Nexus

by Ryan W. Aslesen

  I had a good career going, and it would only have gotten better.

  Above all, had he remained a Marine he might still have a family.

  But that hadn’t happened. Instead, a major and a master gunnery sergeant framed him for the murder of his CO. In truth it was an accident, nothing to do with Max. Nevertheless, had his case gone to trial, Max would have been convicted and sentenced to death or life in prison. He could have handled that, but he couldn’t have accepted the disgrace it would have brought upon his family.

  At his most desperate hour, Max was summoned by Marklin, whom he had never met before. He offered Max a simple deal: join the CIA, be trained as an operative, and continue living his life as if nothing had happened. Lies, all of it. But Max accepted the deal, which wound up costing him all that he held dear.

  Bitter over his ouster from the corps and disgruntled with his CIA field work, Max had been considered a volatile liability by his superiors. Before being torn apart by an alien creature, Max’s former handler Peter Banner revealed that he arranged for Max’s wife and son to be killed. Banner wanted to ensure the CIA had Max’s complete loyalty and owed Max payback for torturing one of the man’s covert contacts. The flawlessly executed hit was disguised as a drunk driving accident. That the police bought it was no surprise; it was painstakingly planned by a man with the alias Burt Jarvis, true name unknown, a legendary accident man who had since left the CIA for freelance work.

  Since learning that his family hadn’t died by accident, Max had been obsessed with finding Jarvis and his team. Three men had assisted Jarvis on the hit: Swift Carter; Scott Cleghorn, gunned down by Swift in Guyana; and a third man whose name Max still sought.

  Max hoped Carter hadn’t broken his arm while patting himself on the back for his not-so-daring escape. Your days are numbered, double digits at the most.

  Once Max opened the smoked glass front door and stepped inside the bar, he realized he had visited it a few times before. Yeah, I remember this place now. Back then it had been called The Quatrefoil, a bit more upscale. The Back Gate Grill more resembled the stereotypical back gate bar: somewhat clean yet something of a dive. It had flags of the four services hanging on the walls amongst framed photos and unframed snapshots, mostly of Marines on operations in the Middle East, though Max also glimpsed a smattering of older photos from Vietnam and before.

  They had agreed to meet at 1400, a dead hour in the food and beverage industry that would have afforded them privacy. Unfortunately, neither man had considered that certain units might have early liberty on Friday. About a dozen Marines, in service C uniforms of green trousers and short-sleeve khaki shirts with ribbons attached, monopolized three tables and a handful of barstools. Their ranks ranged from captain down to PFC. Section party. Max remembered them well. The first couple of rounds would be on the CO, who would then depart with his officers to avoid accusations of fraternization. After that, the staff NCOs might foot the bill for a couple more rounds before likewise bolting. The NCOs and non-rates would stay and drink their fill, some until last call.

  Max didn’t consider their presence a hindrance. He and Ben would be the last people on their minds, and he liked the raucous atmosphere as well. The jokes and camaraderie brought back some of his better memories of the Marine Corps.

  He spied the waitress, a butter-faced brunette about his own age who compensated with a finely toned gym body. “Anywhere?” He motioned with a finger toward the tables.

  “Anywhere’s good, hon,” she responded wearily from beneath a tray loaded with sweating longnecks.

  Max took a seat near a table where four Marines played a hotly contested game of spades, while a couple more stood over their shoulders making snide comments. He ordered a bottle of Molson XXX, watched the game, and waited.

  “Jesus, you’d think it was Friday around here,” Ben Fisher said as he emerged from the press of Marines. A slimly built man of about 6’2”, he cut a fine figure in his black government suit and teal tie. He had brown hair, a mouthful of even white teeth, and a natural charisma that made him popular with both ladies and gentlemen. Still living the single life, he showed no signs of settling down.

  “How soon we forget,” Max said as he came to his feet to shake hands.

  “Whoa, nice mug!” Ben motioned to Max’s face, which bore a few scabs from the splinters Imogene had dealt him.

  “Woodchipper accident.”

  “Let me guess: I don’t even want to know what you did to the woodchipper?”

  Max shook his head. “Not a pretty sight.”

  Ben slapped him on the back and laughed heartily. “No machine can beat a Marine.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Nice crowd. Hell, I like this unit. Why didn’t you ever buy us drinks on an early Friday?”

  “I did. Not that you slackers ever did anything to deserve it.”

  They sat and exchanged small talk. Ben worked out of the Bureau’s Washington DC office but spent the last week commuting to Quantico on business. He didn’t mention what sort of business, and Max knew better than to ask. In addition to several Marine Corps facilities, Quantico likewise played host to the FBI’s training academy, hostage rescue team, and laboratory.

  Max had known Ben for about fifteen years. He first met him in the corps, when Ben had been a stellar enlisted Marine in Max’s rifle platoon. In recognition of his leadership and technical skill, Max recommended him for a meritorious promotion to corporal and eventually helped him to enter the Marine Corps enlisted commissioning program. Ben became a second lieutenant right about the time Max lost his Marine Corps career. After a couple of years as an officer, Ben resigned his commission to join the FBI. Max never expected Ben to repay him—he’d earned everything Max had assisted him with—but hopefully their history would buy him a favor right now when he really needed it.

  “You doing lunch, Max?”

  “Nah, I ate already. You eat at odd hours.”

  “Didn’t have a choice today. Goddamn mess at the office, shit really hit the fan. Lucky I got out of there when I did.” He flagged down the waitress and ordered a shit-ton of food: pickle chips, a bacon double cheeseburger, and fries. “Think we need a pitcher of beer too, doll,” he added with a smile, eliciting one in return from the jaded waitress.

