Reflexive Fire - 01

by Jack Murphy

  “It is,” Adam said, standing in the door with a handful of papers.

  “What do you have?”

  “I finally wormed my way into the servers in Singapore.”

  “The Information Technologies servers?”

  “Yeah,” Adam nodded. “Look at this,” he said, handing Deckard the stack of papers.

  Flipping through the printouts, he browsed the headlines printed from major American and European newspapers, his eyes narrowing to slits.

  “What the hell is this, Adam? Two hundred thousand dead? Plague claims fifty thousand in Aspen, Colorado. Paris reduced to a ghost town? Look.” Deckard pointed to the flat screen in the corner of the room that was constantly tuned to a twenty-four hour news channel. “I'm not that out of the loop. If this was real they'd be reporting on it rather than covering some celebrity's wardrobe malfunction.”

  Adam's hands shook as he spoke.

  “Check the dates.”

  Deckard turned back to the stack, his eyes growing wide as he examined the dates tagged to each article.

  They were all dated to next week.

  Deckard shoved his hands into his pockets as he walked into his office, his mind racing to understand what he had just seen.

  Looking up, snapping himself out of a trance, he saw a stranger sitting in the chair beside his desk. The Kazakh stood, flatting out invisible wrinkles in his suit with his hands.

  “Who are you?” Deckard demanded in Russian.

  “Kareem Saudabayev, Ministry of Justice,” he answered in British-accented English.

  “I don't recall any appointments with the Ministry of Justice. How did you get in here?”

  “I was allowed in by the corporate CEO of Samruk International. He is standing outside with dozens of law enforcement officers as we speak. He assured me that you would not be confrontational as this is merely a legal function and you are not a shareholder in the company.”

  “What the hell is this about?”

  The government official popped open his briefcase on Deckard's desk and handed him a sheet of paper.

  “Under the law I have to physically present you with this legal summons.”

  Deckard frowned, studying the Cyrillic text, but remained unimpressed.

  “Under Kazakh national law you are under suspicion of operating a private military company without license, running a military training center, smuggling illegal weapons and military grade equipment, training local and foreign troops without government supervision, engaging in mercenary activities, espionage-”

  “Hold it right there, Kareem.” Deckard had heard enough of the power play to get the gist. With Djokovic dead, the old men at the Grove had decided to sic their puppets in the Kazakh Government on Samruk and on him. They wanted total control and oversight on everything they did, nothing less would be acceptable.

  The Ministry of Justice official cleared his throat.

  “You will be permitted to continue your business until a trial date can be established, but with government supervision. All facilities and operations are being officially nationalized as we speak.”

  Deckard waved his finger at the Kazakh bureaucrat while walking behind his desk. Powering up his laptop he punched in his pass code, quickly accessing a number of servers located in the four corners of the globe.

  While Adam probed the enemy's databases in Singapore, Deckard had been doing the same with Samruk's corporate office ever since his break-in.

  “Mr. O'Brien, please come with me so we can get the relevant paperwork in order. Then you will be able to meet with your new counterparts in the Ministry of--”

  “Tell me, Kareem,” Deckard said, spinning the laptop around so he could see the screen. “What do you make of this?”

  The screen flashed, a grainy but unmistakable video of the Ministry of Justice Official meeting with Samruk's CEO in their corporate offices. Kareem watched himself on the recording discussing a variety of issues with the corporate leader, ranging from bribery to murder.

  Deckard punched a button on the keyboard and another video popped up. This one showed the CEO on the phone in his office. Overlaid on the video was the voice on the other end of the phone, taken from a separate tap on the line. The voice was unmistakable, it belonged to the President of Kazakhstan.

  They were talking about liquidating the Kazakh National Bank and turning the reins over to shareholders in the United States.

  “I've got it all, Kareem,” Deckard said, pausing the video. “Hard evidence. Government collusion with Samruk's corporate leaders to assassinate bankers and journalists who are not on board with your program. Selling Kazakh mineral wealth to European nations dirt cheap in exchange for kickbacks. Funny money Washington consensus loans with the IMF. Plans to eliminate ethnic minorities so you can build a new oil pipeline. It is all here.”

  The Ministry of Justice official looked like he was about to be ill.

  “Don't even think about playing your games with me,” Deckard warned him. “I've got these video archives encrypted and uploaded to servers all over the world. Each archive is on a timer, counting down to zero before it automatically emails itself to hundreds of thousands, if not millions of random e-mail addresses. If I don't intervene at specific times to stop it, then these files fall into the hands of people who will make you and your government famous, and not in a good way.”

  Kareem pitched back and forth on his feet, as if he was about to pass out.

  Deckard walked back from around his desk, grabbing him by the sleeve and helping him stay upright.

  “So here is the deal,” the American said, leading him to the door. “You call off the goon squad and head on back to the capital. Tell your bosses that you talked me into whatever you were supposed to talk me into. Lie to them. Whatever, I don't care. Stay out of my hair and I won't be a problem for you. Got it?”

  Now he had that thousand meter stare.

  “Do you understand?” Deckard said, shaking him by the arm.

