“Trust me, Wilks, he wasn’t involved. True love can blind a man, even a man of his experience. I’ve known Simon for decades, ever since he was a wide-eyed recruit under my command in Ranger Battalion during Operation Enduring Freedom in Afghanistan. There was something very special about that young man, which is why I had him reassigned to military intelligence. He’s a warrior, Wilks, and a true patriot. Someone who can be trusted, and I’m not the only one who thinks so. After he left the service, he joined deep cover operations with the CIA and his career exploded from there. Few men can do what he can do, Sergeant.”
“Couldn’t we bring in a team from Nighthawk Services Group? Aren’t they’re at the top of the list when it comes to approved security firms?”
“Yes, we could. However, NSG’s heavy-handed approach to everything leaves me skeptical about their effectiveness. I’d rather turn to someone I know personally. If you check Simon’s track record since I recruited him, you’ll understand why he’s the best man for the job. We just need to find him, first.”
“Do you think he’s still capable? After all, he’s been off the grid for some time. Skills fade and people change, especially after all he’s been through.”
“You bring up valid points, Wilks. However, none of what happened was his fault. He’s been off the grid because he needed to disappear for a while. You would too if you had to face the mountain of political and public scorn he did. That’s also why he resigned as CEO of Ghost Works, costing his company billions in existing and future contracts, leading to their eventual bankruptcy. The void left by Ghost Works bought rise to Nighthawk, something that haunts me to this day. You have to realize Simon loved his wife and stood by her until she was convicted, costing him every last penny he raised from the sale of his company stock. The legal bills ruined him. So did the public outcry. I can’t imagine what it was like for him these past couple of years. I should’ve stepped up and done something to help my trusted friend, but my hands were tied.”
“That poor man. What his wife did was unconscionable.”
“That much we agree on, Sergeant. While it’s certainly possible he may not be interested in helping us find Hansen, I think he will. I’m betting he’ll jump at the chance to rebuild his reputation and clear his good name in the intelligence community. Going through what he did would surely break most men, but not Simon. He’s a man of deep conviction and resolve. If anyone can find Hansen and uncover the true endgame, it’s Simon Redfall.”
“And if he still declines?”
“He won’t. He owes me, big time. I helped him land the first DOD contract when he started Ghost Works. It’s time to collect on that IOU,” the general said, growing tired of the fifty questions from a subordinate. He understood Sally’s curiosity and desire to learn, but it was time to move on. There were more pressing matters on his to do list.
“That’ll be all, Wilks.”
“Yes, General. And thank you, sir,” she said, turning to walk away. Then she stopped and glanced back over her shoulder. Her eyes found Rawlings again. “They’ve arrived, sir.”
Wilks stepped aside and held the door open as two men wearing business suits entered the office, one of them carrying a yellow and black attaché envelope marked classified. The general recognized both of the analysts from a security briefing with the NSA director two months earlier.
The general didn’t care much for their boss, Conner Haskins, and figured the feeling was mutual. Otherwise, the NSA Director would have made the trip himself instead of sending his junior varsity team.
“Gentlemen, have a seat,” Rawlings said with an outstretched hand, pointing to the pair of visitor chairs in front of his desk. “I appreciate the priority response on this.”
“Just doing our jobs,” Richard Matheson said, putting the security file on the edge of the desk before removing his wire-rimmed glasses. His face looked tired, like he’d been up all night partying at the local sports pub.
Thompson, a much shorter man with deep-set eyes and a petite nose, didn’t say anything, slouching casually in the seat next to Matheson.
Matheson was the senior of the two, but much less impressive than his quiet underling Jacob Thompson, a keen-eyed Brainiac in his mid-twenties. The general remembered taking notice of Thompson in the NSA briefing two months earlier, tagging him as one of those dark-haired, deep thinker types, always sifting through the conversation, taking in every syllable and searching for intent.
Rawlings kept mental files on everyone he met, knowing situational awareness didn’t just apply to combat. It also came in handy when dealing with the political types, and that, of course, was basically everyone in Washington, whether they wore a business suit or a dress uniform.
“We have what you asked for on Simon Redfall, sir,” Matheson said.
“Well?” the general asked, wondering why the file hadn’t been offered to him.
“Good news. We know where Redfall was as of three hours ago.”
“Three hours ago is not good enough, gentlemen. I need you to find him now. Not tomorrow. Not next week. I need him here, in my office, five minutes ago.”
“Yes, General,” Matheson said, hesitating. “My director informed me as much.”
“Look, Matheson. Let’s get one thing clear. This isn’t about me. This is about the wishes of the President. The man we all answer to, even your boss.”
“Of course, General.”
“What’s in the envelope, Matheson? I don’t have all day.”
The pale-looking man took a photograph from the folder and gave it to Rawlings. It was an eight by ten color photo of Simon, sitting with a crowd of people—all of them caught screaming and cheering with fists and arms raised. Simon’s lips were caught in a thin, non-emotional line and his arms were quiet, sitting under control in his lap.
“I take it, this is from his wife’s execution?”
“Yes it is. Shortly before his wife was terminated with extreme prejudice.”
“Christ, he looks horrible.”
