“Here it comes!”
“What the hell is this place?” asked Niner.
“It’s an automated warehouse. Everything is coded and stored in a specific aisle, shelf and location, coded by size. The computer tells where the retrieval machine will find the item, and what size it is, and it will deploy the appropriate tool to retrieve it, then place it on the conveyor belt. At this end a human takes the item and has it delivered to the requesting party. It’s all quite ingenious.”
“Amazon has something similar I think,” said Kane.
“I was thinking this was all going to be digitized and we’d just be retrieving a file,” said Niner. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m impressed with the Transformers getting us our tiny microfilm, but still, I thought if you’re this hi-tech, then why not go all the way?”
Alexis chuckled, then remembered she might still be on camera and tried to phrase her response to fit in case the tapes were reviewed.
“You Americans are so arrogant. There is an ongoing digitization project and over half this warehouse has been converted so far. This particular item however hasn’t been yet.”
A small box arrived, ending the conversation.
“Open it,” said Dawson as they all leaned in. Alexis cut the seal on the box with a box cutter sitting nearby and opened it. Inside was an envelope with a microfilm container.
“Should we make sure it’s what we’re looking for? Just in case?” asked Niner.
The reply to his question was the sounding of an alarm and flashing red lights on the walls around them.
“We’ve been discovered!” hissed Alexis.
CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia
National Clandestine Service Chief Leif Morrison listened to the latest update provided by the Joint Chiefs from one of the many secure conference rooms, the talking heads displayed on a grid of monitors on the far wall. He and several of the CIA’s top brass sat around a table taking in the latest briefings and providing their own intel. At this moment the hottest leads were both CIA based—Chris Leroux’s computer trace generating the most excitement and hope around the virtual table.
But Morrison knew it was a long shot. There were a lot of things that had to go right for there to be a hit. And what if there were dozens or hundreds of false positives? They didn’t have a lot of time to waste chasing down possibly hundreds of dead ends.
Unfortunately it was their only hope at the moment for tracking down who now had their hands on potentially hundreds of nuclear triggers throughout the country.
“And the French operation?” asked the Secretary of Defense.
“It’s underway as we speak. We should know any time now.”
The Secretary of State cleared his throat.
“I was speaking to the French ambassador less than fifteen minutes ago and I’ve made it clear to the French how disappointed we are that they kept this piece of intelligence from us, and how we expect—”
“You did what?” erupted Morrison.
There was stunned silence in the room and over the speakers as the words the Secretary of State had just said sank in with the others.
“I merely expressed—”
“You told the French that we were aware that they had the microfilm?”
“Not in so many words. In diplomacy you usually dance around an issue, letting the other side—”
Morrison was certain his blood pressure would have his doctor rushing him to an ER as he felt himself flush with burning rage.
“I don’t give a damn what words you used! You just told the French that we are aware they possess something that at this very moment I have a team trying to retrieve! Just what the hell do you think the French are going to do?!”
It was as if a switch was flipped and the idiot at the other end suddenly clued into his stupidity, his face paling and his jaw dropping.
“I’m sorry—”
“Mr. President, if you’ll excuse me, I need to warn our team that the mission has been compromised.”
“Very well,” said the President, the tone of his voice indicating to everyone his own incredulity at what he had just heard.
Morrison pushed up from his seat when every phone in the room and over the videoconference began to vibrate or ring. He grabbed the phone off his hip and read the message.
Nuclear detonation confirmed in Memphis, TN.
“Jesus Christ,” he whispered as he dropped back into his chair. “Mr. President—”
“I know. Meeting adjourned. We will reconvene in one hour.”
Morrison looked about the room at the others, some looking as green as he felt.
I think I’m going to be sick.
As he sat there for a moment collecting his thoughts and searching for his fortitude, he suddenly remembered what the idiot had done, and fired a message off to operations to have Kane notified of the security breach. And to not mention the detonation until the mission was completed.
The last thing they need is another distraction.
Operations Center 3, CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia
Chris Leroux’s eyes were beginning to glaze over as the adrenaline fueled excitement of watching his plan unfold for all to see on the huge screens of Operations Center 3 began to wane. He blinked rapidly, moistening his drying eyes and watched the ticker pass one hundred thousand devices contacted. It was a staggering number and showed no sign of slowing, the malware obviously well distributed.
He had often wondered if there should be a law that prevented morons from connecting to the Internet. Perhaps morons was too harsh a term. Uneducated? Uninformed? It would only be too easy to do so. Simply make Internet Service Providers responsible for making certain their customers all had up to date anti-virus software, and that it was actually being used. The operating system companies could easily add something to their software that would show when the last scan had been performed, and that their anti-virus software was intact, functioning, and properly updated. This could be polled during a login to the Internet, and the ISP could then reject the connection to anyone not properly protected, redirecting them instead to any number of anti-virus manufacturers, including those with free offerings.
