Spectre Rising

by C. W. Lemoine

  Spectre said nothing. He could only stare at the two men. He simply nodded and waited for an explanation of why they were here.

  The younger agent broke the awkward silence. “Mr. Martin, I understand you’ve been through a lot in the last twenty-four hours, but could you tell us what happened last night?”

  “Ok,” Spectre’s voice cracked. “You’ve had me here for, what six to nine hours? I just spent the last however long reliving this nightmare to the detective from the Sheriff’s Department, on tape, with him taking notes, and your first fucking question is what happened last night? You have got to be shitting me!”

  The portly agent’s face grew flush. “Sir, you don’t have to be rude about it. We’re conducting a federal terrorism investigation here. It is important for both you and us that you cooperate here.”

  “What the fuck is that supposed to mean? Am I being charged?”

  “That’s not out of the realm of possibility,” the portly agent responded smugly.

  “Fine. I want a lawyer,” Spectre replied, folding his arms.

  “Sir, we’re not here to charge you,” the younger agent interjected. “We have a very specific interest in this case, and we would be grateful if you could help. I have read Detective Worley’s notes, and I’m sorry for asking such a vague question.”

  Special Agent Thomas glared at the younger OSI agent. In his mind, there was no need to kiss this disrespectful prick’s ass. If he wanted to do things the hard way, they could oblige. He hadn’t gotten as far as he had by letting suspects walk all over him. Baxter was just a rookie. He wasn’t running this show.

  Spectre nodded. He was tired of the bullshit, but realized he had probably taken it a little far.

  “I’m happy to try and help. What would you like to know?”

  Agent Baxter pulled out the file he had carried in. He pulled out three pictures and laid them out on the table in front of Spectre.

  “Do you recognize these men?”

  Spectre leaned forward and examined each one. They appeared to be surveillance photos of three Arab men. He picked up the first one and studied it for a minute.

  “This is the guy I shot.”

  “That’s Tariq Al Ansari, a Saudi national and fairly low-level figure in an Al Qaeda cell we had been tracking,” Baxter explained.

  “Do you recognize the other two?” Agent Baxter prodded.

  Spectre put down the first photo and picked up the other two side by side.

  “This is the guy that pissed his pants and surrendered,” Spectre said, waving the picture in his left hand.

  “And I have no idea who this guy is,” Spectre said, motioning with the picture in his right hand. “Care to fill me in?”

  “We’ll ask the questions here,” the portly agent replied tersely.

  Spectre wasn’t sure if the guy was kidding or just an idiot. He was contemplating how many insults he could launch before landing himself in real trouble. Maybe he could even choke the fatty out. Gitmo is probably nice this time of year. It isn’t worth it though, Spectre thought. Instead, he just stared the man down without saying a word.

  “We don’t know much about the man in custody. His name is Kasim Razvi, and we’re pretty sure he’s from the tribal regions of Pakistan, but he seems to be a relatively low-level player,” Baxter explained, ignoring the growing tension between Spectre and Agent Thomas.

  Spectre was starting to like this Baxter guy. He wasn’t sure if they were doing the Good Cop, Bad Cop routine on purpose, or if Crisco was just a dick. He assumed the latter, but either way the OSI agent seemed pretty sharp.

  “The other picture you’re holding,” Baxter continued, “is of a man who calls himself Abdul Aalee, or servant of the Most High.”

  Spectre leaned forward in his chair. He remembered the name from his visit to Customs and Border Protection with Marcus. His CBP friend had told them about the current state of affairs and mentioned Aalee’s name.

  “I’ve heard of him, but you think he’s behind this?”

  “Well, this kidnapping fits perfectly with Aalee’s modus operandi,” Baxter replied.

  “What do you mean?” Spectre asked.

  “Aalee was pretty big on high-level kidnappings in Iraq. Government officials, judges, anyone with money. Sometimes he would ask for a ransom and then kill the hostages, others he would just kill the hostages for propaganda. Really nasty stuff.”

  “Yeah, I remember the intel briefs,” Spectre replied. “I supported Special Ops guys a couple of times trying to save hostages. What do you want to know?”