Rawlings glanced at Jacob in the seat next door, seeing him fidget. “Is there something else, Thompson?”
The young analyst finally spoke. “We have footage of the subject taking a beating in a street altercation near the NEC, then escaping with the help of someone in a white cargo van. We tracked the vehicle to I-95, then it went north. After that, video surveillance across DC went dark, sir. The weather is wreaking havoc on the local feeds, coating the cameras with some kind of sludge.”
“Did you get a plate?”
“No, only a partial. The last three numbers were obscured by the rain.”
“And this is what you came here with?”
Neither visitor answered.
“What year was the van? Was it a newer or older model?”
“Last year’s,” Thompson answered.
“What did TravelNet report?”
“I’m sorry, sir. What are you referring to?” the young tech said, looking at Matheson, then back at Rawlings.
“Haven’t you ever looked under the hood, Thompson?” Rawlings asked with barbed words.
Thompson looked confused, fumbling his words. “My old man took care of car maintenance and wouldn’t let me near it.”
“And what about now?”
“I prefer public transportation. For the environment, sir.”
Rawlings nodded, expecting an answer like that. He held back a smirk, realizing he knew something the whiz kid didn’t. He jumped at the chance to educate the boy in a man’s suit.
“Ever since 2013, Detroit has been required to install black boxes in everything rolling off the assembly line. The public was told the device was an event data recorder, and only used to track important vehicle metrics leading into a crash.”
“I didn’t know that existed, General. My apologies.”
“No worries, Thompson. Not everyone is a car aficionado.”
“It sounds like a wonderful idea, though. Would come in handy in court, allowing insurance companies
to better control rates through reduced judgments.”
“Yes, that was the cover story. However, installing EDRs was only phase one of Operation Human Domain. Once the dust settled and everyone took to the idea, another bill was passed to require the installation of a free upgrade called the TravelChip. It was all new tech developed by the good folks at Indigo Technologies and pushed on the citizenry as a better version of the safety monitoring system.”
Thompson nodded, but didn’t respond.
Neither did Matheson.
“Now all the brainpans like you at NSA are able to track the speed and location of every vehicle built since 2013.”
“That part, I knew. However, I didn’t realize the backstory, sir.” Thompson said.
“Didn’t you wonder how the tracking was being accomplished?”
“I’ve found it’s better not to ask. Just focus on the analysis and keep quiet. Director Haskins prefers it that way.”
General Rawlings rolled his eyes, and grunted. “At first, I was skeptical about the need for such invasive technology, but NSA kept pushing until POTUS commissioned it with a stroke of his pen. This executive order business has gotten completely out of hand. Ever since Obama.”
“With our satellite communications down, I’m afraid TravelNet would be useless, General,” Matheson chimed in.
“What about the backup system?” Rawlings asked the senior tech, wondering why Director Haskins sent such uninformed techs to this meeting. Perhaps their boss did it on purpose, wanting to provoke a reaction from him. Even if he did, Nate wasn’t going to stoop to Haskins’ level, though he wanted to. The general missed the raw intensity of a good fight, but now wasn’t the time.
“Backup?”
“If I remember correctly, the new TravelChip has a failsafe system built in. It’s designed to piggyback on the public cell phone network for communications in case of catastrophic satellite failure. I remember the theatrical briefing well. Indigo Technologies knows how to put on an impressive show, especially for the feeble-minded in Washington. I assume you’ve heard of Vito Indigo, right, Thompson?”
“Yeah, I have. Everyone has. His company recruited me out of Cal-Tech after I graduated.”
“Then I suggest you and Matheson scurry back to your office and obtain clearance from Haskins to review the project specs. Find me that van! Find me Simon Redfall!”
Matheson nodded and stood up.
Thompson smiled, but remained seated.
“Was I not clear?” the general asked him, wanting both of them to vacate his office and get back to work.
Thompson gave Rawlings a look of tempered excitement. “You know, sir, it might be possible to use the network of EDRs as a rudimentary monitoring grid. If we could reverse engineer the failsafe protocols, we might be able to tap into its onboard sensor array and use the millions of new vehicles as listening ports, thereby replacing our failing satellite surveillance. The cell phone network covers nearly the entire country, and so do late model cars.”
“But it would only be useful for ground-based operations and only provide full coverage in densely populated areas,” Matheson told Thomson. “We’d still be blind to anything above the cell towers’ reach, or out in the boonies where new cars are less prevalent.”
“Correct, but it’s better than nothing. I’m guessing TravelNet was outfitted with audio sensors as well as accelerometers and other tech. If we have Redfall’s voice print on file, we could use TravelNet grid for pattern recognition. All he’d need to do is be standing within audio sensor range of a new vehicle while the key’s in the ignition and say something. Then we’d have him.”
The annoyed look on Matheson’s face faded. “Actually, to be useful for replay in court, the EDRs must be recording on a rugged solid state drive. Something stout enough to withstand the g-forces of an accident. We should be able to search the stored audio for a match, if we can isolate his voice from the engine and road noise. As long as he’s been in the van and talking recently, this just might work.”
