-long diver propulsion vehicles. The DPVs would allow them to get to their ambush location much quicker than if they had to swim the entire way. Jay saluted his companions as he and Chris slipped back under the water.
Walker had been a member of the elite SEAL Team Six before retiring and accepting a job with his current employer. Norris had served on several West Coast based SEAL teams before being recruited to work for the CIA.
“Man, I wish I was going with them,” Fleming muttered.
“Oh, hell no,” Gray retorted. “Those boys are SEALs. They live for this stuff. I know we had all that training but I hated every second of it. I’d much rather have my feet planted on God’s green earth. Or,” he motioned to their surroundings, “the occasional boat. We are Marines, after all.”
“I always enjoyed water missions, but you’re right. This op is tailor-made for them.”
Staff Sergeant Fleming and Gunnery Sergeant Gray had served together in the United States Marine Forces Special Operations Command. The MARSOC Marines were the best of the best, created as the Corps’ answer to the Army’s Special Forces. Now, they were using their skills as a part of the CIA’s Directorate of Operations.
“We good?” Josh Matthews asked, wandering to the rear of the ship.
“Yeah, you seen anything?” Eric queried.
“Nada. There are no other ships within miles of us. You guys want some coffee?”
Up until a couple of years earlier, the baby-faced Matthews had been a SWAT sergeant at a large Metro-Atlanta police department. Looking for a career change, he appealed to his former boss, Chuck McCain, to see if he had any openings on his team at the Department of Homeland Security. In reality, Chuck was actually working for the CIA but had been loaned out to the DHS in the aftermath of the zombie virus crisis, working with local police departments cleaning up the East Coast.
“That’s the best idea you’ve had all morning, Matthews,” Gray answered. “I guess we need to let McCain know they’re in the water. Then we can sit back, sip coffee, watch the sunrise, and maybe catch some fish.”
Fleming was already pushing the dial button on his Agency encrypted smart phone. He spoke quietly for a few minutes before disconnecting the call. Matthews handed him a styrofoam cup of coffee.
“Why is it that every time we come to the People’s Republic of California, we have to kill somebody?” Eric asked, sitting in the captain’s chair.
“This is a target rich environment,” Andy responded. “We haven’t even scratched the surface on the scumbags out here who could use a dirt nap.”
“Here’s to killing one of those scumbags,” Josh said, holding his cup up in a mock toast.
Malibu, California, Wednesday, 0540 hours
A little over a mile away, Chuck McCain leaned wearily against the doorway of the dining room in the gray rental home that his team occupied. He was in his mid-forties, flecks of gray just starting to show in his dark hair. He was a muscular six-feet two inches tall, weighing in at around two-hundred and twenty-five pounds. McCain watched the activity around the dining room table, a steaming mug of coffee in his hand. On the far end, a massive, bearded man had a phone to his ear, speaking softly. A computer sat open in front of him, his right hand holding a large camo-patterned travel mug which read “Rangers Lead the Way.”
To his right, a small Asian man sat in front of three computer screens. Stephen Chan was one of the CIA’s top analysts, but was also known for his superior computer skills. On one of his screens he monitored local police activity, with fire department activity on another. He had easily broken through the firewalls of the government syste
ms. The third screen was blank for the moment. An open energy drink sat in front of him, with several empty cans scattered around his work space.
On the other side of the table, a solidly built African-American woman was hunched over a commercial sized drone, a cup of tea next to her. Chloe Wilkerson had come over to the Operations Directorate with Stephen at the request of the division director, Sandra Dunning. Wilkerson had spent ten years in the Army as an intelligence officer, rising to the rank of captain. After being passed over twice for promotion to major, the young woman had decided to pursue a career with the Central Intelligence Agency.
Even though Chloe had been in the military, she was much more comfortable analyzing, evaluating, and disseminating intelligence than she was on actual operations. Director of Operations Dunning, however, was a legend in the Agency and Wilkerson was thrilled at the opportunity to work under her. Assistant Operations Director McCain and his counterpart, Kevin Clark, were considered rising stars in the organization, having orchestrated missions that would be talked about for years to come. As a former Army officer, Chloe had taken an oath to “support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic.” Her goal now was to learn everything she could from her colleagues so that she could fulfill her oath in the clandestine service.
Wilkerson had not known how to use the drone up until a month earlier. Mr. McCain had asked her to spend a week at the Farm, the Agency’s training center, mastering how to fly and maneuver the aircraft. This particular beast had been worked over by the Science and Technology Directorate. It now had a longer battery life and a powerful camera with night-vision capability.
“They’re in the water, Boss,” the bearded Scotty Smith spoke up, laying his phone back on the table.
Chuck nodded, pushing off the door frame and walking over to where Wilkerson worked.
“You ready to do your thing?”
“Yes, sir,” she nodded. “I can have it airborne in five.”
“Okay, let’s do it.”
He turned to Chan and Smith.
“Showtime, guys. Maybe today will be the day. Scotty, let Andy know the drone is about to launch.”
Chloe downed the rest of her tea, picked up the aircraft and its controller and disappeared out the back door. The swimming pool took up most of the backyard which was surrounded by a six-foot high privacy fence, assuring that the young woman could work without nosy neighbors peering in. And, of course, it was still dark out.
She placed the drone on a poolside table and activated the three engines. It lifted off and she directed it the quarter mile to their target’s home. She pushed a button on the controller, activating the camera. The screen on the controller lit up, allowing Chloe to see the billionaire’s beautiful beachfront home. The camera feed also went to Stephen’s third computer screen. Wilkerson sat back in one of the lounge chairs, concentrating on keeping the machine over their target.