  The Kazakh bureaucrat swallowed hard, nodding his head from north to south but refusing to make eye contact with him.

  “I knew you would see things my way.”

  Deckard pushed him out the door. Kareem tripped and stumbled, nearly smashing face first into the outer wall of the supply room before recovering. Looking back at Deckard with wide eyes, he turned and ran.

  “Who the hell was that?”

  Deckard turned, seeing Kurt Jager standing at the other end of the hall, pushing a handcart loaded down with crates of ammo.

  “Nobody important,” Deckard muttered.

  Downing the final mouthful of coffee, Deckard tossed the cardboard cup into the trash.

  The worm viruses that Adam had infiltrating the enemy's computer databanks had continued to feed data back to them. The sheer volume was staggering and left them trying to drink from a fire hose. They were now entering twenty consecutive hours of intel analysis and mission planning.

  “Hey, boss,” Frank said from across the table. He waved a circular can of smokeless tobacco at him. The dip provided a buzz that helped keep you alert, but he'd quit that stuff a long time ago.

  Schematics and printouts covered the table, the dry erase boards were filled with scribbles, notes, and doodles that they had used to explain ideas to each other with. Note books were held open with mugs of coffee, and empty soda bottles were a refilled with brown dip spit.

  They had been attacking one problem after the next, readjusting as Adam brought in fresh information every few minutes until he had finally exhausted the hard drives in Singapore.

  “You sure?”

  “Fuck you,” Deckard said, grabbing the can of Copenhagen.

  A projector displayed a satellite image of a small island in the Pacific Ocean.

  This is really happening.

  Even after reading the news articles, it still seemed surreal, enough to make a person doubt their own reality. Maybe that was what the enemy was counting on. Engineered cognitive dissonance on a ma
ssive scale as they turned the planet into one big global snuff film.

  Tapping out a pinch of dip, he packed it into his lower lip, spitting the excess into the garbage can.

  The Center for Disease Control preparing for death on a global scale, gold bullion mysteriously transferring between countries, large shipments of weaponry being moved offshore, the National Guard being mobilized. All the periphery information suddenly made sense.

  Kammler. Jarogniew. Hieronymus.

  It was clear that they had been planning this for years. The news articles had been written by their psychological manipulators to help ease the public into its extinction. They didn't want everything collapsing all at once, no; the wars and strife could damage the environment or destroy infrastructure they wanted for their own purposes.

  A global pandemic. Once activated, it would only take a few weeks before it chewed through the world's population. Deckard's eyes darted to his troops. They didn't look up from their work. They couldn't allow it to happen. He had known from the beginning that he was being hired for something sinister, but this was beyond anything he could have imagined.

  It was finally time for Samruk to go off the reservation.

  The mission they had in mind was ridiculous in complexity, extremely difficult in terms of logistics, and a final assault that was next to impossible, no matter what angle they attacked it from. They'd be going up against layers of security and the most highly trained and experienced soldiers in the world.

  “O'Brien,” Adam said, looking up from his laptop. “There is one aspect we haven't discussed.”

  “What is it?”

  “The most reasonable option. We go after their families.”

  “Killing children isn't acceptable.”

  “We don't have to kill them. We just have to make them think we will. Send a small team stateside and grab a few of them up.”

  “These are the most ruthless people in the world,” Deckard replied. “Psychopaths like this can hardly be bothered with anyone's well-being other than their own.”

  “Is that your final answer?”

  “It is.”

  Frank turned the satellite phone over in his hands, knowing he was playing Russian roulette with his friends' lives.

  Once again they needed to find replacements, warm bodies to take the place of those killed in action. He knew that of the friends he called, nearly every one of them would show up and be standing plane side, ready to go in twenty-four hours. It didn't matter what the reason was, not really. When you had saved each others' lives more times than either of you cared to count, they would be there for you when you needed them.

  That didn't make him feel any better though. Roger had gotten pulped by that landmine as they pulled off their objective in Burma. In fact Samruk's mercenaries were dropping like flies. At this rate every one of them would be a salty veteran after just two or three missions with the unit, probably taking a hundred percent casualties before long.

  The ex-Ranger's thumb hovered over the phone's keypad, wondering who he would be condemning to death. Pushing aside his guilt, he punched in a thirteen-digit number and pressed send. The call went through, bouncing off a satellite before connecting in the United States.

  “Hello?”

  Adam was frozen in place as his heart beat wildly.

  Gently, he set down the phone, terminating the call.

  “Who was that?” Deckard asked.

  Moments ago he'd interrupted mission planning and got the immediate leadership together for an emergency meeting.

  “My source in the SIGINT business,” Adam replied. “This is getting crazy.”

  “Okay,” Deckard said, sitting down. “In the last hour General Lancaster was killed in a car accident outside the beltway, and I just found out that Admiral Whitcomb died in a hospital, supposedly of food poisoning, last night.”

  “Former National Security Councilman Dale Werbacht was found shot in his bedroom by police this morning,” Frank added.

  “Lynn Chapman was found by his wife floating face down in their pool forty-five minutes ago,” Adam said in monotone.

