Turning to a laptop computer and digital projector, Manor outlined Operation Gold Shield, the complex web of reasons behind it, the campaign's goals, and an overview of the advanced weapons to be employed.
"America has become a violent, abusive police state," he summarized. "The killing of innocent citizens by law enforcement officers has become an epidemic. According to data compiled by the Independent Institute, between nineteen eighty-five and two thousand five, cops killed nine thousand five-hundred people in the U.S.—about one per day.
"Since the attacks on nine-eleven, police officers have killed about as many people as al Qaeda did that day—approximately three-thousand of our fellow citizens.
"For a number of reasons I'll get to later, we're launching Shield here in Las Vegas," Manor concluded. "Once we've ironed out the protocols, the operation will be expanded to Southern California, Oklahoma, Texas, and Arizona. Then we'll attack other tough nuts—New York, Chicago, Philly and a batch of others east of the Mississippi."
Switching to a new slide, Manor reiterated, "Operation Gold Shield is structured to 'incentivize' every police department in the country to get rid of rogue officers and excise corruption… or suffer deadly consequences.
"If law enforcement's thugs and killers continue on their present path, the United States of America will erupt in armed rebellion. Politicians, unions and badge-kissers who ignore the barely contained fury of citizens today are putting the nation at risk of a second all-out revolution. And, if chaos erupts, one hell of a lot of good cops will die.
"We're not going to let that happen."
"Sir," Rook cut in, "every one of us knew and respected Comet. We understand that Metro's cops are badasses, because we live here. But, could you give us a sense of how serious the killer-cop problem is elsewhere?"
"Good point." Manor tapped the touchpad several times, and said, "These are snapshot summaries of particularly egregious cases. The names have been removed, ostensibly for Privacy Act compliance:"
* *
* Young man in Long Beach, California, sitting on a back step, pointing a water nozzle and making shooting-like sounds. Cops watched awhile, then shot him to death.
* Mentally challenged woodcarver in Seattle, crossing a street. Cop said he 'made a furtive gesture.' Cop panicked and shot the man to death.
* Kid carrying a basketball. Shot and killed by a cop who mistook the ball for a gun. Officer claimed victim failed to respond to a verbal order. Kid was deaf.
* San Antonio: Officer Daniel Alvarado killed a fourteen-year-old, who had been scuffling with another kid at a bus stop. Alvarado chased down the victim, cornered him in a shed, then shot Derek Lopez to death. Claimed the kid 'bull-rushed… and lunged right at me,' according to Alvarado, who had been suspended four times and threatened with termination for 'sloppiness or defiance in carrying out administrative duties.' Investigators and an autopsy proved the cop was lying, but Alvarado's murder of Lopez was ruled 'justifiable' by the San Antonio Police Department.
* A former Marine in Arizona was shot to death in his own home by a SWAT team serving warrants. Cops found no drugs or money. 'Another bad tip.'
* Kelly Thomas, a homeless man with mental problems, was beaten and tasered to death by cops in Fullerton, California. The beating was caught on surveillance video. Thanks to pressure by the Thomas family and hundreds of outraged citizens, the local DA eventually filed second-degree murder and manslaughter charges against several officers.
"Thanks. We get the picture, sir," Rook said. "But, why's Vegas first on the cleanup list?"
The local team captain was a commanding presence who exuded topflight leadership qualities, Manor noted. Rook had potential.
"A combination of elements has put Vegas on the leading edge of this killer-cop plague," the Checkmate director explained, pointing to a new slide.
"First up, money. Staggering amounts are spent by forty million tourists flowing through Sin City every year. That money feeds a cabal of corruption that includes huge gaming corporations, a dirty Metro police force manned by quick-to-shoot young cops raised on video games, a dishonest district attorney, and brain-dead union executives," Manor ticked off, jabbing each bullet point on the screen.
"Second, economic upheaval. Our intel has uncovered a dirty little Vegas secret: The billionaire money-moguls who control The Strip are quietly abandoning Vegas, while publicly claiming to be investing in the city. When they pull out and go to Florida or Macau, more than a hundred thousand people will be fired.
