Conspiracy of Fire

by Tony Bulmer

  The Admiral steepled his fingers together and looked at the wall screens. “We will have RQ-­‐4 coverage in just under nine minutes, global hawks from CSG-­‐9 will fly by those nerds from NOAA and find out exactly what the situation is—if indeed there is a situation.”

  Senegar nodded. “We have encountered a big upsurge in cyber assaults, recently, many of them originating from locations in the Far East. The pattern is worrying Admiral.”

  “The Chinese?” asked the Admiral grimly. “I have received intelligence of this of course, but such gamesmanship is all part of the continued struggle for supremacy over our enemies—or competitors—as those spineless patsies in Washington are so fond of calling them.”

  Jack Senegar nodded, while he found the Admiral’s gung-­‐ho words rather blunt, he agreed with the sentiment wholeheartedly. “We have to consider the sensitivities of global players, no matter how distasteful such compromises might be. We are working a covert play here Admiral, we have to have to issue a measured response.”

  “Sensitivities? What kind of Washington weasel word is that Laddie? If those noodle-­‐ noshing communists are planning an attack on the United States of America we need to get the President in here and go to DEFCON1

  immediately.”

  Senegar gave the Admiral a tight look. “The

  President is in Los Angeles, meeting with world

  leaders at this very moment. We need to finesse

  this Admiral, think containment over escalation.” “Containment Laddie?” the Admiral

  narrowed his eyes and said, “We are way beyond

  containment. This thing is about to blow bigger

  than a factory full of Mexican firecrackers. I suggest

  we move decisively, or the repercussions will be

  very ugly indeed.”

  “You have to work with me on this Bill. If

  we let this run away from us, our enemies will

  disappear into the long grass. We have to work

  smart—a series of clinical strikes at the covert

  level, that way we kill the problem at the roots.” The Admiral frowned. “I don’t like it Laddie,

  not one bit and I have to tell you consequences are

  not a consideration when it comes to the security of

  the United States of America. I don’t give a good

  goddamn if the President is in La-­‐La land kow-­‐

  towing to a bunch of slimy foreigners. If this

  situation even looks like going hot, we will unleash

  the dogs, am I clear on that Laddie?”

  Jack nodded, “We will need the Presidential

  seal, on that Admiral.”

  That is the problem with this goddamn with

  this country—red tape everywhere, those liberal

  regulators are turning this proud land of ours into a

  facsimile of Communist Russia.” The Admiral

  paused, drew breath, then said, “You want me to

  ring POTUS now? I got the sonofabitch on speed

  dial.”

  “No need for raised pulses Bill, POTUS has

  an even tighter schedule than usual right now. An

  informal lunch with the other World leaders at the

  Jonathan Club in Santa Monica, followed by a sit down policy session at the Beverly Wilshire. I don’t want him bothered by some picayune situation we can close out by dinner time.”

  The Admiral tapped his fingers together thoughtfully. “If POTUS is shaking schlongs in Hollyweird, that means that Dick Hanssen is keeping the big chair warm in the oval office. I don’t trust that spineless little carpetbagger. That sonofabitch would suckle every Ayatollah in Iran if he thought he could turn a buck out of it.” The Admiral pursed his lips thoughtfully then said, “I take it you are keeping Dick appraised of the unfolding situation?”

  “Strictly on a need to know basis.” “Does he know we are going to go live with this?

  “He will—in due course.”

  The Admiral raised an eyebrow. “Those mouth-­‐breathers in Congress will fall on us like starving jackals when they discover the nature of this operation. They will leave nothing to mark our demise save an ugly grease stain where our once proud careers rose to the stars—you realize that don’t you Jack?”

  “If questions are raised, history will already have born testament to the justice of our cause.”

  The Admiral snorted. “You’ve got some balls Senegar, big brass Irish balls. If we ever come through this mess I am going to make sure those spineless goons in Congress erect you a statue in the Washington Mall.”

  Senegar nodded stoically. “Very kind I am sure. Let’s hope it doesn’t have my epitaph underneath.”

  50

  The Pacific As Kellerman’s mind swirled with the horrors a radioactive tidal wave would wreak on the Pacific coastline, the guard with the restless eyes burst into the room. Looking extra nervous. He held his AK47 held high and shouted, “All finish. You come now.” He made emphatic jabbing motions with the rifle. Kellerman stood fast and raised her hands.

  “Best do as he says Kellerman,” said Captain Álvares, his voice hollow but stern.

