Project Apollo

by B. B. Gallagher

  After chewing on a thought, he raised his eyes to the elevated conference table. He assessed the manpower at his disposal. He had the greatest intelligence assets in the world at his fingertips. There had to be something, they could do. He wasn’t just going to let his best friend die. He pivoted on his heel and marched back to the team with deliberation and purpose in his footsteps.

  “Alright! Hardy, where is Xander?! I need an update now!”

  “No word. I was able to reach Ashton – she has been inspecting the scene at the metro station. She said she had no idea where they went but Seamus and Xander took off together. We’ve traced his phone, but it has not moved,” Hardy updated.

  “Hasn’t moved? Is he dead?!” Jacobs inquired.

  “I suspect he has ditched his phone…”

  “So, he is intentionally keeping us in the dark,” Jacobs filled in his hypothesis.

  “Well, whatever his reasoning is, he doesn’t trust us anymore. And whatever the reason may be, he must have a good one. We taught him better than that,” Hardy explained, taking another jab at politics while he had the chance. The room went silent and awaited word from the Chief of Staff.

  “It is not his job to trust us or not, that is not how the chain of command works!”

  “Sparta was designed to give a few gifted operatives extreme flexibility in how they performed their tradecraft. They are allowed to make these kinds of judgment calls in the field, judgment calls that others would not be able to make. In return, everyone in this room can maintain plausible deniability. That’s the deal, that’s how it works,” Hardy responded calmly and as a matter of fact.

  “Not anymore…” Jacobs responded in a staccato hiss. His thumb and fingers pressed down on the table in tee-pees. His head dropped as he reflected on the next course of action. With conviction, he slowly raised his balding head and spoke softly, knowing that everyone had his attention.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen… Xander Whitt and Seamus McIlroy are now branded as rogue agents. Have all resources dedicated to finding them. They now are the only ones with the clue to the fourth target and thus the cure. Do not use live ammo. We need them alive!”

  Chapter 42

  Capitol Hill Books

  5:05 PM

  The rogue Spartans continued speeding toward the bookstore. Xander’s alert level was raised to its limit – his awareness peaked as his eyes scampered every which way ahead of him and then darted to the side mirror. Two black Suburbans changed lanes five cars back, trying to remain discrete.

  “We have company.”

  Seamus grabbed the rearview mirror and checked for himself. “You’re right. Looks like FBI, judging by the SUVs,” Seamus updated.

  “Hardy wasn’t able to hold them off. We need to lose them, but try not to kill anyone okay?” Xander explained.

  “We should ditch the van – it’s too noticeable, I have some alternate vehicles stashed in a garage nearby.” Seamus altered his course, making a quick impromptu turn. After driving a few blocks, they came to another alley. Xander checked to see the black Suburbans maintaining their tail.

  “It’s actually right up here…”

  Seamus made one last turn down a one-way alley that led back to an opening, boxed in by brick office buildings on each side.

  Xander hopped out and followed Seamus to a garage door at the ground level of one of the buildings.

  “Did I lose them?” Seamus asked.

  “No, they most likely parked out on the road, setting up a perimeter on us, waiting for us to come out.” Xander opened the back door of the van and grabbed a pack of equipment. He flung it onto his back and checked the firearms holstered near his hip and strapped to his legs. His ammunition check was interrupted by the sound of a low approaching hum. It was the sound of chopping wind.

  Xander and Seamus’s eyes ascended skyward to a SWAT chopper hovering overhead.

  “We really pissed someone off. Looks like they got an eye in the sky on us,” Seamus added, as he dropped to his knees next to a sewage drain. He reached into the drain and felt around, pulling out what looked like a wad of duct tape. Inside of it was a key.

  “We’ll split up, meet me at Capitol Books as soon as you lose them. What kind of alternate vehicles do you have for us?” Xander asked to which Seamus turned the key into the padlock on the garage. He heaved the door upward, revealing two Kawasaki sport bikes. Seamus presented them like they were a prize on a game show, but Xander stayed focused and shrugged his approval.

  Xander and Seamus straddled the motorcycles and turned the keys left in the ignitions, revving the machines to life. The pumping sound muted the chopper overhead. Xander turned to Seamus and flashed him tactical signs to take the right.

  Xander turned the throttle and the motorcycle wheels spun beneath him, coughing up a cloud of burning rubber. It lurched forward an inch but stopped, as if it were a bull at a rodeo ready to be let out of its pen. With a twitch of his wrist, Xander released the incredible burst of horsepower and zoomed down the alley toward the street. Xander bore left as Seamus swerved right, just as oncoming traffic was released by the green light ahead. The Suburbans came to life as squealing tires turned the SUVs toward the speeding renegades. Seeing the SUV take shape in his side mirror, Xander cranked up the torque and leaned forward, cutting through the street ahead.

  And the chase was on.

  Xander swerved across the street and into a side alley, littered by boxes and pallets, evading the Suburban. After dodging the trash, he shot out into the conjoining street where he met a black Sedan awaiting him on the other side.