"Suppose those jobless folks are going to be incensed? Add them to an already angry, disaffected population—thousands of heavily armed, frightened, P.O.'ed citizens fed up with more than three hundred officer-involved shootings by Metro cops, since 1990—and we have the makings of all-out revolt and chaos."
Four tough Checkmate agents with at least a dozen terrorist kills to their collective credit nodded in agreement.
"Third, timing. This place is primed to explode," Manor declared. "Take a look at readers' comments Castle pulled from local-media websites. More than four hundred of these have popped up, since Comet was murdered:"
"I have no problem killing or wounding a corrupt cop [who] tries to kill me for no reason at all. Police are supposed to 'Serve And Protect' the public. But, when corrupt cops commit criminal actions, including murdering and beating innocent people, then we, the people, have a right to self-defense."
"Being a cop is one of the safest occupations in the country. … They whine and cry, [but] are in absolutely no danger of paying for their crimes, unlike the rest of us."
"If they continue on their present course, I foresee the day [when] there will be a bounty on [cops]. It's entirely up to them. So far, they haven't shown the self-discipline to avoid the coming unpleasantness."
"What really angers me is that there are people right here in Las Vegas [who] are ready and willing to excuse any action taken by a Metro police officer, regardless of how outrageous that action is. They are nothing more than… boot-licking cop-worshipers, who will [soon] regret their adulation, when they become a target of these thugs. All it's going to take to start a riot is one more outrageous murder by [Sheriff] Uriah's paramilitary, steroid-fueled, shaven-head mafia."
"Metro is one of the most corrupt police forces in the country. I wouldn't call Metro if my life depended on it."
"Yes, these are opinions, but classified FBI data confirm that these sentiments are pervasive," Manor said. "In short, a hell of a lot of Americans despise today's police officers, and that hatred is mushrooming. Comments like these in open forums are merely the tip of a gargantuan, extremely dangerous, national-security iceberg."
Following a brief discussion of go-forward Gold Shield strategies and plans, Manor passed around the U.S. president's signed directive. That, too, evoked mutters of amazement.
Rook studied the signature and whistled. "Wow! That's radical!" The dated slang prompted glances and suppressed grins.
Manor retrieved the document and slipped it into a blazer breast pocket. "Nat's helping me define the details of a local operation," Manor said, intentionally vague. "Then I'll start assigning missions.
"These will be dicier than anything you've done, so far. Stay focused on the fact that our targets are still terrorists. But this breed of bad guys is more alert—and dangerous—than any you've faced, to date.
"However, we'll also have more-sophisticated weapons and resources at our disposal. They'll allow us to strike fast and hard to accomplish our objectives in dramatic, attention-getting fashion."
A protracted silence hung over the table. Seated on a bar stool, behind the four field operatives, Nat Preston grinned. Manor had already briefed him on the coming shocker.
"Sir… ," Castle began, "what are our objectives?"
Manor looked from one man to the next, ensuring he had their undivided attention.
"To instill absolute fear, doubt and division," he snapped. "To quote a great movie line, 'It's gonna be biblical.'
&
nbsp; "Questions?"
Checkmate's four remaining Las Vegas agents shook their heads. They were ready and willing to unleash high-tech horrors on Sin City's Cartel of Corruption, retaliating against the evil that had murdered one of their own.
Castle could hardly wait.
CHAPTER 19
FIRST STRIKE
"I fear that all we have done
is to awaken a sleeping giant
and fill him with a terrible resolve."
Admiral Isoroku Yamamoto
Tora! Tora! Tora!
* *
LAS VEGAS/METROPOLITAN POLICE HEADQUARTERS
Sheriff Alex Uriah made a show of locking the conference room door, and strolling to a long table. Senior officers that comprised the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department leadership's inner circle—undersheriffs, assistant sheriffs, deputy chiefs and the head of Homicide & Robbery, Captain Mikey Greel—eyed their boss.
"You're here today, because you are the most critical elements of this valiant police force," Uriah began. "In the event of a life-threatening crisis, you are the people this community—and I—will depend upon to guarantee stability."
The sheriff rubbed his shaved head, front-to-back, a quirk rookies often mocked.
