Rise of the Pheonix: Act 2

by Gibbs, Dameon

  Inside the security booth, Brent leaned on his partner, bleeding and waiting while Cooper tried frantically to devise a defensive plan. There was no entry or exit from the room except for the heavily reinforced door into the lobby. The booth had been designed to withstand any foreseeable assault. The strategy in case of an attempted breach was for the guards to knock the attackers out with gas and keep their place until reinforcements arrived. A small weapons locker would have provided them with ample weapons and ammunition but, with the security system down, it couldn’t be unlocked.

  Hitoshi’s fingers danced across the tablet again, and the door to the guard booth clicked open. Simultaneously, two silver canisters arced through the broken window and detonated in mid-air. The guards did not possess the necessary reaction speed to protect themselves from the flashbangs, and they suffered their full effects.

  The three men with Keeast charged through the doorway, and dashed to the right, finding an incapacitated Cooper on the floor, finished him with two shots to the chest and one to the head. The other two moved to the left and center until they stood over Brent and Adams.

  Hitoshi’s fingers danced over the tablet one more time and the entrance to the lobby opened, allowing the rest of Keeast’s squad to enter and proceed down the hall to the facility.

  Battered and bruised, the two guards knew it was only a matter of seconds before they met their end. With the effects of the flashbang wearing off and the searing pain returning, Brent realized that there were more of them; he heard the footfall of easily three times the amount he had seen with Keeast right before the assault.

  This fucker hacked the whole damn system and blinded us. He must have planned this from day one, Brent realized. He heard the slow, calculated footsteps of a single man walking into the room.

  “Not him,” Brent heard, recognizing the voice: Keeast.

  Keeast’s soldiers in the room picked up Adams. “Not him either,” Keeast gestured to one of his men. “My friend, show him what happens to people who are not my friends.”

  The sound of a blade leaving its sheath was followed by the slicing of flesh, finished by a long gasp. Brent shivered at the sound of his friend’s murder.

  “Ah, so this is the clown who always gives me those warm welcomes,” Keeast sneered as his men lifted Brent to his feet.

  “Damn, you have glass in your eyes!” Keeast complained like a boy who got the wrong toy at Christmas. “But then again, you’ve been blind all day, seeing only what Mr. Hitoshi has allowed you to see. Still, if you are blind, how are you supposed to see how much I’m going to enjoy killing you?”

  Again he gestured to one of his men, who drove his knife under the guard’s ribcage, piercing his heart. Feeling his life end, Brent put on a smile knowing that even in death he was going to be able to irritate the bastard.

  ۞۞۞۞

  Rubbing his eyes, Trident found himself getting antsy. He had already scanned the lab for defensive and offensive positions, along with counting the number of ceiling tiles twice. He was surprised at how soft the lighting was in the lab compared to the harsh illumination of the manufacturing dungeon, as he now called it.

  The lab was broken into two areas with a large aisle down the middle that connected the two doors into and out of the area. To the left, two large rooms took up more than half of the lab’s square footage. The first was a clean room with its antechambers where workers changed into the white full body suits that reminded Trident of the bad guys in all the sci-fi movies. At the far end was the server room, containing racks of computer and communications equipment. Along the right were two areas; signs identified one as “Operating System & Navigation” and the other as “Targeting and Activation.”

  From what he overheard, this was where the software was developed. In each area, cubicles containing powerful workstations surrounded a group of workbenches. Oscilloscopes and other test equipment hung from overhead racks while the workbenches were filled with electronic components and assemblies that sometimes spilled over onto the floor. Too bad Pitch didn’t get assigned here, he thought. This is a geek’s Christmas.

  Out of curiosity, he started to walk towards a door that he had not seen, wondering where it led. Hearing a grunt to his side, he turned to find one of the guards gripping his MP5 a little tighter than usual and shaking his head, quickly ending his exploration. Trident didn’t like uncertainty and for a moment he considered asking Ramona to override the guard’s authority so that he could peek behind the door, but he saw that she was deep in conversation with lab personnel. He thought the better of it and sauntered back the half dozen steps to the table where everyone was gathered.

  He looked over at Tucker, who was listening intently to Ramona and the scientists. He listened in as much as he could but without specs in front of him it was hard to follow the sudden changes in conversation. One minute they were talking about the creation of hardware strong enough to survive the impact and the vibrations, then they were onto software glitches that resulted in the missiles activating in mid-flight. Too bad they fixed that one.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Miller walking his way. Trident could tell he was the one who called the shots. It wasn’t just the man’s gray hair or that look that old people get when surrounded by young people. It was the fact that he held himself as a man who had experienced a lot. The entire guard detail, on the other hand, consisted of young soldiers between the ages of twenty-five to thirty who Trident suspected only experienced combat on a game console.

  “You understand what they’re talking about?” Captain Miller asked not out of interest but as a means of getting Trident’s attention.

  “I got lost after they said ‘This is where we work on the guidance system.’” Trident responded trying to ease the tension, which was hard since the man’s face looked like it had gone ten years without smiling.