  The guard with the screechy voice appeared at his comrade’s shoulder, his face flushed red and barked a command, his hard eyes prowling the room for any sign of dissent. Again, he made the unintelligible command, this time directly at Kellerman. She felt hot spittle settle against her face. She resisted the temptation to wipe away, preferring to stand defiantly.

  “I am not going anywhere,” said Kellerman quietly. “Unless my Captain receives medical attention he will die. He is bleeding to death, can’t you see that?”

  There was a tense and angry pause. The guard with the restless eyes scanned the room, looking at every exhausted and desperate face. Then, finally, as his eyes flitted nervously between Kellerman and the wounded Álvares, he said, “I have instructions American lady. You will obey. If you come now, I will get help for your friend.”

  Rosco Collins stood up and shouted angrily, “You give them what they want and they will kill all of us Kellerman.”

  The guard with the screechy voice moved forward quickly jabbing his AK47 aggressively and barking commands. Kellerman stepped in front of him, her hands raised and said, “I got no idea what you are saying, bucko, but you better say it more respectfully, because there isn’t a single person in this room who is going to be bullied by some spineless little weasel with a gun—are we clear?” Kellerman gave the thug an emphatic look, her eyes fearless and unwavering.

  He looked at her a long moment, the cold black barrel of his machine gun staring into her face. His eyes burned with hatred. Finally, he motioned towards the door with a nervous jerk of his weapon. He couldn’t speak her language, but he understood her. He knew that he had encountered a strong and upright soul who wouldn‘t be beaten down by intimidation and now he stood impotent.

  Kellerman had him figured too, she knew that if she wanted to stay in charge of the situation s
he would have to make the next move, or face the possibility he would unleash his frustrated wrath on the prisoners. She moved towards the door, all the while keeping her eyes on the gunman, drawing him with her, so that the other members of her crew might be spared his wrath.

  Outside, in the corridor, Captain Kim stood waiting, his tight little face filled with barely concealed animosity. “Well, Officer Kellerman, you have seen that your precious friends are alive and well, perhaps now you will be able to start the

  electrical systems and draw this most inconvenient experience to a close.”

  Kellerman shook her head and said, “Captain Álvares has a serious gunshot wound. Unless he gets a blood transfusion and antibiotics he will die.”

  Kim gave her a cold look. “A most

  unfortunate consequence of your irresponsible actions Officer Kellerman, if your Captain dies, then you must look to yourself for blame. Without your most reckless actions the takeover of this ship would have been accomplished in a bloodless and quite civilized manner.”

  “You and your men came to this thing in a spirit of war,” said Kellerman. “War has

  consequences.”

  Captain Kim thrust out his chest. He gave her with a tight bitter look then very quickly he stepped forwards and struck her back-­‐handed across the face. The power of the blow turned Kellerman’s head. She paused a moment allowing the sharp ringing pain of the blow to subside, then turned back very slowly to face him. Kim raised his chin and said curtly, “Our mission falls behind schedule. If you insist on causing further delay, your friends will pay the consequences. Am I clear Officer Kellerman?”

  Kellerman frowned, dabbed at the rivulet of blood trickling out the corner of her mouth and looked at her bloody fingers thoughtfully. “I know what you are up to,” she said. “It took me a while, but I have figured it out.”

  Kim gave a snort of derision, “Very smart Officer Kellerman, at least you like to think you are. But you are the very smallest of cogs. The big

  machine will operate either with, or without you. Your cooperation will merely determine whether you survive to see another day. I recommend that you choose life, as the bright new sun of tomorrow will rise against a very different world than that of today. The new order of mankind is coming. Join with us and witness the future as it was intended to be.”

  51

  Oahu, Hawaii The sleek, super powered fishing cruiser had been named The Fortune, because that is certainly what it must have cost, a million-­‐five, maybe more. Karyn Kane sat in the big white reel chair, resting her feet on the stern of the boat. As the new morning sun melted slow over the horizon, Karyn flipped screens on her iPhone, cycling through the cameras in the Goodman house. Carly was still asleep, snuggling up to her favorite rabbit toy. The little girl looked very peaceful and cozy, lying there with the comforter turned down, and the soft glow of her moon-­‐face nightlight casting a reassuring warmth about the room. Carly’s room was very neat and tidy. She was a very particular little girl, who liked to have everything in its place. Her books and toys and the boxes of creative stuff, crayons and paints and glue and glitter, were all stowed away in a precise and very careful order. Karyn found great relaxation in watching her daughter sleeping so peacefully in her neat little room.