The young woman was ready to get this mission over with. She wasn’t squeamish about what they were doing, but could feel her body getting soft. She had started lifting weights in the Army, competing in several inter-service power lifting competitions. At the Agency, Mr. McCain and Scotty had even let her train with them a few times, both men passing on their vast knowledge of how to build muscle. Now, it had been over three weeks since she had been inside a gym, the mission requiring that they all work long hours.
Back inside, McCain’s cell vibrated with an incoming call. He saw that his wife was calling him. What could that be about? It was only 0250 hours back in Virginia.
“Hey, babe,” he answered. “What’s up? You OK?”
“No, I’m not OK!” she answered, the sound of a screaming baby blasting through phone’s earpiece.
Smith and Chan glanced up with sympathetic smiles. McCain stepped into the living room so he could have some privacy.
“Your son hasn’t slept in three nights. This teething is taking its toll on both of us,” Elizabeth said. “When are you coming home?”
Chuck could hear the frustration in her voice as fourteen-month old Raymond Charles McCain continued to exercise his lungs. He felt terrible that he couldn’t be there to comfort his wife.
“I’m sorry, Beth. I know how hard this is on you. Our project has been much more complicated than we anticipated. I’m just not sure when we’re going to be able to wrap it up.”
The baby continued to wail, but Chuck could also hear his wife crying, adding to the guilt that he already felt for his absence.
“We need you home. Ray needs you. I need you.”
“Hey, Chuck, we’ve got movement,” Scotty called from the other room.
“Look, Beth, I’m really sorry. I’ll be home as soon as I can. I’ve got to go, but I love you both so much.”
It tore him up inside to hear the two people he loved most both weeping over the phone.
“I think we’ve got him, Chuck,” Smith commented from the dining room.
Beth hadn’t said anything, making the big man feel even worse.
“I’ll call you back as soon as I can,” he said, disconnecting and rushing into the command center.
“What’ve you got?” he asked standing behind Chan, watching the camera feed from the drone.
“Sorry, Boss, but I knew you’d want to see this,” the computer expert said. “Our boy just left the house, grabbed his board, and is heading for the beach.”
The night-vision camera on the drone allowed McCain to see a wet-suit clad figure carrying a long board entering the surf near the mansion.
“Are we sure it’s him?”
Chan nodded. “Yeah, I got a shot of his face when he came out. I ran the pic through our facial recognition software. It’s him.”
Stephen typed some commands on his keyboard and an image of their target filled his middle screen. Alfonso ‘Alfie’ Nicholson had glanced up at the sky after he had exited his mansion for a morning surf. The photo was clear, leaving no doubt that he was finally going to be in a position for Chuck’s team to orchestrate his demise.
Nicholson looked much younger than his sixty-one years of age, his blond hair shimmering green in the night vision. He was known for his famous smile, his perfect white teeth, and his charismatic personality. Alfie was one of the most successful producers in Hollywood, creating a billion dollar empire. He was also an international sex-trafficker. His money and contacts had protected him up to this point. It was common knowledge that he had been able to buy a ‘Not Guilty’ verdict during his trial for sex trafficking a few years earlier. Plus, no one in their right mind believed that the death of the key FBI agent had been an accident.
This was not the type of mission that Chuck and his team were normally tasked with. At the same time, he trusted Ops Director Dunning and if she said that Nicholson needed to have an accident, they would arrange an accident. Even though McCain felt that there was more to this than met the eye, in Chuck’s mind, Alfie was a predator who had managed to avoid justice for too long. Maybe this would be the day that the Hollywood mogul took his last surf.
Chuck patted Stephen on the shoulder and nodded over to Scotty.
“Hopefully, we can wrap this thing up and go home.”
The Pacific Ocean, Malibu, California, Wednesday, 0555 hours
Alfie felt relaxed and peaceful as he lay on his stomach, paddling the white board out to where he could catch his first wave of the day. Other than the occasional jog, surfing was his primary form of exercise. This was the only time when no one had access to him. He had a busy schedule in front of him and he planned on getting in a few runs before his two morning meetings. After that, Nicholson was having lunch with one of the biggest directors in Hollywood and then was off to the airport for a few days of relaxation on his private Caribbean island.
Erin was picking up the new girls and they would all join him on the island. Alfie felt the familiar twinge of excitement. He always enjoyed being the first to deflower his new employees. Of course, Erin
would do her thing, too, and sometimes they would even break in one of the newbies together. Yes, it was going to be a good day.
Alfonso Nicholson was one of Hollywood’s best known producers and had become a billionaire over the last thirty plus years, his name on the credits of over a hundred mainstream films—some successful, some not, but he still found ways to make his money back. Most of his fortune had come through movies, but he had also filled his off-shore bank accounts from charging access to his fantasy island.
Sure, there were plenty of people whom he had allowed to visit and partake for free, but those individuals were in a position to help him in some way. A former United States President, the current British Prime Minister, a member of the Royal Family, and a few other governmental officials had visited as Nicholson’s guests. Everyone else had to pay. The irony was, whether they paid or not, Alfie still had video of them in action with his girls.
One of the things that Alfie’s mafioso godfather had taught him before sending him to Hollywood years earlier was the importance of gaining leverage over his rivals, opponents, and in some cases, even his friends. There had been a few times in which Nicholson had needed to mention the videos to bring someone over to his point-of-view. And, he had sent the CIA Director a short clip of his home movie to convince him to release some information that Alfie needed during his trial, but that was all. Nicholson looked at his library of movies as insurance, hoping he would never need to use them.
Alfie’s meetings this morning had to do with the progress of two of his current projects. They both featured Erin, one as the lead and the other as the supporting actress. They had just finished shooting and were about to start the editing process. The lunch appointment was to convince director Mark Nolan to sign with Alfie’s company and work with him exclusively.