by Carl Rackman
Brad was crouched beside her still scanning with his binoculars. Berkoff and Savage crouched at either end of the car vigilantly watching the SWAT teams approaching the small perimeter while Morrison stood red-faced on his own amid the burning wreckage.
Ferguson reached the others. Breathing heavily, he asked, “Jones. Is Morrison with Supra?”
“That pencil-neck? Are you kidding me? If he’s Supra, he must be the receptionist.”
Brad interrupted with urgency, “Sir, there’s a Humvee with three big guys in it coming down the Mall.”
Brad watched the Humvee swerving around the isolated groups of spectators still filming the scene from the almost deserted lawns in front of the National Air and Space Museum.
Cops were trying to clear the remnants of the crowd from the area, while the streets down both sides were a mass of emergency vehicles and police cars.
The entire area was littered with debris from the rushed evacuation of thousands of people. It looked like the aftermath of a particularly patriotic rock festival.
The approaching Humvee was painted completely black, with a red and blue light bar flashing on the roof. The only markings were large ‘FBI SWAT’ lettering. The three men inside were male versions of Alex – tall, muscular and athletic with grim, hard faces.
“Alex, take a look inside this Humvee.”
She switched her aim from the frozen Morrison. She trained the rifle sight on the approaching vehicle, which was still several hundred metres away.
“It’s Supra. Led by Sharkfin, my old boss. I could take the shot now, but I won’t get them all, and we’ll be very unpopular with all these government types if I miss.”
Ferguson wasn’t taking any chances. “These guys. They’re all as good as you?”
“No. Well, maybe Sharkfin is.”
“So take the shot. Thin them out. And don’t miss.”
Brad remained glued to his binoculars. He watched amazed as Alex put three shots in quick succession through the Humvee’s windows. Both Supra men in the front seats almost flipped somersaults from the impact of the bullets. Their heads bounced off the headrests and they collapsed lifelessly to the floor in quick succession. The vehicle coasted behind some barricades.
Alex checked her handiwork. “Are they down, Barnes?”
“Yeah. Nice shooting.”
“Where’s Sharkfin?”
Brad focused again. The Humvee was slowing as it came out from behind the barricades. The burly Supra leader was gone.
“Wait, he’s…”
Alex was already running. She left her rifle on the car bonnet and grabbed one of her many other weapons before setting off at a flat sprint towards the crash site.
The FBI’s SWAT agents had congregated at the perimeter and were tracking Alex with their weapons but holding fire and awaiting orders.
There was a lot of radio chatter. Brad could tell the confusion was creating a delay; no one knew who the real enemy was.
He urgently called to Ferguson, “Sir, try to get some kind of communication going here. She’s on her own, and just one word from Morrison—”
Ferguson got it. He stood, waving his badge. “Listen up, Agents! I am Special Agent-In-Charge Ken Ferguson…”
Brad wearily got up from the ground by the car and began to move as quickly as he could through the perimeter. He held up his badge for the benefit of the confused agents gathering at the site. There must have been about twenty of them as well as a few Metro cops along with fire and rescue personnel.
Brad reached the main fuselage of the helicopter which lay blackened and smouldering on the scorched ground. He couldn’t see Alex, but Morrison was lying on the ground nearby. Just as he took in the scene, he heard a grunt of pain through his earpiece. A woman’s grunt. Oh, no.
He turned the corner of the wreck and froze to the spot. Alex was already facing off barehanded against her Supra colleague, Sharkfin.
They had managed to disarm each other in seconds. They stood like two chess players confident they could beat the other but reluctant to concede the advantage by making the first move.
Sharkfin adopted a wide-stance, fighting posture, with his hands and arms raised in striking positions. He had his back to Brad and his focus was on Alex. “So you went over to the G. I never took you for a traitor, Mirage.”
“Traitor. That’s a big word for you, Fin. Don’t strain yourself.” Alex stood still in a similar fighting stance three metres from him.
“I always wondered which one of us would come off better in a real fight, Mirage.”
