Todd's eyes were neutral, revealing nothing. The guy was a master of clandestine operations, and would never compromise security with an inappropriate wink or nod.
"And 'domestic campaign' means your team is now whacking bad-asses in Las Vegas."
Again, Todd shrugged. "Those photos we sent to your 'Bat Phone' weren't Photoshopped, okay? Vegas Metro and the DA's office have suffered a number of serious 'mishaps' of late."
Bright cupped both hands around his cup and added, "But this isn't just about Vegas and Erik's death."
It's a much larger operation! Win thought.
"I've never advocated violence against them," he said, aloud, "but I won't shed tears for Metro's killer-cops. Especially Mikey Greel.
"Those are merely low-level cockroaches, though. What about the head-shed? Uriah and his Tower flunkies? The big-money Strip tycoons, who control the entire city?"
Bright fished a red-striped envelope from a leather briefcase. He withdrew a sheaf of eight-by-ten photos and spread them on the compact, teak pull-out table between them. Win slowly examined each.
"Is that who I think it is? The kingmaker himself?"
"Yep. Antone Galocci. The Villain of Vegas. Marionette of Metro. Dictator of District Attorneys. The Pope of Public Administrators."
"You guys nailed him?"
Todd shrugged and smiled broadly. "Until its head's chopped off, the snake doesn't die. We got one of 'em, but in Vegas, we're talkin' about the ugly ol' Medusa herself. Comprendez?"
"A head with lots of snakes."
"You got it, son. And a batch of 'em are on the loose, slithering far beyond Sin City. This blasted cancer of police corruption and abuse has metastasized throughout America. It's an ep-i-dem-ic!" Todd said, an index finger jabbing the table to underscore each syllable.
"The evil that killed Erik also plagues Oklahoma City, Atlanta, Seattle, Austin, and, of course, the chronic crime capitals—Chicago, New York, Cleveland, Washington and Philly. Those are just for-examples.
"Bad cops are destroying American communities, and the Department of Justice can't do much to clean 'em up. Political pressures imposed by wealthy elites and myopic union honchos have about neutered the feds, rendering the Justice Department damn near toothless.
"Hell, I'm not telling you anything you don't know," Bright said, slapping the table. "The challenges, though, come down to these: What can be done? How do we prevent America from being overrun by these venal bastards… ?"
"Asymmetric war," Win interjected. "A covert operation, using 'black-world' systems?"
"Excellent deduction Number-Two! Give that boy a teddy bear!
"Which circles back to your question, 'Why am I here?' Some very special troops of mine are goin' snake-hunting today. Assuming they bag a particularly venomous one, I wanted you along for what you fly-boys call his 'fini-flight,' ya see?"
Bright activated an iPad and brought up a set of briefing charts. Over the next hour, the Deputy Secretary of Homeland Security briefed Steele on Checkmate and the details of Operation Gold Shield.
Noting the C-21's engines were slowly being retarded to a low whine, Win raised an issue that had bugged him throughout the briefing: "I appreciate being read-into the operation, Todd, but I don't understand why. My security clearances were shelved almost thirty years ago, and you know I've retired from Aerospace International!"
Bright yawned and stretched. "Not relevant, son. It took awhile, but those clearances have been reinstated. You're now cleared for Top Secret and a boatload of Special Access Required programs—again."
Win's brow wrinkled in confusion. "Well… that's cool. But why?"
"Because I want you on our team, son. Checkmate can eliminate bottom-of-the-barrel scum by taking out the nation's worst killer-cops, but that may not motivate some city fathers and law-enforcement leaders to clean up their own dadburned police departments.
"I want you to continue the asymmetric war you're already waging in Las Vegas, but on a broader scale. You'll be the public face of Checkmate. Write op-ed and blog pieces, be a talkin' head on national TV and radio talk shows, and testify before Congress about the crisis of confidence caused by police brutality and excessive use of force.
"You're the ideal 'covert' spokesman for a 'nonexistent' black op—the father of a fine man murdered by crooked cops for absolutely no reason. And, as a former journalist, you damn sure won't be linked to a 'black' team charged with eliminating sleeper-cell terrorists.