“Yes, I see where you’re going with this. But the EDRs have a finite amount of storage, so they must be auto-purging their data. We’d probably only have access to the most recent hour’s worth of data on file, at best.”
“True. However, it might be enough to get a fix on Redfall’s position,” Matheson said, letting out a long exhale. “But damn, that’s a mountain of data to comb through. We’re going to need to task every available analyst just to make a dent.”
“Then stop wasting time. Go! Make it happen!” the general said, interrupting the techno-babble.
“Right away, sir,” Matheson reported, pulling at Thomson’s suit coat. “It won’t be easy to convince Director Haskins to approve the manpower and comp time.”
“Leave that up to me. I’ll make some calls and push this through.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
After the encounter with Wyatt and his weekend warriors on the road, Simon watched Tally navigate the van through a stand of trees and over a small rise in the dirt road.
Simon had been hit by a wave of exhaustion during the trip to Tally’s homestead. The events of the day were catching up to him, especially after the lack of sleep during his overnight bus trip to DC for the execution. What he really wanted—what he really needed more than anything else—was sleep. Lots of it. Even his hair hurt, and that was saying something since his ribs were still screaming at him after the beating.
“If it wasn’t for the rain, you’d have a wonderful view of my grandparents’ farm from here,” Tally said, pointing through the red darkness. She guided the van down the hill, then slowed to a stop when a metal gate came into view and blocked access.
Simon tried to read all the words stenciled on the wooden sign hanging from the gate, but couldn’t. The red sludge dripping down the sign made them difficult to read. However, he could make out the single word emblazoned at the top: PANDORA.
“G?” Tally asked over her shoulder. “Can
you—”
“Got it,” G replied, touching a series of controls on his work station.
The automatic gate swung open, allowing Tally to take the van through and up a gentle slope, parking in front of a sprawling, old-fashioned farmhouse a couple of minutes later.
The front door of the building opened and a young African-American teenager with a slender build and a broom in hand appeared in the doorway.
He tossed the broom aside and ran to the van, pulling the driver’s side door open before Tally could finish unbuckling her seat belt. “Wicks, we’ve been so worried about you. This red rain is insane!”
“I’m fine, Dre. So’s G. Thanks for asking,” she quipped, giving Simon a half smile and a shrug.
Dre looked across the front seat, catching Simon’s eye. Dre’s eyes went wide in surprise, then his forehead creased.
“Is that him?” he asked Tally.
“Yes, that’s Mr. Redfall. He’s going to be staying with us for a while, and hopefully join our team if we’re all on our best behavior.”
“You actually brought him here? I knew there was a chance, but Wicks, he’s so o—”
“I’ll explain later. Right now, I need you to get everyone together in the meeting room. We have a lot to talk about.”
Dre’s eyes stayed on Simon.
“Hello, Dre,” Simon said from the passenger’s seat. “I take it you don’t get many visitors out here?”
“Not old ones,” Dre said. “Really old ones with lots of . . .”
“Be polite, Dre. Simon is our guest.”
“Sorry,” Dre answered in a solemn voice, looking down at his feet.
“Hey, eyes forward,” Tally said, lifting his chin with a finger. “Ten minutes. Meeting room. Tell everyone. Okay?”
Dre nodded, glanced at Simon, then cruised to the house and disappeared through the door, hopping the entire way like he was riding a horse.
“Tally,” Simon said, before they got out of the vehicle. “I’m not sure I’m up fo
r a meeting with all your people right now. It’s been a very long day and I need some serious sack time. As Dre so kindly pointed out, I’m old and these bones aren’t getting any younger.”
“I understand, Simon. Shouldn’t be an issue. Besides, I need to give my crew a proper heads up about you anyway. The original plan was just to talk to you, not bring you back here. There are going to be questions, lots of them. But let me worry about that. There’s a spare bedroom upstairs and some fresh clothes in the closet that might fit. We’ll do the introductions in the morning.”
“Sounds good to me.”
Tally turned to G. “Can you make sure Dre told everyone? You know how he gets when he’s excited. I’m going to take Simon upstairs and help him get settled in. Then we pow-wow.”
“Sure thing, Wicks.”
* * *
Nancy Wiggins, Director of National Intelligence, walked down an alley near Flatbush Avenue in Brooklyn under the gaze of a full moon with her security detail trailing behind her. She knew they despised her for taking them out in the God-awful rain, a pungent, drizzling rain that hadn’t stopped since it started. She didn’t want to be out in it either, but this off-book meeting couldn’t wait, and it couldn’t take place in her DC hometown, either.
Things were about to turn. She could sense it. Decades of intelligence work had honed her sixth sense, keeping her one step ahead of those who wanted her job and two steps ahead of those who wanted to unleash harm against this great country.
Usually her focus was directed outward, beyond the borders of the US, but now it was needed here, at home. The red rain and its growing footprint were smothering the skies over the US, and she knew the streets would soon run red with blood, too.
Tensions were coming to a boil across America and on Capitol Hill and would soon reach critical levels. It was only a matter of time until someone fired the proverbial first shot, and she and her staff needed to be ready. When the violence erupted, there wouldn’t be time for covert meetings and back-channel communications. Now was the time to game plan and initiate, while she had an opportunity.
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