Simple. Cheap. And it would save billions in lost revenues and millions of man hours wasted in trying to fix infected machines. Would it stop everything? Of course not, but it would stop most.
But then some would say forcing people to use software that scans everything on your computer and everything coming into and going out of your Internet connection would be a violation of your privacy, and a violation of the fundamental principles of the Internet—free access for all with no government interference.
This of course ignored the fact that access was rarely free, and the Internet had been invented by government, specifically the US military’s DARPA wing.
“Say again?”
It was OC3 Coordinator Dimka that broke his train of thought. He looked over at her and the expression on her face had his heart racing.
“Yes, sir, right away.”
She pressed several buttons on her station and the two screens showing his program running suddenly were joined by news broadcasts from around the world, CNN, Fox, NBC, CBS, ABC, BBC, CBC and others popped onto the screen, all showing the same thing, or just switching over their programming. CNN’s broadcast was put through the speaker as the doors behind them flew open, Director Morrison and several other CIA brass rushing into the room.
Morrison pointed at Leroux.
“Any success yet?”
“No, sir, not yet,” he replied, his eyes darting between Morrison and the horror on the screens, his shoulders collapsing as all muscle control seemed to leave his body. “We’re too late, aren’t we?”
“It’s never too late to catch whoever is responsible. What do you need to keep your operation going?”
Leroux turned to Dimka whose eyes had glassed over from the images on the screens surrounding them.
“Just one tech? Conway?” he suggested
.
She nodded.
“Yes, that’s all that’s needed until we find something,” she agreed.
“Good. Conway, you continue what you’re doing!” ordered Morrison, pointing at the tech Leroux had been working with. “The rest of you I want monitoring local broadcasts, pulling—”
Morrison stopped when all of the broadcasts began to switch over to something new. The CNN audio was still being fed through the speakers for everyone to hear.
“—just delivered to our studios via email. We will broadcast it now in its entirety, without comment.”
The talking head disappeared, replaced by the image of a man, or rather a person, their details obscured in the shadows, a banner in the background a familiar green with half crescent and something written in Arabic.
The English was unaccented, the voice altered electronically. It was deep, the bass rolling through the floor and up Leroux’s spine. It was terrifying in its depth, and in the evil that was its message.
“By now you are aware of the power we hold over your nation. For too long America has been the uninvited policeman of the world. For too long America has shed the blood of innocents to spread its ideals throughout the world. For too long the American plague has spread its culture where it is not welcomed, nor wanted. It is time for America to leave the world to unfold on its own, without interference.”
Everyone in the room was silent, but the fear and the tension was palpable. Leroux wondered what the public at home would feel if they knew what everyone here knew—that this was just the beginning. That there could be a thousand more targets like Memphis, and that millions could die as a nation’s infrastructure was destroyed.
“Today’s detonation is merely a demonstration of our power. Your government has known for some time the power at our disposal, but has decided not to inform you—”
“The President’s not going to like that one,” muttered Morrison.
“—of the danger you now face. We are in control of over one thousand devices, already pre-positioned throughout the United States and its allies. And as we have already shown, we are not afraid to exercise this power. Our demands are simple, and easily met. Our demands are easily summed up with this one statement: America, go home. We demand the immediate withdrawal of all American land forces from Iraq, Afghanistan, and any other country they find themselves in today, invited or uninvited. This includes Europe, Japan, South Korea, and others where you believe you are welcome, but in fact are not. We demand all combat air forces grounded today. We demand all naval forces involved in any hostile acts including blockades and sanction enforcements withdrawn. Those involved in humanitarian actions are welcome to continue their much appreciated activities as long as they immediately pull out when no longer required or when requested to do so. We demand that plans be announced for the immediate drawdown and eventual withdrawal of all forces from foreign soils to be completed within one year. We also demand that all foreign military aid be immediately halted. This includes direct funding of military purchases, loans for military purchases, and so called military advisors who ostensibly train other countries’ soldiers for proxy wars.
“Let us make this perfectly clear. One year from today, the only American soldier whose boots are not on American soil, is an American soldier who is either on a humanitarian mission, on a naval vessel on a mission of mercy, or is on vacation with his family. If we do not see evidence of our demands being met, each day we will detonate another device and more innocent Americans will die. We ask the people of America to save themselves and insist their leaders meet our demands rather than make bold proclamations of justice for those responsible, and defiance in the face of inevitable defeat.
“For too long American military might has been used to push its values and goods on an unwilling world. Today, this ends. Today, the world rises up and rids itself of the yoke of oppression foisted upon us by your country and its selfish ideals. Today, the world is free for the first time in sixty years, free to make its own mistakes, free to enjoy its own successes. Today, the world rejoices, as the last super power retreats within its own borders, with the threat of destruction to keep it contained.
