Discarded

by Mark A. Ciccone

  ‘My men are ready to assist at a moment’s notice.’ The colonel’s voice was low and cool. ‘Unlike the reservists down south’—his lip curled a little—‘we’ve been patrolling and keeping the peace in the upper Mississippi Valley and northern Wisconsin for the whole length of our tour, the last five years. If the two individuals you’re after are sighted anywhere within 500 miles, we can have an interception force on site within an hour – at best, thirty minutes.’

  ‘And as I told you a moment ago, Colonel, this matter won’t remain low-key if we start dropping in Rangers at every potential sighting,’ Hargrove answered. He kept his tone patient – no point to irking any more people, given the recent chat with Costa. ‘Your men may be trained for covert ops – tag-and-bag on normal insurgents and militia groups, among others – but you don’t have the slightest clue what you’re dealing with here. Which is why we must avoid displays of force, and let the targets come to us until we have enough intelligence and advantage to bring them down quietly. Discretion is an absolute necessity.’

  Patrick’s jaw ground back and forth. ‘Then, may I ask, Mr Hargrove – why exactly are you here? What info Agent Costa provided makes the level of clearance you have perfectly clear. But if you wanted an off-the-books staging area, I’m certain Langley or the Pentagon has plenty still available. Based on what I’ve seen of your men, you don’t lack for effective response if the targets do turn up, and so wouldn’t have to risk anything classified being revealed to me or my personnel. In short, sir: you could be operating from much more suitable circumstances, instead of wasting my time, my men and my resources on some bullshit whack-a-mole chase.’

  ‘Simplest reason in the world, Colonel,’ Hargrove answered smoothly. ‘Your facility is the largest and most well-equipped between the Twin Cities and Milwaukee. The two individuals we’re after were last sighted on a direct northbound route out of downtown Chicago. At some point, they’ll eventually have to pass within this field’s operational radius. If we want any chance at bagging them before they leave the Mississippi Valley, this is the place to observe, wait and operate from. All we need is space, and some equipment to assist in monitoring the likely routes and frequencies used by our targets.’ He paused. ‘Of course, if you’d care to take this up with those further up the chain on the handling of this “chase”, feel free.’

  Patrick went a faint shade of grey under his tan. The Ranger officer wasn’t a coward – Hargrove had seen his record en route to the base. But he also had to know what it meant to have a defence contractor and his Agency watchdog dropping in unexpectedly. Since the Camp David Coup, the Army was on hair trigger alert for any crisis or turf war that might endanger it. Even an innocuous query about a routine operation – or what was described as such – might well lead to the White House coming down on the colonel like a landslide in short order, for ‘overstepping his authority’.

  Clearing his throat, Patrick said, ‘Very… very well. If all you need is space and equipment, Mr Hargrove, we can oblige.’ He nodded toward the back of the room, where a set of holo-displays and hard drives sat in one corner, darkened and unoccupied. ‘What sort of intel should be forwarded to your terminals?’

  ‘Any reports dealing with suspicious vehicles, persons, or events within the scope of your patrols, aerial and ground.’ Hargrove said. ‘We’ll handle all satellite info. I realise it’s a lot to go through, but we can set aside the field reports that don’t lead anywhere in a matter of minutes and catalogue the rest almost as quickly.’

  Patrick nodded. Turning to Costa, he asked, in a more cautious tone, ‘Can we count on any assistance from the Agency, if we require additional processing power? Our equipment’s up to snuff, but it’s isolated from the Net save for very limited bandwidth connections to the Pentagon, to avoid or easily trace hackers or taps. Up till now we haven’t required anything else, but it might – no, will – put us out of our element to work with more complex data.’

  ‘Shouldn’t be a problem,’ Costa replied. He shot a glance Hargrove’s way – did he expect the other man to override him, or try to? Hargrove said nothing, only watched politely. The agent went on, more ruefully, ‘As for being out of element, I can sympathise. Only connection I had with any operation like this was a few incidents during my time in the Tenth Mountain, pre-Turmoil. Mostly smash-and-grab work in Pakistan and the Taurus, with a few other jaunts in the Middle East and Iran before I came back for “peacekeeping” work here.’