  “So then why are you here? What is the real purpose of this visit?” he snapped, making it clear that this was not a conversation but an interrogation.

  “Like I said we’re here to...” Trident tried to respond but was cut off.

  “Put the canned response back in the can, son,” Miller said as he glared at Trident.

  “All due respect, sir, but I am not authorized to disclose any details of our visit. You will have to speak to Agent Tucker or Agent Xuxa,” Trident replied, apologetically.

  Miller continued to study Trident. There was clearly something that he wanted to talk about to someone outside his normal chain of command, and he seemed to be struggling with whether Trident was trustworthy. Then, his face showed that he had made up his mind.

  “Agent Zingler, if that is your name,” he began, “we only get inspected three times a year, always by the same men, also CIA. Their “inspections” don’t amount to more than sight-seeing, and they sure don’t dig into the details the way Ms. Hottie over there is doing. They only want to know how many missiles are complete and why it isn’t more.

  “The atmosphere around here since Miami has been downright psychotic. I will bet my ever so generous government retirement plan that: one, they are connected to it and, two, you are here to find out who they are.”

  Trident tried again to get a word in, but when he spoke the captain turned his head away and brought his hand up to his ear. Simultaneously all the other security officers in the vicinity did the same. Something was coming in over the radio, and their faces illustrated the not so good news.

  ۞۞۞۞

  Quinn took Edge, Doom and Pitch over the catwalk above the Detailed Parts and Sub-assemblies station. The floor was filled with machines arranged in arcs like rings of a tree around the central staircase. Larger machines such as water jets and laser cutters were towards the outside while more compact machines such as lathes and milling machines were closer to the center.

  Alternating pathways arranged like the spokes of a wheel crossed the arcs of machines. Narrow ones radiated out from the center for operators to reach the machines while broader ones beg
an at the outer perimeter and reached inward for the robotic trams to move materials and parts to and from various machines.

  As they walked, the team studied the layout below, preparing for anything.

  Viewed from Quinn’s office, the manufacturing area began at about the one o’clock position on the floor. The parts produced there were just assorted pieces of metal of various sizes and shapes. As the parts moved clockwise through the stages of assembly, recognizably missile-shaped objects began to form.

  Quinn was briefing Edge in extreme detail about the manufacturing process, describing nearly every step in the construction of a missile. It was taking longer than Edge wanted and his impatience began to show.

  “Mr. Quinn,” Edge interrupted. “Your manufacturing process is ingenious. However, my goal for the day is to conduct an audit of your production and shipping records.”

  “Of course,” replied Quinn, “but you need to understand the process before you can examine the records. You will find references in there to missiles that are partially constructed or only exist as raw materials and parts and won’t begin construction for weeks. We do want to have an accurate audit, I’m sure.”

  Edge nodded in understanding before countering. “I’m sure your systems will be able to produce a report showing each missile with a code as to its stage of manufacture, percent complete and earned value for cost tracking. I don’t have to know where on the shop floor they are down to the nearest millimeter. I do, however, have to see your vault and the associated security processes, and I am particularly intent on reviewing what’s on that truck. You said they operated on a tight schedule so time would seem to be of the essence.”

  “Very well,” Quinn acquiesced, knowing he had lost that bit of verbal swordplay. “The truck is not scheduled to leave for some time yet so you will certainly have adequate opportunity to examine it. I was only making the point that holding it up would introduce unnecessary complications.”

  “Good to hear,” said Edge, “but if you could move a bit quicker, I’d feel better.”

  “So be it,” said Quinn, who proceeded to condense his tour, giving a quick overview of how the machinery for the facility had been purchased through a dummy company and trans-shipped here.

  “If anyone was watching, wouldn’t it seem strange to have all that machining equipment going into a lumber yard?” asked Doom.

  “Just like we use the boards to conceal shipments out, we use logs to conceal shipments coming in. The lumber yard provides all sorts of opportunities for camouflage.”

  “You said ‘use,’” noted Pitch. “Are you still bringing in machinery?”

  “Occasionally, but we now use it mostly to conceal parts and materials. We are intent on making sure nobody knows we’re here.”

  “What parts would you buy as opposed to making?” Edge asked

  “Mostly very high-tech things that are difficult to build and are needed in such low volume that it doesn’t make economic sense to launch the capability here.”

  “Is quality an issue, when you’re required to use the lowest bidder?” Pitched asked.

  “We have the luxury of operating under ‘best value’ rules that allow us to choose quality over price, within reason. As an auditor, I’m surprised you aren’t familiar with such aspects of the procurement regs,” said Quinn, condescendingly, as though Pitch were an incompetent underling.

  Pitch was rattled, afraid that he had blown their cover, but Edge jumped in.

  “Agent Fernandez is part of my team because of his technical expertise. He is gradually becoming familiar with the contractual side of things, and I would appreciate it if you would treat any questions from my team with the proper respect.”

  “My apologies,” said Quinn, meekly. Twice in two minutes he’d been dope-slapped by this guy, and it was beginning to bother him.

  By then, they had reached the control room. It was roughly octagonal in shape. A large square with the corners lopped off for the doors that connected to the catwalks. Along each of the major walls, operators sat at consoles, monitoring events below.