She said nothing.
“What, no smack talk, Mirage? This will be the last time for one of us.”
“I won’t miss you, Sharkfin.”
Brad’s head pounded and his legs ached from the exertion of the physical and mental pressure of the past few hours. He drew his Glock and shouted, “Sharkfin! Stand down. Lie on the floor with your hands in view—”
“Sit this one out, crip. You’re up next,” shouted the muscular Supra leader, not taking his eyes off Mirage.
Brad still pointed the gun but couldn’t lawfully shoot: he was not directly under threat, Sharkfin was unarmed and Alex wasn’t even a legitimate agent. He was a spectator, unless Sharkfin moved directly against him.
Instead, he turned his attention to Morrison. The treacherous deputy director lay unconscious but breathing exactly where he had been standing. Brad suspected Alex had taken him down on her way through.
Abruptly, his world spun around him; he was only aware of a shocking impact to his chest. He lay on his back struggling for breath and without a weapon. Sharkfin had KO’d him with barely a movement.
Alex took advantage of Sharkfin’s move on Brad and closed on him in a split second. Her first blow was two-handed for his throat; she moved with lightning speed.
Sharkfin blocked her with both hands and immediately counter-attacked. His hands were a blur as one hand curled, lunging for her eyes.
Alex ducked her head just far enough to avoid his curled thumb and blocked his other hand that was snaking to grip and rip at the muscles in her upper arm. The impact of the deflection was a resounding smack; these two were not playing around.
She had already skipped a pace back and let fly with her heel. A blur of outstretched leg beat Sharkfin’s dodge and caught him a glancing blow on the side of the face. This was the small advantage she needed. She pressed home with an under-handed jab with her fingers curled tightly at the first knuckle. The blow caught Sharkfin full-force on the cheekbone. Even through his own pain, Brad heard the crunch with a sense of satisfaction.
Sharkfin reeled back and spun in disengagement, putting another yard between himself and Alex; but she had the tiger’s killer instinct, following him in close with dazzling speed.
Sharkfin focused on Alex’s shoulders, anticipating her next punch which she feinted inside his turn toward her; in doing so he missed her foot scything in a vicious sweep for his knee. The resulting crack told Brad that the fight was almost over.
Sharkfin grunted in pain and shifted the weight to his other leg to stop himself from collapsing. Alex danced round him in two blurred steps and delivered a paralysing lunge punch right into his kidney area. The sound of the impact resounded around their makeshift arena.
Sharkfin collapsed with a groan of pain and anger. He hadn’t even landed a punch on her.
Alex didn’t stand off him; she wasn’t there to gloat. She paused for a split second to set herself and then spun for his throat with her full body weight, her elbow locked like a cudgel.
Sharkfin suddenly flung his body to the side and the hand he had concealed beneath his prone body darted to meet her strike in a blur of superhuman speed.
Alex screamed in pain.
Sharkfin rolled to a reclining position, pulling himself vertical using the helicopter’s smouldering fuselage as support.
Alex rolled to the floor, writhing in pain.
Brad tried to sit up and realised with horror
that Sharkfin had buried a large Ka-Bar combat knife to the hilt right beneath Alex’s ribcage. Its black handle stuck out from her body.
She tried to get up, but Brad watched appalled as Sharkfin changed into dirty street fighter mode. He punched her hard across the face, which snapped her head back and sent blood flying from her mouth.
Brad couldn’t believe the tables had turned so quickly. He fought for breath, his head exploding with pain, and tried to help despite his incapacitation.
Alex tried to get up, but her breath came in ragged, bubbly gasps; Brad knew her lung had been punctured. She momentarily touched the handle; the knife was rigidly embedded in her lower chest, pointing diagonally upward. Brad couldn't guess what damage had been done, but it was bad.
"Alex, don't touch it! Leave it in until we can get help."