  Xander veered to the left and over the median, catching some air on his way toward oncoming traffic. Horns sounded as Xander weaved in and out of traffic, to the left and then to the right, like a hockey player skating down the ice rink. The Sedans followed behind, sirens blaring. The sea of cars opened for Xander’s pursuer, allowing the car to gain ground on him. From his side mirror, Xander could see the passenger sit up on his window and fire ahead at him. But by the sound of it, Xander could tell they were rubber bullets. One pinged off his license plate while one punctured his gas tank, springing a leak, as he continued to duck for cover.

  You want some of this?

  With all of his strength Xander slammed on the brakes and spun the bike around an immediate 180 degrees to face the approaching Sedan. In one quick motion he released one of the handles of the bike and slid his handgun out of his shoulder holster. He focused on the approaching car and fired off a few well-aimed rounds into the front inside tire of the Sedan.

  Upon impact, the car’s course altered immediately, spinning out of control and flipping end over end past Xander’s bike, crashing into a median.

  One down.

  Xander upped the torque with his wrist and sped off in the other direction, he knew the Suburban would soon be behind him, but he had created some space to gather a plan. He didn’t know who was following him and who was tailing Seamus, but he had to make sure they were gone before he led them on the trail to Capitol Hill Books.

  Xander noticed that his bike had begun to slow a bit, and had become less responsive to the touch, as gasoline continued to drain from its tank. The dial on his meter was dropping fast and something large had begun to fill his side mirror. It was the black Suburban, gathering speed directly towards Xander’s bike. The Suburban split through a series of cars as it forced itself through the street.

  There he is.

  As the Suburban accelerated, the gap between the two-shrunk foot by foot. There was no median to cross, nothing but large walls lining the street.

  He was boxed in.

  The Suburban was gaining on him fast.

  It was about 20 yards behind him when Xander knew he had to make some kind of move, no matter how reckless. He balanced, carefully, as he brought both feet up. Squatting on his seat, hands still on the handles, he checked behind him one last time as the Suburban was on his heels. Then Xander lunged himself as high as he could off the bike
, which sputtered beneath his lift off and crashed instantly. Xander was immediately met by the Suburban’s wind shield.

  This may have been a bad idea.

  Xander had no time to react to the pain, for he looked up at the driver who was now aiming the barrel of a gun at him. Xander rolled on the hood of the SUV holding on by a mere three finger grip, while four rubber rounds fired through the wind shield and missed. He couldn’t hold on much longer as half of his body hung off the passenger side of the speeding Suburban. He was able to find with his left hand the side mirror and his feet found the support step. After clenching a grip, he swung to a position below the passenger seat window.

  Xander opened the door to meet the agent driving the SUV, who was snapping another magazine into his hand gun.

  “Hello!” Xander announced himself – the agent was taken off guard. Xander’s fist met his face immediately, opening a blood vessel that emptied out over his face. He tried to fight back but Xander had the position and the leverage needed to fight in the close quarters of the cabin. He seized the gun in the man’s grip and with one quick jerk, broke the man’s wrist. The agent yelled out in pain and released his firearm into the floorboard.

  The steering wheel was left abandoned as the agent could no longer grip it. Xander looked ahead and saw it – a dead end. After a brief second, he braced for impact. As they hit, the airbags deployed knocking both the agent and Xander into a suspended haze.

  For a lone moment, Xander saw the crash of his parents’ car and the shattered glass floating by in a flash. He could almost see his father’s neck snapping once again.

  Xander’s adrenaline quickly brought him back. He slowly turned side to side to find his bearings. The cabin was an atmosphere of burning chemicals. Dust floated through the air between him and the FBI agent who sat unconscious behind the driver seat.

  I have to get out of here.

  Xander kicked the bent door open and wedged himself through it out onto the chaotic street. Traffic was piled up back from the first wreck and the chopper had followed Seamus. Xander’s hip ached horribly from the impact of the airbag, forcing him to limp his way across the highway and out of sight.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  Rachel Norton had just aired the headshots of Mohammad Azir and Harak Khan. Adam Nichols, the anchor, specified next to their photos that Azir was the one confirmed dead at the scene at Van Ness, while Harak Khan was still at-large.

  Rachel proceeded out of the control room and through the bullpen toward her office.

  “Rachel?” Porter Nash called on his BNA television producer. Annoyed, but compliant, she stopped and approached the aspiring anchor, who was sitting with an FBI tech before a server cabinet amid the tangle of wires with his laptop plugged in directly.

  “What can I help you with?” she asked, dripping with condescension.

  “Tough day, huh?” he asked, trying to cut the tension. Rachel turned with an expression that showed just how little she was entertained.

  “Well, let’s see, Porter. A bunch of terrorists stole a disease and set it loose in the city, then you met with some anonymous hacker group and brought a flash drive here through which they hacked my network all in order to inform the American public for us. I’d say so…”

  “Well, I’m sorry to hear that…but it could be worse,” Porter reminded her.

  “Really? How?”

  “You could be sick…” This struck Rachel down from her stance.