  “Here,” Quinn announced, “is the nerve center of the factory floor. Machine and assembly station operators indicate if they need parts to work on or if they have something completed, and the robotic tram is dispatched to move it. I know you’re concerned with security, primarily with the missile vault, so I call your attention to that monitor there.”

  He pointed to a screen showing a window with a blinking yellow border and one with a blinking red border. “A blinking border indicates a security matter that must be monitored. The yellow border indicates a vehicle at the shipping/receiving dock and that particular red one indicates that the missile vault is open.”

  “Who has access to the vault?” Edge asked.

  “Myself, and key members of staff. Mostly, it’s the head of the shipping department that opens it, but whenever he wants to open it, whether to move missiles in for storage or move them out to be shipped, he has to notify the security desk. They send an armed guard who has to badge them and himself in, sort of as a co-signer, and who has to remain there for as long as the vault is open. Similarly to having a truck at the dock; that’s what the yellow window is about.”

  “Why aren’t both alert levels red?” asked Doom.

  “Severity level; having the truck on premises is not as big a concern as having the vault open.”

  “You seem to have quite a few guards walking around. A few more and it would look more like a prison than a factory,” said Doom.

  “Our security focus is primarily on preventing intrusions on the property, mostly from wise-ass, semi-drunk local kids who see any fence as a challenge. Usually, the internal presence of our guards is confined to a few who maintain secure access to certain restricted areas and some guards who are assigned, as needed, for intermittent security needs like the loading dock and vault, and finally some like Mr. Rice, who accompany visitors.”

  “MP5s seem a little heavy duty for that.” Edge commented.

  “Ordinarily, sidearms are considered sufficient,” Quinn allowed, “but after Miami, especially with chat in some corners that we’re somehow involved, we have amped things up a bit.”

  At that moment, Rice ran over to Quinn and Quinn’s cell phone rang with a particularly strident sound. Doom and Pitch looked out at the factory floor and saw guards rounding up the workers. Pitch looked at Doom with a ‘this is not good’ look.

  Quinn looked at the cell phone screen and, seeming unperturbed, said, “Hmm. We appear to have an incident.” He held up the phone for everyone to see. On the screen, a message was flashing in bright red letters: “SEC LVL 1: BREACH”.

  ۞۞۞۞

  Jasmine sat at the table with some of her colleagues laughing and eating before they finished packing for their leave. She had just finished her first stretch in the facility, three months underground twenty-four seven, with living accommodations as luxurious as a college dorm. And she loved it.

  She was fresh out of school, top of her class at Princeton for her undergrad and both masters in electrical engineering and computer science. When she was recruited for the job through one of the companies she had applied to, sure, the pay was very attractive, but the opportunity to work on such an advanced project was irresistible.

  Admittedly, at first, the schedule was hard to get used to. Working in a facility beneath a mountain for three months could take its toll on anybody, so every weekend they were allowed to take a group bus to the nearest town, which was over an hour away. After three months of employment, they were allowed three weeks out in the real world. She looked forward to going home for a while, but it was going to be strange not being able to tell anyone what she did because it was top secret.

  She chuckled at the thought of the word secret. Never in her life had she pictured herself working on a secret government project, paid with government funding, unable to tell anyone anything. And this was a “Black” project, a project so secret that the government di
dn’t even admit it existed. She was even given a cover story to tell friends and family if she was asked what she was working on.

  She would enjoy the time away, especially the part about being above ground, but at the same time, her coworkers had become a community where she felt she belonged.

  “Jasmine!? Yo, you zoned out on us again,” said Mike, grabbing her attention.

  “Sorry, got lost in thought again,” She replied sheepishly. Jasmine had known Mike since college. She was a freshman when he was finishing his doctorate. She had always found him attractive and got the feeling that he might feel the same way. Getting involved with coworkers was a bad idea so she would never act on it, but it made for some fun back and forth.

  “Not about the turbines again, is it? You’re the only girl I’ve met who daydreams of those things,” he said biting into his sandwich.

  “What can I say? Putting one of those together and hearing it run is just... amazing,” she replied, dropping the last word into a sultry tone.

  “I don’t know about you, but the only mechanized thing that makes me that happy is a lot smaller and so second-rate compared to my boyfriend,” chimed Chelsea, another coworker.

  “Hey, Mike, want my pickle? For some reason, it’s just not as appealing after that comment,” joked their friend Steve, who was a guard at the facility. Mike stared at the off-duty guard with a thank-you-ever-so-much-but expression on his face and chuckled.

  Everyone had been under a lot of pressure to get a new prototype up and running, and they had succeeded in meeting the deadline. It had been a tense atmosphere lately, and Jasmine was happy to see everyone smiling again.

  The only friend Jasmine had that didn’t have a stress reliever was Steve. Dropping out of high school, he went right into the army and after five years of service in Iraq, he took a job as a bored security guard at “Mount Uneventful,” as it was known among the guards. Many of the guards were pleasant enough to speak to, but Steve was one of the few that hung out with the techies.