"Late last week, I received Top Secret intelligence from the Department of Homeland Security. It's not pretty, folks: Islamic terrorists may be planning to unleash a deadly strain of the H5N1 virus here in Vegas. For those with short memories, that's 'bird flu,' a deadly virus that scared the snot out of Americans a few years ago.
"But this new variant is worse—a genetically modified strain that mutated from basic H5N1 into what's called an 'airborne vector.' It travels from host to host through the air. It's simple to manufacture and is far more transmissible than strains found in nature."
Hands on hips, he surveyed his senior staff. "People, this stuff could spread rapidly and cause a nationwide pandemic. Hundreds of thousands could die. And Las Vegas is a prime target. In fact, there's reason to believe terrorists could be in town at this moment—maybe on top of the Stratosphere, dumping H5N1 into the wind."
"Blessed Mother," Deputy Chief Carly Singer breathed. "Any leads, sir?"
"No leads," Uriah grimaced. He pointed at two men in a rear corner. "You all know Nat Preston, our DHS liaison. I'll turn it over to him for the 'what's next.' He'll introduce his assistant."
Nat and Rico Rodolfo exchanged a glance. If Uriah only knew what Preston's Checkmate "assistant" was about to unleash.
Dressed in light blue hospital "scrubs," Rico was arranging sealed vials and packages of hypodermic needles.
Nat joined Uriah and launched into a rehearsed briefing.
"Thanks, Sheriff. Here's the deal: This H5N1 airborne vector popped onto the scene without warning. Kinda caught the Centers for Disease Control flat-footed, ya see?
"So, Carly, you ask, 'What can we do about it?' The short answer is: Not much, at least in the near term. Uncle Sam has very little vaccine in the fridge. Not nearly enough to protect all of his citizens from this bad bug.
"Consequently," Preston explained, "a decision was made at the highest level that only top government officials and critical first responders will be inoculated, at this time.
"Here in Vegas, that means you get the first shots. You just hit the I'm-gonna-live jackpot!"
Metro's chosen few were not amused.
"Are you serious? What about our families?" Singer demanded.
"Unfortunately, there isn't enough vaccine to go around," Preston said. "When more becomes available, other folks will get shots.
"For now, you and critical medical personnel are it here in Vegas. The president himself dictated that only absolutely critical first responders in target cities be immunized."
Preston then outlined the morning's drill. "We're going to take a blood sample, give you a shot of vaccine, and you'll be on your way."
"One more thing," Uriah interjected. "This is absolutely top secret. Nobody says one damned word about it outside that door. Understand?" He glared at each officer, in turn, eliciting nods and Yes, sirs.
"Yeah, it isn't fair, and we're all worried about our loved ones. Our duty is to keep this force running, in the very unlikely event that this new strain of bird flu hits Vegas.
"But, don't wear out your worry beads, okay? More than likely, this is nothing more than another overreaction by antsy feds."
Nobody offered a challenge. Uriah didn't appreciate back talk, and every officer in the room had suffered his legendary spite.
"Alright, let's get on with it," the sheriff ordered. He swaggered to a rear table, rolling up his sleeve, and dropped into a plastic armchair.
Rodolfo jotted Uriah's name on a label, peeled the backing off and applied the sticker to a glass vial. He jabbed a needle into Uriah's inner arm and extracted a tube-full of dark red blood.
Very carefully, Rico then removed a hypodermic syringe from its package, inserted its needle through a vial's seal, and slowly filled the syringe's tube with an amber liquid. He scrubbed Uriah's upper arm with an alcohol swab, and poked the sheriff's skin. As he pressed the plunger, Castle fought the urge to smile.
Take that, chief killer!
Uriah surrendered the seat to an undersheriff, rolled his sleeve down, and left the conference room.
While Nat stored vials of labeled blood samples in an insulated cooler, Rodolfo repeated the process with each of the remaining Metro officers.
"Don't I know you?" a pudgy captain demanded, eyeballing Rodolfo. The Homicide chief looked meaner in person than on TV. Thinning hair was decidedly gray, and the pot-belly testified that he hadn't been on a treadmill for some time.