"See," Todd continued, lowering his voice, "the rampant corruption and malfeasance you encountered in Vegas is only the tip of that proverbial big-assed ice floe. Yeah, Vegas is the 'Perfect Storm' of corruption, stoked by forty million tourists that flock to the city every year. Unethical cops, DAs and judges are the norm, making 'Lost Wages' an ideal breeding ground for al Qaeda, drug cartels and other terrorists bent on killing Americans.
"But this issue is much bigger than just Las Vegas and Erik's murder. That may sound insensitive, but it's the truth, son. Bad cops and corrupt justice system officials are destroying communities all over America. They have become our country's most dangerous domestic terrorists!"
Win was nodding. "I get it. But how can simply writing and talking about police and justice-system malfeasance really contribute to Checkmate's mission?"
"By being Checkmate's purveyor of public 'or-else' warnings. Based on data we feed you, your missives will soon be taken as loud-and-clear messages: Clean up your police departments and judicial systems, or suffer deadly consequences.
"Our Vegas operation has validated the Checkmate model. And we're just getting started in Sin City, by the way. There's a whole new, second campaign being planned for Vegas.
"Next up is California, though. We're about to kick off Operation Gold Shield missions in Anaheim, Fullerton, Downey, Pomona and Long Beach. Then we're going nationwide. Bad cops are going to be suffering incurable diseases, horrific, disabling injuries, and more than a few fatalities. And damned soon."
As the jet banked, Win asked for clarifications and Todd graciously filled the blanks.
"Ya see, a batch of Mexican gangs have started hunting down and executing killer-cops in the southwestern U.S.," Bright explained. "Taxpayers who already despise those worst-of-the-litter boys in blue are happy to see rogue cops taken out. So, they're willing to look the other way.
"We've dubbed this the 'Robin Hood Effect,' and it's being used to great advantage by very nasty gangbangers to get a toehold in the U.S. That development got the White House mighty worried, and led to the Gold Shield campaign."
Steele turned to the porthole-like window and gazed silently at bleak, barren terrain, thinking. The C-21 was descending faster.
Bright let a few minutes pass. "Well, have ya figured out where we're going, son? Smart flyboy like you oughta recognize this chunk of dirt."
"Somewhere in the southwestern desert," Win smiled.
Bright laughed, a deep, rumbling sound. "Close enough. You'll see."
"Eight minutes out," Sergeant Callister called. "I'll have to ask you gentlemen to please pull the window shades. All the way down."
Polite, but an order.
The passengers complied, then eyed each other across the table. Win asked, "What was Erik doing for Checkmate? Specifically?"
"Sorry, Win. I can't tell you, until you jump on board. But it was damned important, and Erik did a superb job."
Hooded eyes hardened. "Win, I want you to continue your son's mission. You've obviously considered a more active role. That's why you tried to contact your buddy, Lazarus, out there in Vegas."
Win blinked in surprise.
"Yeah, we know about that. See, ol' Laz is one of our guys. His biostatic 'death ray' has come a looong way, since you saw it!"
Bright was grinning, enjoying himself. "He didn't respond to you, 'cause he's already a Checkmate weapon-developer!
"Son, you now have unbelievably talented allies, who are armed with cosmic capabilities that you and your fellow thri
ller writers couldn't dream up, if ya pooled your wild imaginations. Right now, Checkmate's using these tools to surgically excise the Vegas malignancy that killed Erik.
"The bad news is, we have a hell of a lot more work to do, and not much time. America is at a tipping point. Either we arrest the killer-cop epidemic now, or we'll be dealing with all-out armed rebellion very soon. Then a lot of good cops and innocent civilians will die. Neither of us can let that happen."
"No argument there," Win affirmed. "I've been spouting the same line: 'Metro, either you get rid of your rogues, or pissed-off citizens are going to start hunting cops.'"
"You got it," Bright said. "Today's Checkmate mission will underscore that message to Metro in unmistakably clear terms, and I wanted you to be there. You've earned the right to witness 'black world' accountability in action."
He smiled, nodded sharply, and added, "It's gonna be eye-watering."
* *
LAS VEGAS/METRO POLICE HEADQUARTERS
Nat Preston, Checkmate's Homeland Security mole, activated another Stux-Kilo software feature, killing electrical power throughout Metro's headquarters. Backup-power generators automatically activated, but those, too, were quickly disabled. Only the critical communications center was functional, operating on emergency-battery systems.