  The ex was not having such luck however. Reed Goodman was sitting in the kitchen, drinking coffee and perusing his laptop. But from the three camera angles she had of the kitchen, Karyn couldn’t quite make out what Reed was looking at. Probably reliving the old days same as usual, playing Facebook link-­‐up with his buddies from the regiment, or fantasizing about taking some private contractor gig, so he could dip his dirty little fingers back into the world of death. Like many veterans

  Reed was a tortured man, living in an endless purgatory between the life he had once had and the new life he would never be able to come to terms with. Reed was a killer, always would be, and why not, he was damn good at it. But he could never go back to the old life—Carly was the reason, beautiful Carly. Karyn watched him as he sat there in the kitchen. Poor Reed, if he stayed with the older woman he would never have any more children. On the face of it, his wife Julia was the woman who had everything, success, wealth and social popularity too. But the poor woman was quite incapable of bearing children. Karyn had listened in on all the conversations she’d had with the doctors and the long tearful discussions with Reed, her sobbing into his shoulder, Reed looking tired and

  uncomfortable, his mind ten thousand miles away in some snipers blind, planning some eight hundred yard hit against the wind. Karyn looked at Reed now, hunched over his laptop, drinking coffee and flipping through the endless virtual world, as it reached out to him, tugging him by degrees from his safe little kitchen in Santa Monica California. Reed was stuck, trapped in the life he had wanted, but would never be able to enjoy. Karyn felt confused. She loved him, yet she hated him. She wanted him and yet she was glad to be free. She stared long and hard at the tiny little screen in front of her, watching as Reed sipped coffee and ran his fingers through his dark, tangled hair. Karyn figured she had liked him better with his regulation Army Rangers haircut. He looked more masculine that way. No doubt the longer locks were Julia’s doing, that bitch really liked to play things her way. Karyn sucked in a sharp breath of irritation. She

  closed her phone and thought for a long moment. When she got back to Los Angeles she would do a bag job entrance at the Goodman residence, make sure she had coverage for every computer in the place, not just the desk top machine in the office, that way she could know more fully just what was going on. In the fast moving world of covert operations, intelligence of the competitions movements was a crucial factor in determining future strategy. Carly, Carly, Carly. Everything was about Carly. When the operation was over, she would go visit, it would have to be at night of course, but standing there in her daughter’s presence, as the moonfaced nightlight cast it’s comforting glow about the room, it would all be worth it, no matter what the danger.

  Karyn sat back in the big white reel chair and breathed deep. Growing up as a navy brat before shipping out into the service her self, she knew a thing or three about boats and this baby was a nice little tub. So new it couldn’t have been in the water more than six months tops. The sleek styling and glistening chrome-­‐work spoke of a craft that came top of the line. Karyn ran her fingers over the plush leather and watched the sun rise higher.

  It was an expensive boat all right, but there was more to this thing than just a showroom price tag. Resting pride of place in the yachting marina with all the other rich men’s playthings. Karyn reckoned the Marina fees and fuel bills would add up to double the salary of the average police detective, but this little slice of ocean-­‐going flash wasn’t owned by any regular detective. It was the property of Honolulu Chief of Police Donald Mālama. Now, Don, smart and earnest a
s he was,

  sure didn’t smell like a cop on the take, but a million five, plus marina fees and consumables? That kind of green didn’t come easy for most working folks, especially if they were public sector employees. Kind of strange then, that a cop would have a fresh painted fisherman’s dream, with super powered engines and a military grade radar system sitting portside at the most expensive marina in Hawaii.

  Kicking back in the big, white reel chair, Karyn imagined what it would be like to ride out into the deep water off Kona and reel in some really big fish, deep-­‐water predators like, Tuna and Blue Marlin. They grew 1000lbs and more out here. Of course you would need an experienced Captain to make catches like that, the kind of seaman who really knew what he was doing and that kind of help didn’t come cheap either.

  No doubt Mālama had his costs in hand, along with a bullshit balance sheet that would stand the test of auditors, IRS agents, maybe even the IAD. But Donald Mālama was a smart guy; way smarter than that grubby little Fed Ted Congo.

  Karyn examined the PDF of the Mālama file. The Chief was a real straight arrow cop at least on the face of it—27 years on the force and moving close to retirement. He wasn’t the kind of guy who had made any big plays in his career, choosing instead to work his way up through the ranks, blowing smoke in all the appropriate orifices, until he reached the top. A life long islander, his local knowledge must have helped his career, along with his no frills family life: Two college age girls and a boy in the Army Rangers. Karyn thought back to the cutsie-­‐pie family photos the chief had hanging on