Sleeping Dogs: The Awakening

by John Wayne Falbey

  Both men roared at the memory.

  “It gets even better,” Levell said. “That same year, Thomas was doing the same thing in California high school football. He sees a piece on ESPN about the game in Florida, so he contacts Whelan and asks where he and Larsen were planning to go. Whelan tells him the University of Miami, so he commits to the U too.”

  “Jesus H. Christ,” McCoy said. “Can you imagine what that would have been like? Those three on the same team? Miami would have gone unbeaten for four years; steamrolled the cream of college ball.”

  “And won four consecutive national championships.”

  “We got real lucky when we were able to recruit Whelan to our program instead. He brought Larsen and Thomas with him.”

  “Yeah,” Levell said ruefully. “We promised them that with their talents they could still play at the U after a four year gig with us.”

  “It was a sincere promise. We just didn’t see the possibility of a weak-kneed president pulling the plug.”

  “And ordering their termination with extreme prejudice.”

  Both men shook their heads at similar distant memories.

  “Let’s see how well your memory has held up, Buster,” Levell said.

  “What’d you have in mind?”

  Levell smiled and simply said, “Describe Whelan in a sentence or two.”

  Without hesitating, McCoy said, “The alpha wolf.”

  Levell nodded. “Larsen.”

  “The others called him the Man With No Neck,” McCoy said. “The most physically powerful.”

  “Thomas.”

  “Best pure athlete. Deep thinker. Even had some of the other guys reading Carlos Castaneda’s books, as well as Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance and other arcane stuff.”

  Levell chuckled. “I never understood any of that crap, but Whelan and Kirkland seemed to. Speaking of Kirkland?”

  “Most disciplined. A friggin’ Zen master.”

  “Almeida.”

  McCoy smiled wryly. “The one they called Colonel Sanders.”

  “Yeah, the kid loved fried chicken.”

  “He was the village idiot.”

  “What about Stensen?”

  “Stensen?” McCoy said, “Crazy. Loved the sight of blood.”

  “Certifiably insane,” Levell said. “Hell, they were all a little crazy.”

  “You’ve kept track of each one of them over the years. Where are they?” McCoy said.

  “The Man With No Neck is in Tampa. Kirkland is in the Louisiana Bayou Country. Almeida’s in San Diego.” Levell paused to finish his drink.

  “What about the other two?”

  “Thomas is a college professor in Nashville, and Stensen is somewhere in the Hawaiian Islands.”

  McCoy’s eyes narrowed and he stared into space, recalling earlier days. “God, those boys were something,” he said. “They even scared the hell out of me.”

  12 J. Edgar Hoover Building

  The wintry sky had gone dark. It was well past mealtime. Christie had called his wife to let her know he wouldn’t be home for dinner with her and their two children. Again. In fact, he had no idea when he would have the opportunity to go home. A very long day was lengthening.

  He looked around the short conference table and assessed the condition of his team. Like Christie, the other three men on the team had shaved so early that morning that their beards were beginning to show, particularly Antonelli, who had a natural five o’clock shadow. Rickover, fresh out of law school, looked the best. He was barely able to grow facial hair. The two women also were showing the signs of the day’s wear and tear. Though reapplied regularly, their makeup was beginning to smudge, and the hairspray had lost its battle with gravity. All five of them, as well as Christie, looked like they had slept in their clothes. He knew it still might come to that. Franconia looked surprisingly fresh. His shirt was still crisp, his slacks creased. Must take a special breed to be a spook, Christie thought.

  There was tremendous pressure to resolve the killings that had occurred in Georgetown that morning. Christie had been deluged with calls from White House staff, Senator Morris’s office, and every sonofabitch who thought he or she had a right to know what the Bureau, and Christie in particular, was doing to catch whoever was responsible.

  He looked at the members of his team and cleared his throat. “People, I…the Bureau appreciates the strain you’re all under. But we are making progress.” He nodded toward Franconia. “Jim is the Agency’s liaison, working with us on this matter. Jim, bring us up to date on what you’ve learned through your people?”

  Franconia crossed his legs, hands resting in his lap. “Here’s what we know so far. Harold Case, a retired CIA employee, worked unofficially on retainer as a sort of lobbyist for the Agency on Capitol Hill. Over the years, he had developed good connections and seemed a natural for the position.

  “After retirement, Case developed…ah…how to say this…appetites for the ladies and the ponies and needed extra sources of income. He accepted work with a senate subcommittee chaired by Senator Howard Morris of New York.”

  Aaron Rickover, a twenty-something newcomer to the Bureau, raised his hand tentatively. “What kind of work was he doing for the subcommittee?”

  “Ah, therein lies the rub,” said Franconia. “Apparently, the subcommittee is investigating possible transgressions by the Agency in years past.” He looked around the room defiantly—it was clear what he thought of that investigation.

  “Because of his position with the subcommittee, Case had access to Agency files. With his long career at Langley, he also knew where the bodies were buried, so to speak. It was not a good combination for us.”

  “So, are you saying the CIA may have killed Case to protect itself from scandal or worse?” said Rickover, with the naivety of the young.