  Patrick’s dark blue eyes widened a bit in respect. ‘Went through a few of those myself, in the Caucasus, before and after the Russians did their stop-and-start bit in Ukraine.’ His gaze hardened. ‘Never thought I’d end up pulling the same duty here at home.’

  Costa nodded, in perfect understanding. Hargrove moved to the display table. He tapped at the holo-keys, calling up a topographical map of the main search area: Wisconsin west and north of Madison, Minnesota east and south of Minneapolis, and a small corner each of Illinois and Iowa. Another flurry of tapping, and the main highways and state-county road systems lit up, glowing a soft green. Addressing the colonel, he said, ‘We know they can’t risk air or train travel. Foot’s too far below the level of speed needed to avoid surveillance. So it’s reasonable to assume that they’ll stay on the roads, whether freeway or back-country, until they believe they’re clear. Therefore, we need to maintain roving Humvee and chopper patrols along the main north-south routes in this state – I-90 and I-94, and county roads 51, 61, and 93.’ A tap of a key, and the chosen routes turned red. ‘I can probably wrangle access to a Predator, but it would be short-term, and only effective if we managed to get visual confirmation of the targets, or their vehicle.’

  Costa cleared his throat. Hargrove looked up, mildly annoyed. ‘Yes, Agent?’

  ‘Just a thought: What if the targets really do have someone they’re trying to reach in this region? I’m not talking another part of an extraction team, or supposedly dead comrades – like we already discussed, they’d draw attention from somebody, even underground. I mean somebody else on the Pr – who was higher up in the organisation that trained them. Not the top man, but someone close to him, maybe.’

  Hargrove frowned. What was the kid driving at? ‘The organisation, and what’s left of it, has been under a microscope from Day One. That means the foot soldiers like our targets, all the way up to the top man and his closest people. We’ve even got dossiers on the cleaning crew, courtesy of the few files your superiors handed over. Even with the post-Pulse problems, I doubt we’d miss anyone.’

  ‘Doesn’t mean it’s not impossible,’ Costa returned. ‘We may have confirmation that the organisation’s main site was destroyed, but that sure as hell doesn’t mean all the personnel – doctors, technicians, trainers, whatever – died at the same time. Something as big as what we’re dealing with can fragment with no trouble, without leaving a trail. Some members die, others join similar groups – and plenty more just leave whole hog, trying to find something quieter.’

  He typed something on his own board. The map zoomed outward, showing the entire upper Mississippi Valley. ‘There has to be someone in this area who was part of the organisation in any of those capacities. All we need to do is narrow down which ones had connections to any part of the region prior to the Pulse or Turmoil, and who worked the longest at the organisation. They’ll be the ones our targets had the longest and most enduring connections to, and therefore’ll be the first to be approached for safety or transport. We find those people, we find the targets.’

  No one spoke for a stretch. Hargrove’s eyes moved from the map to Costa, and back again. Was there something that the agent already knew, about the Project or its people – more than he’d showed so far? If there was, what else did he know? Did that mean – He forced the train of thought aside. ‘Very perceptive,’ he said. He gestured to the enlarged map. ‘With that in mind, perhaps you’d like to enlighten us as to the starting point?’

  Costa ignored the sarcasm. Looking at Patr
ick, he asked. ‘What’s the first character any new recruit runs into, whether he’s a soldier, terrorist or wannabe gangster?’

  The colonel smirked. ‘A mentor. Weeds out the weaklings, makes sure only the serious and hardcore stay in.’

  ‘Right. It wasn’t just the advantages these targets had going into the organisation that gave them the edge. They still needed years of training before they were ready for work in the field. And for the type of work involved, they needed the best of the best for trainers, to hammer them into the ideal members in just a couple of years. Which means the trainers had to be part of the organisation themselves, from the start and for the long haul, probably to the point that they came to see the recruits as family.’