  “What did you just say?” Deckard blurted.

  “Lynn Chapman is dead, it's under investigation--”

  “Holy shit,” he said, leaning back in his chair.

  “A friend of yours?”

  “Lynn was providing top cover for me for the duration of my time with Samruk. I had been working for him. Hell, he was the one who got me face time with those creeps at Bohemian Grove. I didn't know what he was getting me into at the time.”

  “Who was he?” Frank asked.

  “He worked on the fringes of the National Security Agency. He often piggybacked his own missions on non-officially funded operations. Lynn was one of the good guys. He even served with my dad in 'Nam.”

  “What the hell is going on?” Adam wondered.

  Deckard rubbed his temples, trying to take it in.

  “They're killing anyone in the system that might be able to intercept and interdict their plans. Anyone who could have the wherewithal to put the pieces together and interfere with this pandemic they have planned.”

  “Does this mean your cover is blown?”

  “Probably not, all the backstops are still in place, and knowing Lynn he would have a fair amount of redundancy built into his system. Then again, if they go digging deep again, they might find some cracks.”

  Just then the fax machine clicked on with a whirl.

  The three mercenaries looked in its direction as it warmed up for a moment before spitting paper onto its tray.

  With dread filling his gut, Deckard stood and snatched the paper printouts. It was another Operations Order. He flipped through the pages looking for the second paragraph.

  “Mission,” he read aloud, Frank and Adam's eyes drilling into him. “Samruk International relocates to Denver International Airport, fully operational, with all personnel and equipment needed to conduct sustained combat operations in the continental United States. All maneuver elements will be prepared to execute time-sensitive special operations missions, cordon and search operations, civilian internment and relocation, and other tasks, as directed by Higher Headquarters in accordance with local conditions and emerging threats.”

  They had just been ordered to go to war with the American public.

  Twenty Eight

  Footsteps echoed across the floor, reverberating through empty space. Obsidian was inlaid into the marble floor, forming a black sun wheel, stylized rays of dark light branching out from the center. Situated in the heart of the underground compound, the black sun formed the most ancient of archetypes.

  The very Void of Creation.

  Hieronymus crossed over the antediluvian symbol, a single pillar of light shining down from the oculus and reflecting off ebony rock. The circular room was cloistered with various pillars, each a different style, originating from ages long forgotten. Some of the pillars were caryatids, shaped in human and non-human forms, idealizations of man throughout the ages; others were of creatures from before recorded time. The imagery was buried deep in the subconscious of man, but known to make the uninitiated ill with just a glimpse of their visages.

  The entrance to the next chamber bore stone reliefs that displayed an owl on one side and a deified woman bearing the features of a bird of prey on the other.

  The warrior woman was named Lilith in some cultures, Inanna or Ishtar in earlier civilizations, and went by yet another name in time immemorial. To the Babylonians she was massless and able to assume any form at will. Hieronymus knew her real name and true purpose. She was nothing less than the gatekeeper of initiation into the Order of the Black Sun.

  The Order maintained the hidden knowledge of mankind's true origins, the truth of a fabled land long lost beneath the sea. Human civilization was not a progression of development but rather a legacy inherited from those who came before. After man's fall from grace, Lemuria sank beneath the waves. Humankind migrated to the Ancient Near E
ast, a series of despotic rulers conquering the souls of man and rendering them pliable ever since.

  Just as the useless eaters had been given mass religion, many members of the elite had been given a secret doctrine to help them feel like insiders. It was something that allowed them to view themselves above the people they were expected to subjugate. Soon, they too, would be led into the Charnel House of Time.

  Most of the symbolism had been used by his family for hundreds of years having double or triple levels of meaning. One level for the masses, another for initiates, and finally the third, which held the true secrets to the architecture of power. The third layer was held in reserve by several powerful families and passed down through the mystery schools. They prevented the truth from losing its power through overuse, misinterpretation, and blatant abuse by those unworthy of its hidden energy.

  Since recorded history the esoteric and arcane had been kept hidden, for use by only those properly indoctrinated. Otherwise, control would be lost, the grimoire welded against man taken from them for all time.

  Perception was reality and they were the self-appointed perception managers, the invisible governors who provided the handrails for a domesticated populace.

  Crossing the threshold, the old man shuffled into a room with a black and white checkered floor. The inner sanctum was dimly lit, the large subterranean hall seeming to stretch on forever, disappearing in the blackness somewhere beyond.

  Standing in front of the Leviathan, Hieronymus clenched his fists. He felt it ripple through his body. Thousands of years had led to this moment. Tomorrow was Day Zero. The beginning of the end for humanity. The beginning of a new future for those who occupied the capstone of the pyramid. The coming of a time when they could enjoy the empty, wide open expanses the earth had provided for them.

  At ninety-four years old many thought that he would never live to see his new order realized, but beneath the flowing black robe his skin was pulled taunt with thick layers of muscle. The best nutritionists and doctors had cared for him from the beginning. Human growth hormones were carefully administered, artificially restarting his life cycle over again from a chemical standpoint.