  “That’s an easy assumption,” said Franconia, “but it wasn’t our work. Besides,” he said with mock seriousness, “we don’t have authorization to carry out such operations on our own soil.”

  Everyone in the room chuckled. Christie glanced at his watch and said, “Let’s keep moving, Jim, tell us about the files Mr. Case was reviewing.”

  Franconia nodded. “Case examined files in the Archives Section that related to a project, a series of black ops, the Agency undertook twenty years ago, give or take. The project ultimately was scrubbed on direct orders from the White House and all traces, including the files, were supposed to have been destroyed.”

  Lou Antonelli, a veteran mid-level agent, said, “Wait a minute. It’s my understanding that black ops are so clandestine no records of the operation are kept anyway.”

  “That’s generally true,” Franconia said, “but some bureaucrats, even at the Agency, have bad habits. Possibly because this particular project collaterally involved genetic research that I’m about to describe.”

  “So,” Christie said, “in addition to records relating to their specific missions, were there also records concerning the individual members of the unit?”

  “So it appears,” Franconia said. “Our Archives contact says Case, under a warrant issued by the senate subcommittee, photocopied the files, or salient parts of them anyway, with a small camera-like device. But the files themselves are still in the Archives.”

  “Have you examined them?” said Rickover.

  “Well, I personally haven’t,” Franconia said with a slight smile. “But the Agency has had people on it since we learned about Case’s activities.”

  “And?” said Christie, motioning for Franconia to continue.

  “The project was the blackest of black ops. It was based on genetic research conducted in the seventies by two scientists, Jacob Horowitz and William Nishioki, at a university in California.”

  “Genetics?” Rickover shifted uneasily in his chair and glanced around the table.

  “Yes. Seems the good doctors theorized that evolution of the human species, any species really, is based on continuing advancements at a genetic lev
el. In other words, periodically a few individuals are born who represent what humans could become in future generations. Kind of like gods.” He paused and for political correctness added, “Or nature’s betas of future humans. Over the years, so the theory goes, if the changes are beneficial, succeeding generations will develop into improved models.”

  Rickover’s eyes widened. “What would such people look like? Are they mutants?”

  Franconia laughed. “Not mutants in the classic sci-fi sense. But they were stronger, faster, smarter than us current models.”

  “How did the Agency get involved in this?” Christie said.

  “We scan everything, and I do mean everything. Someone came across an article these scientists had published in one of those unfathomable academic journals—you know, the ones that are sure-fire cures for insomnia. It also came to the attention of USSOCOM, the United States Special Operations Command. Those guys are not authorized to conduct covert action operations. Only the Agency, can do that. However, we’ve always maintained a very good relationship with them through SAD, our Special Activities Division.

  “USSOCOM asked SAD’s Special Operations Group to help identify individuals who possessed this genetic mutation. They wanted to create a black ops unit that was beyond anything they had in Delta Force, the SEALs, or anything else.”

  “What’s the Special Operations Group?” Rickover said.

  “SOG is responsible for all high threat military or intelligence operations that the U.S. government doesn’t want to be overtly associated with. We funded Horowitz and Nishioki’s research…heavily. In time they discovered something like a blood or genetic marker that enabled us to identify people who had this ‘beta’ distinction.”

  “So, how did the Agency go about the process of trying to identify these people?” Christie said.

  Franconia paused as if uncertain whether he should respond. “Actually, it wasn’t that difficult. After all, we knew what qualities to look for. So we set up a large screening operation and started poring through records involving every kid who displayed superior intelligence combined with unusual athletic ability. In time, the list was winnowed down through the presence or absence of the marker. Ultimately, fifteen young men were identified.”

  “What about women?” one of the female agents said.

  “Twenty years ago,” Franconia said, “the military wasn’t contemplating using women in combat situations, particular as arduous as this operation was designed to be.”

  “How did you test these guys?” Rickover said. He looked as if he was afraid of the answer.

  “Easy. We were interested only in superior athletes. They produced plenty of sweat, saliva, blood, etcetera. Samples were easy to swab up and take back to the lab.”

  “What was the purpose of all this?” Antonelli said.

  Franconia’s eyes narrowed as he thought about his answer. “If you could go some generations into the future, recruit somewhat more advanced human specimens, and bring them back to the present, wouldn’t you have the makings of a superior fighting force, a competitive advantage, so to speak, over your enemies?”

  Antonelli, who was slowly rubbing the knuckles of his right fist against the palm of his left hand, said, “So is that what happened to these guys, they became soldiers?”

  “More than just soldiers,” Franconia said. “They became the most efficient and effective hunter-killer unit this world has ever seen. After 2 years of intensive training in weaponry, martial arts techniques, languages, technology, and other disciplines, they were deployed on highly clandestine missions outside the standards of military protocol, missions that were generally unlawful, including espionage, assassinations, terrorist activities, kidnapping, sabotage, torture, and false flag activities, as well as the support of revolutionary or counter-revolutionary forces in other countries.”

  “So these guys were supposed to be the baddest of the bad?” Antonelli said.