Sharkfin grimaced in pain as he took a step towards her; his own breath deep and raw with exertion and pain. His eye was closed thanks to the bruised swelling from his shattered cheekbone, while his leg was unable to take even part of his weight without causing him pain. He gasped when he lifted his right arm – Alex’s fearsome punch to the kidneys must have inflicted internal damage.
Brad groped around for his dropped Glock, but the pain wracked every joint and his headache was blinding.
Sharkfin glanced over to make sure he would be uninterrupted for his killer stroke. “This is it, Alex. You almost had me. But it’s over.”
She said nothing, her breath rattling in and out and becoming shallower. If she didn’t receive help soon, she would drown on her own blood.
"You..." She coughed, bright red blood. "You haven't completed the mission yet." Her lips dripped red. Brad cursed his weakness, still trying to catch his breath and pull himself together.
“You first. Your friends will be easy. And everyone on the perimeter will think I’m the good guy, thanks to Morrison.” He spat blood of his own. “Any last words?”
Alex’s words gurgled on her own blood. “Just make sure you look me in the eye, you pussy.”
“With pleasure.” He made a lethal punching weapon from his left hand, fingers tight against his palm, leading with the heel. “Goodbye, Mirage.”
As he drew back his fist, she moved. In a single blur of movement, she wrenched the knife from her own side and drove it straight up under Sharkfin’s chin with breathtaking force. He was stone dead before hitting the ground.
But, by her desperate action, she had also killed herself. She screamed once. A raw, horrible sound that pierced Brad’s ear as he struggled up from the blackened grass into a crawl. He felt the stab of grief behind his pain as he realised, once again, he had been helpless to save the woman he loved from death.
She shuddered with delayed pain and shock from the open wound before collapsing in the ugly pool pouring from her side.
Her eyes rolled to meet his, the life draining from her before his anguished gaze.
“I…saved you, Barnes - I saved everyone.”
In that instant, TAC teams rushed the perimeter. Brad was relieved to see Ferguson leading at a sprint towards the fallen fighters.
“Save Alex! She’s badly hurt. Deep stab wound to lower right abdomen, serrated knife. She has lung damage and massive internal bleeding.”
Ferguson shouted for medics who rushed up with gurneys from the ambulances.
“Brad, are you okay?”
“Please, don’t let her die, Ken.”
“Brad, please. I can’t make any promises.”
“I love her.”
Ferguson didn’t speak; he just shook his head.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Monday, 23rd January 2017
Flatiron District, New York City
The three men grimly watched the TV screen in Samuelson’s office as the immaculate Dana Kominsky looked gravely out at the audience.
The picture was running the Voyager photos again, but this time with the NASA image analysis points showing the flaws.
“This channel has learned that a forensic digital imaging team have been working secretly on decoding the photos and after extensive analysis declared that all the photos are extremely clever fakes. The new evidence seems to strongly suggest that the photographs are not genuine.”
A computer graphic filled the screen showing the Voyager probe receiving lightning bolt communications from a representation of the Earth right next to it.
“The fake photos were beamed to the Voyager space probe in June 2016 from a base station right here on planet Earth.”
The picture cut to library footage of a large white dish, probably the 74-metre array at Goldstone.
“This transmitting station near Hyderabad, India, was traced as the origin of the signals. FBI researchers from the same team who foiled the recent attempt on the President’s life have provided federal prosecutors with what they call ‘irrefutable’ proof that the Voyager pictures are fake. They were fabricated to create ‘unfavourable social conditions’, quote unquote, in order to precipitate civil disorder following the assassination of the President.”
The screen cut to the President giving his most recent address, smiling and waving, seemingly unperturbed by the recent events rocking the world.
“My fellow Americans, we have all suffered because of the attacks on me, your President, and the entire American people because of this despicable hoax. This is probably the biggest and smartest fake news scam ever to hit America.
“But now the truth is out there, I want to tell those cowards who tried to bring us down – time’s up for you people. You’re nothing but cowards and liars. And there will be payback. I promise you that!”