  Costa pressed a few more keys. On the map, the Twin Cities changed to a yellow, irregular splotch. ‘We know the targets were heading north-northwest at their last sighting. They have to know we’re watching the border with Canada a lot more closely than pre-Turmoil, even in the remote spots. So no matter how far north they go, they’ll have to at least brush by Minneapolis or St Paul. And if they want any chance of getting out of this general area without being sighted by our surveillance or a suspicious patrol, they have to know someone who can hook them up with the means to keep on the move. Transport, weapons, food – whatever they need at a second’s notice.’

  Hargrove studied the image. Reluctantly, he nodded, and picked up a wafer-thin tablet from one corner of the table. He tapped three times at its screen, and held it out to the agent. ‘These are the files from Advent and your bosses, on the target’s known regular contacts during the period that corresponds to their training. Don’t get too excited, though. Most of them only include names, and no mention of activities. And it was standard practice to give false names or info in organisations like these, so—’

  ‘I get it.’ Costa said with some annoyance. ‘But it beats just sitting around with thumbs firmly inserted up our asses. From their behaviour so far, we should assume this to be a race between us and the targets – no idea what’s beyond the finish line, but we damn well better make it across before them.’

  Smirking, Hargrove nodded again, tapped at the screen once more to send the files on to Costa, then turned away to study the terminal, both guards in tow. That let him hide the tiny shudder of relief. If Costa was following this type of lead, he wasn’t filled in on the parts of the Project that really mattered. That meant his superiors weren’t either, or hadn’t passed it on to a junior agent out of inertia, fast-tracked clearance or not. Either way, his position was still secure.

  Behind him, he heard Costa speak again. ‘Colonel Patrick. Can you explain this number here?’

  Hargrove turned around. The Ranger officer was peering at his own tablet. ‘18Z-G… That’s a military designation for a senior sergeant, in the Special Forces Branch. The ‘G’ doesn’t make any sense, though. Might be a typo, but I doubt it. Why?’

  ‘The man holding this rank, F Caswell – he’s listed as a “training consultant”, from the start of the organisation’s existence, with no end date listed.’ Costa’s vidfeed shrank, allowing the file he’d called up to fill much of the screen. ‘No date or place of birth. Nothing about his past operations – not much of a surprise there. Just a couple of references to his specific training: Recon tactics, empty-hand combat…’The agent stopped. ‘Airborne assault techniques, including pilot certification.’

  ‘You think he was the main trainer for these targets?’ Patrick asked.

  ‘No sign of anybody more qualified in the rest of the files,’ Costa replied, with growing confidence. ‘Somebody had to give them the right edge, alongside their tech and whatever other abilities they had from the start. Who better than a Green Beret? And who else would have the know-how to stay underground for years at a time?’

  ‘A Ranger, for one,’ Patrick countered. The humour in his tone took the sting out. Serious again, he pointed to the entry. ‘Anything listed as to relatives, other ties, last known whereabouts?’

  Costa skimmed the screen again. ‘Just a fragment. Something about an old family farm, about fifty miles south of Minneapolis. You recognise the coordinates?’

  Patrick’s features darkened as he read. ‘Yeah. That’s at the heart of what used to be a TRZ – Temporary Relocation Zone. A couple hundred thousand people swarmed out from the Twin Cities during ’44, migrating into the suburbs and farmlands. Right away they ran into local “security forces” who weren’t exactly thrilled to see their city brethren.’ His grip tightened on the device. ‘We actually had something close to a handle on the situation before the Pulse – but the whole region was burned, bombed, and generally torn up to hell when we finally left.’ He coughed roughly, and handed the tablet back. ‘So if this guy did end up going back there during the Turmoil, it’s a sure bet there’s nothing left of him or his place.’

  Before Costa could answer, the doors to the Ops centre banged open. Three men in Ranger fatigues strode in. All three men wore full combat kit and still carried weapons, both of which bore the signs of frequent field use. Ignoring Hargrove and Costa, the trio stepped up to Colonel Patrick, coming to a stop with sharp salutes. The foremost man – a sergeant – was first to speak. ‘Sir. We just completed our sweep of the northern counties, and… we found something unusual. Something we felt you should see personally.’ With one hand, the young officer drew out a small plastic bag, one-third full of grey-white powder. Hargrove stiffened at the sight. His hands started to shake, before he willed them to be still. It was all he could do not to reach out and snatch the bag away. If this was still out there –

  Colonel Patrick held it up to the light, puzzled. ‘What exactly is this, Duncan?’