  A smile spread slowly across Franconia’s tanned face. “And then some,” he said. “The Sleeping Dogs, or Dogs as they came to be known, were trained to be the most effective and lethal special ops unit ever. Far more formidable than the Russian Spetsnaz, Israeli Sayeret Matkal, British SAS and SBS, or any other outfit. They were authorized to kill anyone and everyone, even civilians, who got in the way of an operation’s success, innocently or otherwise.”

  “Who authorized these guys to take such actions?” Antonelli said.

  “There is only one source for that kind of authority,” Franconia said. “It came directly from the White House in the form of a Presidential Finding. But following Operation Desert Storm, there was a change of administrations and foreign policy. Authorization was given to shut down the entire operation. The authorization included instructions to terminate the remaining Dogs with extreme prejudice and destroy all records relating to the unit and its activities. Before that order could be carried out, they seem to have died in a plane crash.”

  “Seemed to?” Rickover said.

  “That’s the official version,” Franconia said. “But no body parts or similar evidence were ever found.”

  13 Washington, D.C.

  Fruitlessly, Levell was trying to catch the waiter’s eye to signal that he and McCoy were ready for another round of drinks. “Do you remember the Dogs’ last mission?” he said.

  “Of course. It was during the first Gulf War, Operation Desert Storm. They actually infiltrated one of Saddam’s palaces while that sonofabitch was in it and surrounded by his elite Republican Guard.”

  “The Dogs were seconds away from assassinating the little bastard when the order came to stand down,” Levell said.

  McCoy shook his head in amazement. “How the fuck did they get in? Shit, how the fuck did they get out?”

  “You forget,” Levell said. “We lost three of the original Dogs in that mission.”

  “Yeah, and they left behind the corpses of over two hundred members of the Republican Guard. But, still, think of it. Seconds away. What would the world be like today if the pussies in the administration had allowed them to proceed?”

  “A far better place, no doubt,” Levell said, as the waiter arrived with their first courses.

  McCoy held up his empty glass and made a circular motion, signaling for a refill.

  When the man had left, Levell sighed. “In retrospect, it may have been a mistake to bring Whelan in for a face-to-face given what happened this morning. It won’t take long for the Bureau and the Agency to connect the dots based on Case’s research. Although they don’t know the boys survived the bogus plane crash, I’m sure we’ll be persons of interest. We’ll have to be a bit more circumspect where and how we meet in the future. The Lodge in Virginia may be the only safe house at this point.”

  “You think the Feds are that smart?” McCoy had a disdainful expression on his face.

  “That attaché case of Harold’s? In it were copies of the old files from Langley. Comprehensive enough that not much is left for conjecture.”

  “I thought all records had been destroyed.”

  “That didn’t happen. Names, dates, places. The genetic research. The missions. Everything was there.”

  “Christ.”

  “Worse, there was a receipt from a local courier company, indicating that Harold had something delivered to Morris, probably copies of the documents.”

  “Then you’re probably right. Things could get a little crispy for us.”

  Levell nodded. “Ironically, just when all our hard effort could pay some dividends, the president’s handlers want to assassinate him and pin it on real patriots, the Society. Thank God for the Dogs.”

  McCoy raised his glass and said, “Are you familiar with Antony’s speech near the end of Julius Caesar, Act 3, Scene 1?”

  A wry smile creased Levell’s face. He said, “‘Cry Havoc! and let slip the dogs of war.’”

  14 J. Edgar Hoover Building

  Rickover reflected on what Franconia had said about the genetic research.
“Couldn’t this…ah…rogue gene, or whatever it is, occur in people in other countries, too?”

  Franconia’s chin bobbed slowly up and down. “Sure, but apparently no one else knows about it…yet. We very carefully squelched all traces of the research. Don’t forget, this was before the days when everything was archived online. We sent people to all university and research center libraries and ripped out Horowitz and Nishioki’s article. Tracked down every copy. Went into the offices of the journal that published it and removed the file. Hell, we even appropriated all their prior work product and notes.”

  “What about universities and research centers in other countries?” Rickover said. “Didn’t they have copies of the journal that published that article?”

  “Sure, but we have our own agents as well as those of ally governments everywhere. It wasn’t that difficult to destroy almost all records. And, sure, there may have been stray copies in an individual’s office or library here and there, but we removed Horowitz and Nishioki from access for any follow up by other scientists.”

  Rickover swallowed hard. “How exactly did you ‘remove’ them?” he said.

  Franconia looked at Christie and both men smiled at Rickover’s naivety.

  “We did it in a very positive fashion,” Franconia said. “They were hired by the Agency at a sum three times what they could have made anywhere else. We gave them generous allowances for a fully equipped laboratory, staff, and anything else they needed. All their work was classified as top secret from that point forward.”

  Antonelli stopped rubbing his knuckles for a moment and said, “So what did you do with these guys, the genetic freaks?”

  “First,” Franconia said, “we put together a very special team to train them. All top Agency operatives and military people. It was a small group, maybe six people, not including the two scientists.”

  “Anybody left from that team?”