  “Listen, we’re looking here on the servers and we’re not finding anything, to be honest with you. Do you know of any other server space connected to the network?”

  “Do I look like a techie to you?” she replied short. “This is what we hire nerds for…” The FBI tech looked up seemingly offended, but her focus passed him and zeroed in on the window of the laptop, noticing something odd. “What is that?”

  “The Q drive… it’s where we keep all of our stories we have in the pipeline, ready to run,” Porter updated her.

  “I know what the Q drive is. Porter. I said, what is that?” Rachel pointed at one of the folders in the window.

  “The JFK special?” Porter asked.

  “We’re not working on that.” Rachel was skeptical of its very presence.

  “We’re always doing some kind of JFK special…” Porter refuted in rebuttal.

  “Not right now, we aren’t.” Rachel’s expression grew grave, as her suspicion rose.

  “Let’s open it up…” Porter said, but it was immediately shaken off by the tech, like a pitcher shaking off a catcher’s pitch call. “Why the hell not?” Porter reached for the mouse, but the tech placed his hand out.

  “You don’t understand, we have to take this off the server first to open it, we don’t want to prompt it to hijack the newsfeed again,” he cautioned as if they had just discovered a bomb in need of diffusing. He grabbed the mouse and pulled the file off the server and onto another flash drive. The tech turned to the bullpen.

  “We might have something here!” he shouted, yanking the flash drive from the server and walking to his own personal laptop. Agent Graves joined, walking at a swift pace behind.

  “We could have a Trojan Horse here.”

  “What do you mean?” Rachel asked.

  “A Trojan Horse is essentially a form of malware that appears in nature to be something harmless, in this case a file folder dedicated to a Kennedy News Special, so they are hard to detect. They get on the network by the action of the user, either opening a file or installing something, whatever. It serves as a gateway for someone to gain unfettered access,” the tech explained.

  “No wonder we couldn’t find it… it’s hiding in plain sight,” Porter noted.

  “Have you ever wondered why you were targeted?” The tech turned from the computer. Porter and Rachel’s ears perked up, awaiting the expert’s opinion. The tech merely nodded toward the server.

  “Most all other News Organizations remotely host their data, but your old school here…” He turned back to the computer as he finished his explanation. “They wanted to get in, sometimes it’s easier to let someone bring you through the front door than to find a back door yourself.”

  Upon opening the file, everyone peered closer at what was a long, complex strand of code stretching endlessly within the window. Rachel, Graves and Porter could not readily glean any meaning from the random string of characters, but the tech leaned closer reading the screen like an open book.

  “So, this code is an application that sends a hostile takeover command through the server. It essentially paralyzes the system until it is finished carrying out its scheduled command,” the tech translated for the others.

  “What do you mean scheduled?” Agent Graves asked.

  “I mean the first video was designed to play after installation on the environment and the second video is scheduled to play tonight at 8PM,” the tech responded, scrolling down the coding.

  “Can you play the video?” Porter chimed in over the tech’s shoulder.

  “There doesn’t appear to be a way—” The tech interrupted his own thought. He positioned his cursor over the time and accessed the time settings for the CPU. He changed the time on his machine to 7:59PM.

  “Let’s see if this works,” the tech hoped aloud.

  After waiting a minute, the screen flashed black and a video player opened. The banner on the video flashed: We interrupt this program to bring you Breaking News.

  After a few moments, the screen turned to another series of slides with texts. An opening quote started the video again.

  Remember, democracy never lasts long. It soon wastes, exhausts and murders itself. There is never a democracy that did not commit suicide.

  -John Adams

  A distorted voice read the following words that displayed on the screen.

  All four targets have now been hit. Your city is in chaos.

  This country has been infected by years of dirty politics and dysfunctional democracy. We at the Collective have recovered
the cure and will disperse it to all infected zones. Although we are not responsible for this attack we are skeptical of America’s integrity and strength as a nation.

  You cannot change the government from within, the democracy is broken. The voice of the citizen has been muted and severed from DC politicians.

  We must once again declare our independence.

  Rachel’s knees buckled as she read the line of text.

  Today has reminded us of our own fragility. We must become strong once again and rise against those who keep our voices at bay.

  This is a call to arms against the US government, a revolution must occur to correct the wrongs of this nation.

  “What the hell!” Rachel exclaimed, breaking Graves’s concentration on the video.

  We ask that anyone who distrusts their government and wants to restore the democracy our founding fathers envisioned, join the revolution. For it will be the cure.

  We are the Collective. Are you?

  The screen faded to black, leaving its viewers shell-shocked. Graves fell within himself in an effort to connect the larger picture.

  “They are calling for a revolution?” the tech asked.

  “Would anyone ever follow these people, whoever they are?” Rachel asked in disgust.

  “Recent polls show that American’s confidence in all three branches of government is at an all-time low. After the cover up exposed today, I’m sure it will only plummet further. Above all, this group – The Collective – has the cure, apparently. One thing I have noticed in my time with the FBI, people typically don’t bite the hand that feeds,” Agent Graves explained.