“Thousands.”
“This isn’t the kind of chip that they can strike at any pre-fab plant. It requires a unique mix of materials.”
“Well at least we’ve got it, even though Blanc is in the wind.”
“You would think so.”
“But?”
“Two chips were made.”
***
Mantes-la-Jolie, France
Blanc hates the safe house. Unlike his condo, the hideout in Mantes-la-Jolie bores him. It is owned by one of his bankrollers, a well-to-do French fascist who frets endlessly about the “Arab invasion” of his home land.
The property, located an hour and a half outside of Paris, is in a quiet village. There are many retirees around and it isn’t nearly as bustling as his building next to the Trevi Fountain.
Blanc is here waiting for things to cool off. His sources back in Rome told him there were multiple law enforcement agencies swarming to his property after the shoot-out. Americans, along with British and French authorities.
Even worse, he lost the chip. The original idea had been designed around two uses of the custom-built device. But now, thanks to the gun-toting American woman, things would have to be scaled down.
And Blanc has to sit in a room at his computer to initiate the next phase. The walls were drab and boring, painted an inoffensive light beige. His creature comforts are being pawed and manhandled by strangers, and he knows he will never see them again.
The carnage to come will be some sort of retribution for the personal indignity he had suffered.
In a video window on his computer he watches two men from over their shoulders. The camera mounted on their bodies is insurance, to make sure they execute as ordered.
They are true believers in the cause, but especially after the fiasco in Rome, Blanc is keeping an eye on every phase of the operation.
Blanc reaches for a teacup, rolling his eyes as his fingers graze against the mass-produced material. He is accustomed to even drinkware designed for the elite.
“Execute,” he orders the men, who receive the command to move forward through the earpieces.
***
Fort Meade, Maryland
Guard duty at the Army base in Fort Meade, Maryland, is usually a pedestrian affair. Arthur is good at his job and despite the boredom of checking identification and waving cars and trucks through, he isn’t the kind of man to be asleep at the wheel.
He followed procedure forty minutes ago when the two men drove on base. Their identification checked out. Their vehicle, an army-green van, was clear.
Nobody is more surprised than Arthur to see the same van fly through the entrance gate, smashing the barricade.
He leaps to his feet and reaches for his firearm, firing at the vehicle to no avail.
He hits an alarm button and picks up the emergency phone to alert the base commander.
As he does so his radio crackles to life.
“Do you copy?” A weak voice at the other end asks.
“Copy,” he responds, waiting for the commander to pick up.
“Two men, picked up the Van Lyken. Shots fired. Men down. They’re escap—”
The line goes dead as the caller expires.
“McDaniel,” the commander answers. He is gruff, but the sound of sleep and tiredness is still clear in his voice.
“Intruder, sir. Van Lyken is in the wind, sir. I’ve sent out an APB for the vehicle, sir.”
“Good God.”
***
Somewhere in Virginia
Bob and Dennis, the two soldiers gone rogue, are quiet as they drive the van through a series of side roads and avenues. They know they can never go back to the lives they once had. It was one thing to be given the plan and to know the details. It is a whole other to execute as they now had.
They anticipate a major pay day. But that’s not it. They didn’t do what they did simply for money. They believe.
They believe something has gone wrong, that men like them – white men – are on the losing end of society. The world they grew up with, with people like them at the top of the food chain, seems every day to be fading away.
Even their Army, once seen as shelter from a world hurtling toward some kind of white-hot future, feels like it’s under assault.
Around them, wearing the same uniform, afforded the same rights and privileges, is a rainbow of people. They come from all races and both men have quietly fumed over beers that even their commanders don’t look like them anymore.
Then came the women. Bob and Dennis do not believe the claims that the women are being subjected to the same standards. They both believe in their heart of hearts that tests and evaluations are being rigged, that around them women and blacks and Latinos are promoted based on identity and not merit.
Their resentment led to radicalization which led them to the groups answering to Gorman Blanc.
And that is how they ended up driving through the woods with an experimental missile in the back of a van, committing treason.
***
Omega Division Headquarters, Silver Spring, Maryland
“A Van Lyken?” Deena Marks asks.
Renegade nods.
“Taken last night. They used the chip to disable the tracking beacon. It’s armed with a pretty heavy payload that could take out a city block.”
“What was it doing at Fort Meade?”
“It was there for testing. The men who took it, Bob Tully and Dennis Otten. Long-time servicemen, nothing special or outstanding about their records. We’re doing dives on them now. They had clearance to enter the storage facility. They killed one guard and injured three others.”
The images of Bob and Dennis flash on the screen behind Renegade while Marks quickly takes in their faces.
“Well if they’re working with Blanc, they’re probably same white nationalist, white supremacist types.”
“Yeah. We think so too. Somehow the van just went off the radar. This thing was planned to a ‘t.’”
The door to the conference room swings open.