  “You were dating the Congresswoman’s daughter, correct?”

  The question brought back a flood of memories. He had almost forgotten what had brought him to this town in the first place. The woman he had loved until a few short weeks ago, and maybe even still loved, had gone missing in an F-16. She was probably dead. Spectre still couldn’t believe it.

  “Yeah, we dated,” he mumbled.

  “Did she ever mention any of these men? Talk about any threats her parents might have gotten?”

  Spectre rubbed his eyes with his hand and cleared his throat as he held back the tears.

  “There were always threats when her mother was in office. Some asshole hates this policy, or another asshole wants her dead. That’s politics, but nothing actionable that I’m aware of. And there was never any mention of Al Qaeda. Besides, she’s been retired for a while now.”

  “Have you ever seen any of these men before tonight?”

  Spectre picked up the pictures again and studied them. He was so tired, but he wanted to help as best he could. He knew at least Baxter was well intentioned.

  “No, last night was the first time.”

  “This man,” Baxter continued, holding up the picture of Kasim, “did he say anything before the police arrived?”

  Spectre thought about it for a minute. “Yes, he did. He said he didn’t kill the fat one. He was very adamant about it. He said it was Abdul.”

  “Did he say anything else?”

  “When I asked if there was anyone left in the house, he said this Aalee guy had left the night prior, but that’s it.”

  Baxter was busy taking notes as Agent Thomas interjected, “The report says you and the chaplain went to notify the family.”

  “Correct,” Spectre replied. He really had hoped Crisco would have just kept his mouth shut. Things were going so much more smoothly without him.

  “Notify them of what?”

  “You didn’t hear? Their daughter went down in an F-16,” Spectre replied, hanging his head.

  Baxter looked up from scribbling notes, his eyes wide. “Oh man, I’m sorry to hear that. Somehow we missed that.”

  Agent Thomas didn’t share Baxter’s compassion. “So you took the chaplain and a loaded gun to tell a former US Congresswoman that her daughter is dead in the wee hours of the morning?”

  Spectre could feel the vein in his neck throbbing. He was pretty sure he could crush tubby’s windpipe from where he was sitting. He didn’t want to have to deal with Baxter. He seemed like a nice enough guy. He liked him, but it was his own fault for associating with this waste of oxygen. He would just be collateral damage.

  “The chaplain and I felt that it would be best to tell the family as soon as possible, and since they weren’t answering their phones, we decided to drive up.” Spectre’s jaw was clenched.

  “And so you brought a gun?”

  “I always carry a weapon. I have a valid concealed carry permit in the State of Florida, check my wallet,” Spectre replied.

  “You didn’t answer my question. Why did you bring a gun?” Thomas was leaning on his forearms, trying to intimidate Spectre.

  “Because if I didn’t, you wouldn’t have anyone left to question,” Spectre shot back.

  Baxter stood, handing Spectre his business card. “Ok, I think we’ve covered everything. Mr. Martin. Thanks for your time. Here’s my card. If you think of anything else that might help us, please giv
e me a call.”

  “There is one more thing,” Spectre said.

  “What’s that?” Baxter replied. Thomas was standing, but still staring Spectre down.

  “How is the chaplain?”

  Baxter shook his head. “He was in surgery a couple of hours ago. The doctors say it’s a long shot.”

  “Thanks,” Spectre replied.

  The two men walked out with Baxter leading the way.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Homestead, FL

  The drive back to Miami with Agent Thomas had been awkward for Special Agent Sean Baxter. Thomas was obviously flustered by the interaction with Martin and his inability to control the tone of the interview. He had spent most of the drive home making excuses and complaining about the lack of respect. Baxter thought the ranting had been a huge waste of time. Instead of going over the case and trying to put together the missing pieces, he had to sit there and listen to his senior associate exercise his narcissistic inadequacies.

  But compared to the older FBI agent, Baxter was a rookie. He had only been with the Air Force Office of Special Investigations for two years and had been assigned to the JTTF a few months prior. At 26, Baxter was fairly young in comparison to other civilian OSI agents, many of whom had transferred from other agencies or been active duty enlisted airmen prior to becoming agents.