The building was illuminated solely by sunlight streaming through outside wall windows. Interior rooms and stairwells were pitch black or dimly lit by emergency exit lights. Cipher-lock doors and elevators were dead, useless without electrical power.
* *
"Growler zero-seven, Bishop. You on-station?" Gray Manor radioed.
"Affirmative, Bishop. Zero-seven's in position west of Las Vegas, locked-on and tracking the target. Standing by for clearance."
Several thousand feet above the desert, a U.S. Navy EA-18G Growler electronic warfare aircraft was flying a racetrack orbit. Its tactical jamming pods were tuned to specific radio and cell-phone frequencies, as requested by the Checkmate director.
"Copy. Cleared to activate. 'Music' on," Manor ordered, using dated military slang for electronic-warfare jamming.
The Growler's EW officer tapped a switch and immediately blasted a complex of modern five-story buildings on the east side of Interstate 15, pounding them with powerful electromagnetic beams. All radio and telephone communications in the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department headquarters abruptly ceased.
"Bishop, Growler zero-seven. Target's incommunicado. Cleared in."
"Alright, Rook. Go!" Manor radioed.
Three nine-passenger Chevrolet Suburbans with dark-tinted windows swerved onto an entry road leading to the Metro headquarters campus. Nose-to-tail, they halted along a red curb, directly in front of Building B, a sand-colored structure fronted by soaring glass.
The vehicles disgorged men in black tactical uniforms, ball caps and vests emblazoned with bold yellow letters: US MARSHAL. Two operators' vests bore "FBI" markings.
Armed with automatic rifles and sidearms, the team flowed around waist-high vehicle protection posts and burst through the lobby's front door. They ignored an astonished volunteer, shoved an inner door open, split into smaller groups, and ran to the building's four stairwells.
Using wireless boom microphones and embedded earphones, team leaders snapped orders via compact ultrawideband communicators, which, as designed, were immune to the EA-18's jamming.
Metro-headquarters staff members huddled in outside offices—struggling to perform their duties without computers, phones and other electronic equipment—were oblivious to invaders with strap-on headlamps sprinting up five flights of stairs.
Black-clad troops brandishing AR-15 and M4 rifles burst into selected offices, shouting directives. Within minutes, deputy chiefs and assistant sheriffs were sitting on the floor, handcuffed, dazed and openly frightened.
A red-faced Carly Singer screwed up enough courage to fume, "What the hell's going on? You can't bust in here and order us around!"
From behind a ski mask, Rico Rodolfo announced, "Officer Singer, you are under arrest for multiple crimes against the community. And you will be held accountable."
"Like hell! We have connections! We'll never see the inside of your federal prison!" she blustered. "And to you, it's Deputy Chief Singer, kid!"
Castle knelt and shoved his face into hers, forcing the woman to flinch. He was surprised to see she had suffered minimal, if any, effects of the Fatal Familial Insomnia virus he'd injected months earlier.
"Ma'am, your bullshit title is irrelevant. You're just another unscrupulous Metro cop. But you are partially correct. No federal prison for Miz Singer. You've been selected for 'extraordinary rendition.' Now, shut up."
He stood and glared down at the astounded senior officer. Panic flashed across her dark eyes.
Rook, the Las Vegas team leader, led his contingent to a spacious office in Building B's southeast corner. He flung the double doors wide and stepped aside. Four agents glided past, weapons shouldered, clearing the room.
Sheriff Alex Uriah was standing at a window, vainly trying to get a cell phone signal. He spun, alarmed, and instinctively raised his hands.
"Alex Uriah, you are under arrest for abusing the power of your office for personal gain," Rook said, speaking rapidly.
"You are hereby charged with conspiracy, racketeering, corrupting official investigations, covering up your officers' misdeeds, and obstructing justice. You have the right to remain silent… ."
"Who the hell are you?" Uriah squeaked. "Metro has jurisdiction here! And I've done nothing wrong!"
It sounded pathetically weak and whiny.
Rook never broke stride. His right hand shot out, grabbed Uriah by the throat and smashed the four-star cop's head against the window. Bulletproof glass held, and Uriah's eyes glazed.