Both Renegade and Marks look up. This doesn’t happen often. Most everyone in Omega Division is afraid to even knock on Renegades’ door, let alone open it without permission.
The offender is a pudgy guy with oily hair.
“Sir, sorry sir, but they need you to see, sir.”
Renegade follows the pudgy man with his eyes as he marches up to the desk at the front of the room. He picks up a remote control then points it at the screen behind Renegade.
“We received this video on the Army’s internal network. We digitally authenticated it.”
The video shows the outline of a man in shadows. His voice has been digitally altered to sound far deeper than it naturally is. There is also a related digital distortion that gives a metallic edge to every word he pronounces.
“We have the missile,” he announces and pauses for dramatic effect. “Taken from beneath your noses as you continue to decimate our military with mongrels, half-breeds, women and fairies. It is the latest grain of evidence in a mountain of documented indignities the globalists have heaped upon this nation.”
The tone of the diatribe is familiar to Renegade and Marks. It reflects a tone they have heard often, of perceived slights coming about because one marginalized group or another has been given an opportunity.
But instead of a crank on an internet message board, this is a grudge with a deadly edge revealed as the man launches into the next stage of his rant.
Chapter 5
Pohick Bay Regional Park, Lorton, Virginia
Bob and Dennis sit on the floor of a hastily assembled walk-in tent still wearing the military fatigues they had on as they left the base. For the past few minutes they have been eating hamburgers fresh off the grill set up outside in the fire pit. Either motivated through fear or adrenalin, both men hungrily scarf down their meal.
The preparer, Chet, sits across from them, a permanent smirk etched on his face. He is a large man with a bodybuilder’s
body which stands in stark contrast to the two thieves in front of him who have barely ever lifted a weight.
“Good grub,” Bob offers, wiping his face.
Chet barely nods to acknowledge the compliment. He has just spent the last few minutes inspecting the van parked outside next to his sedan, making sure that the weapon is intact and in working order. He is used to working with harder men and is extremely skeptical of this pair, particularly with the task he has been ordered to give to them.
Dennis rolls up his paper plate as he finishes, smearing the excess ketchup he used in the middle of the item.
“Finished?” Chet asks.
Dennis nods yes and Bob does the same as he pops the last fragment of his burger into his mouth.
“Good.”
Chet reaches into the left side of his leather jacket and both men suddenly go tense. They anticipate a quick execution.
Bob exhales as Chet instead brings out a folded piece of paper. He quickly scans both of their faces and his smirk morphs into a cruel grin.
“You boys need to lighten up. We’re all down for the cause here. You’re both a credit to your people.”
He jabs a thick thumb at the zippered door of the tent.
“After this they’ll have to listen to us. No ignoring us anymore.”
Still unnerved, both men simply nod in response.
Chet unfolds the paper as Bob and Dennis lean in.
Dennis looks up, remnants of the oil from the burger still visible at the corners of his mouth.
“Washington?”
“The belly of the beast,” Chet replies.
***
Omega Division Headquarters
“The city will burn,” the man on the video says as the Omega Division team silently watches. “But you can stop it. After this video is received a text file will be sent to you. It contains the name of ten political prisoner being held by the American government, convicted in the Zionist courts for simply standing up with pride for their heritage.”
“They will be released,” the man says in an almost hushed tone, “or people in the city you have debased will die. You know what the Van Lyken can do. You know how many people it can hurt.”
At the mention of this, the video image shifts from the silhouette to file footage of massive explosions in the desert.
Marks looks to Renegade and they both recognize it as live-fire testing of the Van Lyken. The bombs kick up tons of desert sand as large mushroom clouds thrust skyward from the point of impact.
The idea of something of such destructive power being detonated in a city makes Marks’ blood run cold. Renegade shows no outward sign of emotion, but Marks knows he is thinking about what he saw at the Pentagon on 9/11.
Back to the silhouette.
“You have forty-five minutes to begin the release process. The target has been selected. Any public acknowledgement of the situation will result in a detonation. Any attempt to stop the device will result in a detonation. You will release our brothers, or the streets will run red with the blood of your precious ‘diversity.’”
The video ends and Omega Division springs into action.
***
Route 611, Huntington, Virginia
Bob’s hands won’t stop sweating. He takes them off the steering wheel to rub them along his jeans, but it doesn’t do any good. The nervousness is overwhelming. He had assumed that the stress was over. The missile is secure and delivered. He believes his job was over.
Chet had been so casual. He had nonchalantly told the pair what was expected of them and that they would be greatly rewarded upon the plan’s execution.
“So many people,” Dennis had quietly replied.
“This is not amateur hour. We aren’t simply playing games. You both knew that.”
They had nodded in unison. Chet raised an eyebrow as if to say this time he would have a gun for them under his coat.
“When do we leave?” Dennis asked.
Now they are driving down Route 611, about to take the exit to I-495, the so-called “Beltway” highway that loops around Washington.