Rico gave his target a long look. "Don't think so, sir. I've seen you on TV, though. You talked about the Steele shooting, right?"
Greel nodded, pleased.
Rodolfo scrubbed the captain's pasty upper arm and jabbed the syringe deep into soft muscle. Greel winced and looked away. Castle pressed the plunger, forcing an amber stream into the Homicide chief's tissue.
Discarding the syringe, Rico said, "There ya go, sir. You're now protected from bad-bird bio-bugs. If you have any unusual reactions, get in touch with your doctor right away."
Rolling his sleeve down, Greel said, "You never said anything to the others. Why me?"
Oh, aren't we observant? Rico thought.
Over his shoulder, he said, "You're one of the youngest on the senior staff, right?"
"Uh, maybe. Except for Deputy Chief Singer. She's a coupla years behind me."
"In your late forties?"
"Forty-six."
"Older patients, like the other officers, seem to tolerate this vaccine better than young ones. You might feel a little agitated, or have trouble sleeping for a day or two," Rico explained lightly.
"Nothing to worry about, though?"
"Not really. Just giving you a heads-up. Don't sweat it." The EMT smiled broadly.
Rodolfo watched Greel leave, turned to Nat Preston and winked. The DHS liaison frowned and mouthed, Bad boy!
Bad boy, indeed. Castle had administered a weaponized relative of "mad cow" disease, infecting a half-dozen senior Metro officers with potentially lethal doses. Statistics said that some of the city's most corrupt cops would escape with only mild symptoms, but several would suffer tremendously from the prions Rico had injected.
Prions were deformed, infectious proteins that behaved like viruses in some people and bacteria in others. They literally ate holes in human brains, hollowing-out the thalamus.
A classified Fort Dietrich report noted, "… victims' brain cell tissues are characterized by voids, as if tiny bombs had gone off in the cranium."
The focus of cutting-edge medical research, prions were warped proteins, not living entities, contained no DNA, and were frighteningly destructive. Scientists suggested prions were to blame for neurodegenerative and neuromuscular diseases, such as Alzheimer's and Parkinson's. And there was no cure for the strain Rico had just
administered.
However, predicting which of the Metro officers would suffer the most severe outcomes was impossible. None of the Fort Dietrich researchers, who had developed the "vaccine," could explain widely disparate responses among victims.
Suspecting a person's genetic makeup was linked to susceptibility, they'd insisted Rico take blood samples. It would be up to Nat Preston to observe each of the recipient officers and report which exhibited unusual physical symptoms and behavior.
Rico prayed that two of his Metro "patients" would die prolonged and painful deaths. His appeal to the Universe would be heard—and answered.
* *
LAS VEGAS
Win and Layna reluctantly dived into the gut-wrenching task of cleaning out Erik's condominium. Deciding what to pack and haul to Colorado, what to store and retrieve on a future trip, and what to give away was a chronic abrasion of raw emotional wounds. Everything they touched held Erik's imprint, indelible reminders that their son was gone forever.
Win juggled packing with media interviews, strategy meetings with the "E-Team"—Erik's loyal friends and supporters—and responding to requests from Sofia Knight. The attorney was filing motions to obtain recordings of Hajji Taseer's emergency call, copies of the Ho's security-surveillance video data, and Erik's autopsy report. All were necessary preliminaries to filing a lawsuit.
However, the police department routinely stonewalled every request and motion. Adding to her frustration, Metro and the Clark County coroner adamantly refused to set a firm date for a coroner's inquest hearing into the shooting.
Win's BlackBerry sounded off, drawing his attention from a search of Erik's medical records.
"Hey, Sofia," he answered. "What's up?"
"Hi, Win. Metro called and said you can pick up Erik's personal effects at the vault. They won't release them to me." She explained the meaning of "vault," where Metro's was located, and what he could expect to retrieve.
"After that, could you stop by the office?"
Win agreed, explained to Layna, and headed for his SUV. South of the city jail in a seedy section of Las Vegas, he found the Metro vault—a fenced, unfriendly government compound bordered by a dearth of open parking slots.
The Permit Page 26