Slightly shorter than the sheriff, Rook was a rock-hard, muscular gym rat. One-handed, he lifted Uriah by the throat, until the bald officer was on his toes.
"Shut your face, scumball," the Checkmate agent whispered. He squeezed harder, even as Uriah clawed at Rook's hand. "I shoulda shot ya for having that cell phone in your grubby fist. 'Thought it was a gun! He made a furtive move!'" Rook mimicked.
The sheriff's pallid skin tone morphed to a blotchy, ashen palette. Rook released his grip. Uriah's knees gave way, and the man collapsed, legs askew. Gasping for air, he didn't resist, while a second agent tie-wrapped both hands and pulled a hood over the sheriff's bald dome.
Nine minutes elapsed, from the time Checkmate's federal-agent impostors hit the front door, until Metro's senior staff and sheriff—hands tie-wrapped and heads covered in cinched black bags—were shoved into the three Suburbans. With police headquarters electrically silenced, no alarm was raised.
"Bishop, team's clear," Rook reported. "Got 'em all. No problems."
"Great!" Manor radioed, relieved. He had monitored the grab-and-go strike from Groom Lake, but the Gremlin's video link had failed, leaving the Checkmate chief without eyes in the sky.
Switching to a secure military channel, Manor called the EA-18 crew. "Growler zero-seven, Bishop. Give me another two minutes of your best, then you're cleared back to China Lake," a U.S. Navy test base in California's Mojave Desert.
"Whoa! That was mega-quick, sir," the Growler's backseat electronic warfare officer quipped, her voice muffled by an oxygen mask. "We're hardly warmed up!"
Because the EF-18G flight crew had no "need-to-know," they hadn't been briefed on the covert operation's objectives. They were Mission Mushrooms, left in the dark and fed the bare necessities—communication channels, coordinates of their target, on-station showtime, and a menu of frequency bands to jam.
Manor keyed the microphone. "Couldn't afford too many of those expensive Navy 'trons. What you delivered were indispensable, though. The cockroaches are blind and scurrying."
He signed off and turned back to the Checkmate op. His troops weren't in the clear yet.
The caravan of Suburbans departed Metro headquarters,
cruised south on Main Street and Paradise, hung a right on Tropicana, zipped through a guard gate on the executive side of McCarran Airport, and drove into a large hangar.
Huge sliding doors closed behind the vehicles, preventing the curious from spotting hooded captives being ushered onto a stately U.S. Air Force C-20H. A military version of the Gulfstream IV-SP long-range business jet, the C-20H easily accommodated Metro's "Tower" hierarchy and its Checkmate captors.
Hangar doors slid open, the aircraft was towed outside and twin Rolls Royce Tay engines were soon purring. The jet was airborne, climbing on a northwest heading, before Metro headquarters' bewildered staff realized the department was leaderless.
* *
GROOM LAKE/FLIGHT LINE
The stately C-20H landed and taxied to Groom Lake's aging flight operations building. Its engines were still screaming, when Rook escorted a clumsy, hesitant Alex Uriah down portable air stairs. Still cuffed and hooded, the Metro sheriff was marched into a nearby hangar and directly onto a smaller aircraft.
Gray Manor and his guest shook hands near that same aircraft's entry door.
"Have a good flight," Manor said. "I think you'll appreciate being on board for this exercise. Li'l Alex is going to be so damned scared he'll be volunteering to return stuff he never borrowed!"
Metro's other "Tower" officers stayed on the C-20H. The aircraft was soon airborne. Within mere minutes, it landed at another supersecret, highly camouflaged desert airfield known as S-4.
Bound and hooded, the senior Metro cops were escorted to underground cells and debriefed. Those who spilled their innards and submitted to hours of video-documented accounts of Clark County corruption, naming names and connecting government, judicial, union and private-sector conspirators, were later moved to sparse, but comfortable quarters. Months later, after comprehensive "re-education," those would be returned to their homes.
Hard-core deputy chiefs and undersheriffs, who refused to cooperate—such as Carly Singer—were exposed to intense biostatic mind-control "treatments." These lost-cause malfeasants were dumped on the back streets of Las Vegas, unable to speak and with their memories erased.
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