  The only son of a decorated Secret Service agent killed in the line of duty, Baxter had known he wanted to be in law enforcement his entire life. As soon as he was out of high school, he joined the county sheriff’s office and worked his way through college. After college, with the economy in shambles and federal government cutbacks, he couldn’t find a way into the Secret Service to follow in his father’s footsteps. They just weren’t hiring. So he became a Texas State Trooper, hoping to join the elite Texas Rangers.

  But after three years of working the highways of Southeast Texas and achieving the requisite rank of Trooper II, the Rangers weren’t accepting applications. So Baxter continued his search, until one of his old buddies from high school serving in the Air Force recommended OSI.

  He knew nothing about AFOSI, other than assuming it was probably similar to the TV drama NCIS, being a military investigative agency and all. After a little research and a visit to the local field office, Baxter was convinced that would be the path for him. So he applied for a civilian agent position and a few weeks later was notified he had been selected to go to Federal Law Enforcement Training at Glynco, Georgia to become a federal agent.

  Baxter’s first assignment after FLETC and the subsequent AFOSI training was Homestead Air Reserve Base in Florida. Despite having lived all over the country during most of his childhood while following his dad’s career from assignment to assignment, Baxter considered himself a Texan. So Homestead and the surrounding area had been a culture shock for him. He didn’t have time to care, however, as it kept him busy doing exactly what he wanted in counterterrorism.

  The rookie had been picked for the AFOSI representative to the JTTF by sheer luck, but it was exactly the kind of work Baxter had been hoping for. Miami was a hotbed for counterterrorism and counterintelligence. In the few short months he had been part of the JTTF, he had seen several very troubling close calls.

  Less than a few days prior to tagging along with Agent Thomas, four Syrian men were arrested in a foiled plot to use a rental truck to blow up Land Shark Stadium, home of the Miami Dolphins. But when the lackey of the group paid using the stolen identity of a deceased Mr. James Smith, a streetwise clerk alerted authorities. The FBI and members of the Miami-Dade Sheriff’s Department served a warrant at the address the man used to register the truck, uncovering enough ammonium nitrate to level the entire stadium. Better off lucky than good, the lead ATF agent in the case mused.

  But Baxter wasn’t a fan of luck, especially when it came to terrorism. His father had instilled in him the value of attention to detail. With it, his father always said, luck wouldn’t be necessary. People, especially criminals, can seem highly unpredictable on the surface, but when you look at the details of a case, patterns and trends start to emerge. The skilled investigator always looks for the proverbial fine print during an investigation.

  As he sat in his small office in the AFOSI building in Homestead, the details of the Martin case were bothering him. He had only ridden along with Agent Thomas to get a better glimpse into investigating a suspected terrorism operation. Thomas had an excellent reputation in the counterterrorism community, and Baxter had been told by several other agents that there was no one better in the business to follow. Thomas had been the lead investigator on several successful cases. His conviction record was impeccable.

  So why, then, had he spent the entire drive back complaining like a petulant child who had been chastised? Why weren’t they discussing the details? Specifically, what was the connection between the Congresswoman’s daughter and this kidnapping?

  There were several unanswered questions. Baxter flipped through his copy of the case file. They were only able to interview Martin and retrieve the detective’s notes. The family had been too busy at the hospital with their handicapped son, who required emergency surgery due to his injuries. The boy’s condition had turned to critical, and his parents were unwilling to talk more. So while none of the witnesses were able or willing to talk, the only suspect in the case had been transferred to Miami-Dade County for federal custody just before they arrived. Maybe that’s why Thomas had been in such a bad mood.

  Baxter rubbed his eyes as he sat at his desk. It was nearly 7 PM, but he wanted to read through the case file once before locking it up and going home. If he didn’t, the whole thing would eat at him. His instincts told him to look for more details.

  He flipped through the transcript of the detective’s interview with the Congresswoman. She focused mostly on the murder of the housekeeper and dog, and the beatings of her son. She wasn’t sure how they even got to the house or what happened before they dragged her husband into the laundry room.