“You okay?” Dennis asks.
Bob nods “yes.”
“Don’t look it.”
“Careful. Bugs.”
Bob steals a glance at the glove box, then up to the ceiling of the vehicle.
“We got this van, remember?”
“Yeah. Yeah. Still. You never know.”
“We’ll get this done and get out quick. They know what they’re doing. They planned all of this. We have to do it.”
“Have to.”
“Remember, man, all that shit we talked about? How they fucked us over?”
“Yeah. But maybe—”
“Maybe nothing, man. We talked about this. Don’t chicken out on me.”
Dennis punches the inside of his door in frustration. He is dealing with his own demons and doubts and is angry at Bob for opening the door with his hesitation.
He doesn’t need this on his psyche. He just wants to get this done with. He wants to deliver the package and get away before the screams and howls of anguish get too loud.
***
Route 611, Huntington, Virginia
Chet still wears a scowl, his default expression, as he trails behind the van on Route 611. He hears Dennis and Bob loud and clear through the listening device he planted in the truck. Despite its placement beneath the floor mat on the driver’s side, there is almost no distortion.
The conversation validates the concern he has felt since first given this assignment. These are white men, but they are not committed men. They haven’t seen combat and they don’t understand the world they signed up to create. They have been infected by the media, turned weak by the chemicals in the water and the messages carried into every American home.
Chet knows that the universe of believers is small – for now. He is trailing Dennis and Bob to make sure that at the zero hour they do what is necessary. Or he will.
***
Silver Spring, Maryland
The engine of Deena Marks’ candy apple red Chevy Corvette Z06 roars as she slams the accelerator and drives down North Capitol, the main road connecting the Maryland suburb to Washington.
She cuts off three surprised drivers in their cars leisurely driving in the roundabout just as you cross the border into the city.
The clock is ticking.
At Omega Division she knows it is a quiet beehive of furious action. She has been there before through crises like this. There is a nervous energy in the air, but it is also nearly as quiet as a church in prayer.
Every man and woman knows their job and are regarded as some of the best in the world at it. That is why Renegade has them there. He has the budget and the pull to get whoever he wants and at whatever price and has repeatedly exercised that option over the years.
Marks guns the engine again, knowing herself that she is also one of the people Renegade has chosen for the superiority of her skills and talent.
Still, there is the unknown.
Out of sight, out of mind, she thinks.
On the horizon she can see the angular tip of the Washington Monument, the 555-foot obelisk that dominates the skyline of the city. While it holds considerable symbolic value, Marks doubts that is the target.
Where?
She expertly weaves through the traffic, gunning past the thick sea of cars on their way into the heart of the capital.
A slight digital crackle in her right ear tells her that someone is about to speak through the Bluetooth device in her ear.
“We’re clearing a traffic path to maximize your course,” Renegade says.
Omega Division has the authority to overtake traffic signals and operations across the country, a function overseen by an agent with multiple degrees in urban planning and operations. At Renegade’s command the agent is coordinating the status of traffic lights along with the GPS signal emanating from Marks’ car.
On the road, Marks sees a stream of green lights ahead,
along with other cars being steadily, expertly funneled to side streets to ease her travel.
“How much longer?” Marks asks.
Standing at his station overseeing the entire Omega Division control room, Renegade quickly glances at a panel.
“Two minutes.”
Damn, Marks thinks.
The chip sits in its wooden box on the floor of the passenger’s seat. It was not particularly difficult to download its contents into Omega Division’s network, but even with the agency’s advanced computing the chip was not compatible off-the-shelf with their systems.
The integration would take some time, and even though it is lightning fast compared to the commercial equivalent, the seconds are slipping away quickly.
Marks looks at the screen in the center console of her dashboard. She is receiving GPS information showing her the streets and her location, but the vital tracking information she needs to find the missile is somewhere on a server grinding its way to completion.
***
Missile Van, Washington, DC
Bob and Dennis pull up to their destination. Chet is not far behind.
Bob sits and contemplates the moment, still gearing himself up for what is about to happen. Dennis unbuckles his seat belt, and while crouched down to avoid hitting his head on the ceiling, walks to the back of the van where the missile sits, covered in a dark blue tarp.
“Gotta do it myself, I guess,” he resentfully mumbles quietly.
He reaches for a small wooden box identical to the one in Marks’ possession and opens it. He takes out the chip and half-rolls his eyes at how small such a destructive device is.
The missile comes to life as he pushes the chip into a small slot on the side. A touchscreen slides out and a numeric keypad appears.
“You’re missing all the fun,” he says to Bob.
“Coming.”
Dennis sighs. He wants Bob near and next to him as he does this. He does not want the burden resting solely on his shoulders. As far as he is concerned, Bob got him into this. Bob talked him into it. If these people are going to die, Bob has to dip his hand in the blood too.
Spying While Black Page 2