  ‘No idea, sir. We found it during a flyover of the southern end of Chequamegon Forest; one of our spotters noticed a clearing where an old park ranger cabin was supposed to be. Given concerns about possible gunrunning, I ordered the team down to investigate.’ Duncan’s face was impassive, but the bewilderment was plain in his attitude. ‘When we hit the ground, all we found was a rough patch of this grey material, like ashes. But there was no sign of any burning in the area. And someone would’ve reported the smoke plume, even with the snow and damp.’

  Patrick peered more closely at the bag’s contents. ‘Doesn’t look like burnt wood or any other flammable compounds,’ he mused. He closed a fist around it. ‘Where exactly did you find this?’

  The sergeant stepped up to the map table. He touched a finger to the display, which immediately focused on a green swath in northern Wisconsin. ‘Right here, sir. There were some footprints in the area; they’re in the video and photo records we turned in before coming here, as per procedure. No tyre tracks that we could detect leading in or out of the forest – the nearest community is around thirty miles away, and there was no evidence of any substantial traffic from any direction, by car or off-road. To be perfectly frank, sir, we have no idea what went on in that clearing.’

  ‘I see,’ Patrick replied, staring at the marked region. ‘Thank you for bringing this to my attention, gentlemen. You’ll be notified if any other information or action becomes necessary.’ Duncan saluted once more, as did his men; Patrick returned them gravely. When the three men had departed, he turned to Hargrove. ‘Well, sir? What do you make of this?’

  Hargrove held his hand out for the bag. He looked it over for a time, turning it over in both hands. Long training kept his face calm, and his movements sure. Despite this, he felt a slowly growing thrill of pleasure. He had to fight not to smile. It was what he figured. Which could only mean that the targets were getting close to wherever they were heading, or desperate, or both. Either way, things were starting to look up at last. When he looked up at the colonel and Costa again, his gaze was intense and focused. ‘Gentlemen, we may have just caught a break.’ He swung his gaze to Costa. ‘You find anything else in the files?’

  ‘Maybe.’ The agent’s vidfeed expanded again. ‘Given what’s not in the files, it’s barely eno
ugh to go on… but there’s nothing else in a thousand miles that comes close to the kind of contact our targets need.’

  Hargrove glanced at the tablet, then the map, and back again. The hungry smile appeared, in full this time. ‘No… there isn’t.’ He stabbed the off button, tossed the device onto the map table, and stuffed the bag into one pocket. Then he tapped the map display again, bringing up the Twin Cities and the surrounding suburbs. ‘Colonel, I need two Ospreys fully equipped and ready to depart in ten minutes. One to carry my associates, the other a squad of your best, for back up if necessary; I’ll follow by in the chopper we arrived in. Ground insertion, rapid deployment; two hostiles, possibly more—’

  ‘Wait, wait, wait,’ Costa interrupted. ‘You want a full insertion? What happened to staying low-key?’

  Hargrove took a deep breath, letting it out with exaggerated patience. His voice held the same. ‘We’ve tried that, and with the best team for the job.’ He jabbed a thumb at his two guards, who were watching the scene with their usual impassivity. ‘Chicago showed how easily the targets can slip past our discreet methods, with an entire garrison literally waiting to pitch in. This time, we’re going in with full support.’ He glanced sharply at the colonel. ‘All of which will of course remain as under the table as possible, however.’

  ‘If you want as much “under the table” as that, Mr Hargrove, you’d do better sticking with your own men,’ Patrick replied. ‘Rangers aren’t exactly the discreet type.’ He looked down at the image. ‘Still, we can provide the machines and manpower. There’ve been plenty of reports of possible smuggling in the area, and the garrison in St. Paul has been on the horn for more support recently. My men can be presented as such, if the need arises.’