  She did mention Martin, but only that she had been surprised to see him. She had never really liked him nor thought him capable of any heroics, but she was thankful he showed up. She still couldn’t believe her daughter was missing. It was all simply overwhelming to her.

  Baxter put aside the transcript and picked up the interview with Jack Rivers, Congresswoman Ridley’s husband. It was much more detailed. Mr. Rivers had obviously had some level of training, probably from his time in the Army in Vietnam based on his profile. He described the men in great detail. The two that were left behind were low-level henchmen. The real leader had left the night prior after taking pictures of their faces.

  As Baxter continued reading, Rivers explained that he had tried to listen in on the leader’s phone call, but it was in Farsi or Arabic, he wasn’t sure. What bothered Rivers was that he heard their daughter’s name. He had been sure. There was no mistaking it.

  Baxter reread the line from Mr. Rivers. “He took the picture, walked out of the room, and I think he was on his cell phone. I’m not sure what he said before. It was in another language. Farsi. Arabic. I’m not sure. But I know I heard ‘Chloe Moss.’ And I worried. I thought maybe they were going to get her too or they had her. But then, when it was all over, Cal told me what happened. Do you think they did it?”

  Baxter put down the report and turned to his computer. He opened up the Air Force database and began searching. The Safety Investigation Board that investigates all mishaps probably hadn’t released its report on the incident yet, but he could probably get the preliminary report. After a few clicks, he was staring at the report.

  //AT 0105Z F-16 LOST CONTACT IN WARNING AREA W465. WINGMAN REPORTED LOSS OF CONTACT ON PREPLANNED MANEUVER. SEARCH AND RESCUE EFFORTS INITIATED BY AIRBORNE AIRCRAFT. NO BEACON NOTED OR COMMUNICATION ATTEMPT MADE BY DOWNED AIRCREW. COAST GUARD AND AIR NATIONAL GUARD ASSETS DEPLOYED TO ASSIST RESCUE EFFORTS. DUE TO STRONG WINDS AND ROUGH SEAS WRECKAGE HAS NOT BEEN LOCATED. INITIAL ASSESSMENTS INDICATE NO EJECTION ATTE
MPT MADE BY PILOT. CAUSE OF MISHAP UNKNOWN AT THIS TIME. SEARCH AND RESCUE WILL TRANSITION TO RECOVERY IN 72 HOURS. //

  Baxter picked up the phone and dialed Agent Thomas’ cell phone.

  “Sir, it’s Agent Baxter, I’m sorry to bother you, but-”

  “Baxter?” Thomas interrupted. “It’s almost eight, is there something wrong?”

  “No, sir, it’s about the Congresswoman’s case,” Baxter replied.

  “What about it?” Thomas barked.

  “Sir, I was reading the transcripts of the interview, did you get a chance to read them?” Baxter decided to take a more submissive approach. After all, he was just the rookie, and he was already seeing that Thomas had a bit of a temper. Better to ask “cool questions” as his dad called them, than to come off as the know-it-all rookie.

  “Yes, I read them. Get to the point.”

  “Yes, sir. Well, I was just reading through Mr. Rivers’ statement, and the thing about the daughter, Chloe Moss, raised a red flag.”

  “The daughter? The one killed in the crash two days ago?”

  “That’s correct, sir. I pulled up the crash report, and-”

  “Let me stop you right there, Baxter,” Thomas interrupted. “The crash report and whatever happened to the daughter is your prerogative, and I get that. But we’ve got a former US Congresswoman who has been kidnapped by known terrorists. We’ve got more important leads to follow up on with that front.”

  “But sir...” Baxter was trying to keep his humble tone while pleading his case. “Mr. Rivers specifically mentioned thinking the terrorists might have had something to do with the crash.”

  “Ok, Baxter, I’ll bite. You have the report? What does it say?”

  “It says no ejection attempt was made and no wreckage has been found yet,” Baxter replied, reading the report as he scribbled notes.

  “So you think the crash didn’t happen? Is that what you’re getting at?” Thomas’ tone changed from subtle to full-blown condescension.