The screen panned across rapturous crowds of well-wishers and several soundbites of enthusiastic supporters. They lauded their tough Commander-in-Chief, blaming Russia, Europe and most of all, the foreign liberal elite, for the President's embarrassing gaffe in being ready to welcome aliens.
The report cut back to the studio. “In related events, an FBI task force has reopened an investigation into the mysterious deaths of five NASA scientists who died last September after the Voyager pictures were first received. It is thought they may have been murdered to cover up their discovery that the images were not real.”
Dana looked out from the screen again, her hair and teeth glowing. “FBI and NSA investigations have also suggested that the images were possibly created by digital artists in China. The State Department is expected to pursue sanctions against both China and India for the part their government facilities may have played in the worst cyber-attack in US history.”
The picture changed to footage of the assassination attempt and the spectacularly exploding helicopter. “The special FBI task force who foiled the assassination attempt on Friday has been assigned to follow-up an allegation that powerful financial interests in Europe and Russia may have been behind the entire plot. The FBI unit in New York will neither confirm nor deny the identities alleged to have been involved.”
Smythe flicked off the TV. “Jacob, the Voyager story has unfortunately turned extremely unfavourable to our interests. And the new President, due to being very much alive, is on the warpath. As you know, he hates to look stupid.”
Samuelson laughed at the irony. “Gentlemen, we have failed. We shall need to postpone London indefinitely. Please let our friends know the outcome. We shall reconvene in the summer, and then regroup and prepare our next effort. I fear we may have been too subtle. The time for subtlety has passed. It is time to take the offensive, even at the cost of exposure. This is war, gentlemen.” He remained calm on the outside, but a tic showed at the side of his mouth.
Ephraim said quietly, “War? This is defeat, sir. We could be irrevocably exposed from this. They have the Keymaster. They have the woman, who is now the last surviving member of Supra. We will find it difficult to overcome these imbalances as we have no task force anymore. Our next super soldiers are years away since we restarted the project; as you know, only the Russian and North Korean governments were
willing to collaborate with us. And the North Korean effort is woeful at best. We are found at a distinct disadvantage.”
Samuelson’s tic grew more pronounced. “We didn’t come this far to be defeated!”
Smythe rose from his armchair. “Gentlemen, I’m leaving. I suggest you do the same. We shall meet in London at the Council of Seven in June. I trust we shall have more options to consider by then.” He gathered his briefcase and other articles from the desk and headed for the door. “See you in London.”
As the door closed, Samuelson smashed his fist across his desk, clearing it of papers and sending his computer crashing to the floor. He rose from his seat and glared at Ephraim.
“This is not defeat, Ephraim. It is merely a delay. The Voyager images were real! We knew it. Now they’ve seized the initiative and turned the tide of public opinion. The country is united against a foreign enemy once more. Goddammit!” He breathed deeply to calm himself. “No, this is not over, Ephraim. If the pictures were real, then whoever is in the pictures is also real. Whoever, or whatever, they are, they will find their way to us in due time. I have no doubt they will be as careful in their approach to us as we should be towards them.” He smoothed his tie and composed himself. “Now the rogue element is established in the Presidency, it will only be a matter of time before we undo him and plunge this wretched country into decline. Time is on our side, Ephraim. You mark my words.”
He grabbed his coat from the stand near the door and took out his phone. “Yes, it’s me. I want the jet ready for London in twenty minutes. Clean up the offices. I don’t want any trace of the operation by sundown. Yes, all of it.”
Samuelson turned back to Ephraim. “I don’t like your attitude, Ephraim. I’m going to recommend that you be relieved from the Council at the next meeting.”
Ephraim merely shrugged. “We’ll see, sir.”
“I suggest you clean up and vacate in the next twenty minutes.” With a parting glare, Samuelson slammed the door behind him.
Ephraim looked around the now empty room. He went over to the window and looked up the street towards the Flatiron Building, which was still clearly visible through the slate-grey murk of a New York winter’s afternoon. He considered the view for a moment before taking out his phone and dialling a familiar number.