“Today, America trembles at our might, as we have been forced to tremble before hers.”
The screen went black, then the talking heads reappeared, their words mere murmurs in the background as Leroux gripped his workstation, the implications of what he had just heard sinking in.
Is the American dream dead?
“We’ve got one!” came Conway’s voice over the headset and at first Leroux wasn’t sure what he meant, having to repeat the words several times in his head until their meaning finally sank in. He jumped from his chair and looked at the display now flashing amongst the news broadcasts.
Number of Positives: 1
Résidence Hôtelière de la Cerisaie, Longjumeau, France
Alex West hated waiting, doing nothing. He wondered if Control in the old days had felt the same. Never in on the action, only getting occasional reports if possible, then either finding out at the end whether a mission had been successful or not, or sometimes, in the worst case scenario, never hearing at all—an agent captured and never heard from again.
There were enough of those over the years, the Memorial Wall at Langley a testament to that. He had fully expected he would have become one of those lonely stars on the wall, but after the Crimson Rush mission, and his being benched, he hadn’t had a risky day since.
Life had become a boring routine.
Then retirement!
He had never thought he’d see the day. The days. The long, boring days. He occupied his time as best he could with reading, writing his memoirs that no one would ever be able to read, and tending his garden. He had almost no friends. He had never married, never dated, had never been with a woman since his three months with Adelle.
And he had never stopped loving her.
He had to admit he was hurt when he found out she had a daughter. She had moved on, replaced him when he couldn’t do the same. It had him wondering if it had meant as much to her as it had to him. He looked over at her, standing by the window, looking down at the street below, her fingers tapping a rhythm out onto her lips, something she always did when she was nervous.
He was happy for her with respect to her having a daughter. Alexis was beautiful, and there was obviously love and respect between them. He had never wanted kids, never expecting to live long enough to see them through to adulthood, and when he had voiced that to her during their hiatus from their jobs, she had agreed.
Spies aren’t meant to be parents.
They were her words, not his, but he agreed with them. But seeing Adelle and Alexis together, and how proud she was of her daughter, opened a pit of regret in his stomach that was gnawing at him, and had been since the younger generation had left to save the world.
“I miss the old days,” he sighed.
Zorkin, sipping on a club soda, nodded.
“I too, my friend. Life had a purpose. Now…” Zorkin’s voice drifted.
“Now it’s not life, it’s existence,” finished West.
Adelle turned from the window.
“Nonsense. There’s still plenty we can do to contribute. Look at what we have accomplished here in just the past two days. You, Alex, had the forethought to have any intelligence searches for Crimson Rush flagged so you would be notified. You also were instrumental in putting together the Grey Network. How many times has it helped out this generation, whether they knew they were being helped or not? You pulled us together from across the globe, creating a team that is already in action, following a plan we put together. No, Alex, we may be old, but we’re still living. I for one am alive, and I will continue to live, even after I die, through our daughter. And so will you. She’s our legacy, she’s the reason we continue to live today, and continue to help protect the world from the messes created during our day. She’s—”
“Our daughter?”
West felt h
is chest tighten, his heart begin to race, as he looked at Adelle, his jaw sagging toward his chest, his eyes searching hers to see if he had misheard her, to see if she had misspoken.
Adelle smiled and sat down beside him on the couch, taking his hands in hers.
“Our daughter.”
West wasn’t certain what his reaction should be, but he knew what it was. Tears filled his eyes, spilling down his cheeks as he took Adelle in his arms and hugged her, the thrill and excitement and joy of having something he never knew he had wanted, unleashed. He tried to stop the tears, to fortify himself against the emotions pouring out of him, he of a generation that tried to keep tears at bay, but he couldn’t help it.
“Are you happy?” asked Adelle, her voice a whisper in his ear.
“C-can’t you tell?” he asked, laughing as he gently pushed her away. He looked over at Zorkin who continued to sip his club soda, apparently unmoved by the entire display. “Did you know?”
Zorkin shook his head.
“Everyone knew! Only you and Alexis—A-lex-is!—seem to be the only two in the dark! You call yourself a spy? She has your damned nose, the poor girl!”
West wiped his face dry with a handkerchief as there was a shout from the room next door, then someone yelling to turn on the television.
The three friends exchanged glances, then Zorkin reached for the remote control and pressed the power button. He selected local television from the hotel menu then flipped through the channels until hitting a news channel.
And once again West felt his chest tighten for entirely different reasons, the scene displayed one of utter devastation.
“We’re too late!”
Charles de Gaulle National Intelligence Archive, Longjumeau, France
Cold Warriors (A Special Agent Dylan Kane Thriller, Book #3) Page 18