  “Hope you’re buying,” Max said after her departure.

  “Of course. Somebody around here has to support the CIA.”

  “Oh, now you’re gettin’ nasty.” Though Max had left the Agency behind years ago, Ben and his other friends would never allow him to forget whom he’d served. Not that the Bureau is any better.

  They spent the better part of an hour reminiscing and drinking beer. By the time they started their second pitcher, the unit’s staff and officers had predictably departed, leaving the lower ranks to freely carouse. Ben had polished off the mountain of greasy food with no aid whatsoever from Max, who decided to get to business before their slight buzzes turned into something much dizzier. He had a feeling they might be in for a late night and, oddly enough, found himself in the mood for just that.

  Fuck it; it’s been a rough week.

  Ben seemed to read his mind. “I’m heading back to DC after this. You up to hit the town later? I’ll let you be my wingman.”

  Max laughed. “Bullshit. You can be mine.”

  “Your Cruise to my Kilmer. Let the panties hit the floor!”

  “We might be able to splash a couple. But first we need to discuss some heavier shit.”

  “I agree. After you, I insist.”

  Max didn’t like the sound of that. He hadn’t expected to receive a reciprocal load of heavy shit. “I need a lead on someone. You familiar with the name Henry Carter? Goes by the nickname of Swift?”

  Ben shook his head. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “He’s former Agency, became a contractor after that. We have a history, you might say, and it isn’t exactly rosy.”

  “Not wingman material?”


  “Not at all. He couldn’t get laid in a barnyard.” Especially now.

  “Ouch! What do you need this guy for? Something work related?”

  “Something like that.”

  Ben gave him a patronizing stare while attempting to suppress his amusement. “Now, Max, it would be unethical for me to assist you in such matters. As you know, the Bureau does not condone nor take part in feuds, vigilantism—”

  “Did I mention he’s former CIA? I figured you’d be interested on that fact alone.”

  Ben laughed, poured more beer. “We harbor no grudges toward our sister agencies. Wherever did you get an idea like that?”

  Max shrugged. “Too much television?”

  Ben shot a finger gun at him. “Exactly…” He then cracked up laughing, and Max wondered if he’d waited a few rounds too long to get to business. The beer appeared to be working on Ben already. But then he at least managed to look serious. “Tell you what, Max, give me what you have on the guy, and I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Thanks, buddy, I really—”

  “In return for a favor, of course. One hand washes the other… well, you know.”

  Max suppressed a sigh. Of course. “All too well. Shoot.”

  Ben leaned over the table, taking care for the first time that no one hear their conversation. “I’m working hand-in-hand with the lab at Quantico on a very crucial assignment, highest priority in the Bureau. It’s called Operation Thinker, though we just call it The Thinker.”

  “Objective?”

  “We’re after something too, only it’s not a person. Help me procure it, and I’ll dig up all I can on the current whereabouts of your Mr. Carter. If not, our business ends here. But we party tonight nevertheless.” He raised his glass in salute, then downed the dregs of his beer.

  Max might have walked out at this point, so often had he been tempted with broken promises uttered by forked tongues. He’d definitely developed his share of trust issues, which multiplied each time he sought information on his family’s killers. Ben had never given Max a reason to distrust him, but government work could corrupt even a man of probity. Max could only hope the Bureau hadn’t gotten too deep into Ben’s head. At the present time, he had few other options for help.

  “I might be open to that,” Max said. “But why would you even think of bringing me in on this operation? I haven’t had an active security clearance in years.”

  Ben appeared troubled for the first time. “Because I think there’s a mole in the Bureau, possibly several. I need someone from the outside, someone I trust. Accept, and we’ll each go about our missions. I’ll start searching for your boy Carter first thing Monday morning.”

  After a few moments of rumination, Max said, “Deal. Now tell me what you suits are after.”

  Looking very pleased with himself, Ben flashed a smile. If you think you’re getting something for nothing, you’re sorely mistaken. Even with the Bureau’s resources, Swift would be quite difficult to locate.

  Ben leaned even closer so he could be heard over a drunk Marine at the spades table shouting, Bullshit! You reneged! “What we’re after is called Nexus.”

  Nexus? Max upended his glass and waited to hear more.

  CHAPTER 5

  Max had learned of Swift’s presence on team Jarvis almost immediately after the Guyana mission; unfortunately, he hadn’t been able to hunt him down right away due to many grievous injuries he’d sustained on the mission, particularly a gunshot wound to the shoulder that required several months of intense physical therapy to heal and recondition. Those months had crept past as he constantly obsessed over capturing Carter and learning the identities of the others behind the crime. Home life, doctors’ visits, and an intense daily routine of working out and shooting nearly drove him mad as he waited and healed, eager to get on the road and continue his quest, his cyber searches for leads turning up nothing. When the time arrived to go after Swift, he left home determined and prepared, certain of taking down Carter as a steppingstone to locating the others.

  His subsequent failure still needled him as he raised the overhead door of the climate-controlled storage unit where he’d deposited his gear. Though he owned a luxurious home in Henderson, Nevada, just outside Las Vegas, Max had long ago grown accustomed to living in hotels and keeping his valuables in storage lockers. After his long period of recuperation, road life was the panacea he required to truly complete his recovery.

  But Max found his enthusiasm waning in the wake of the Florida debacle. Working for promises again… It had become an old and familiar theme, but at least the other missions provided cash compensation, if not the names he sought. He shook off the thought and turned to his gear. His private jet flight to San Francisco departed at 1600, three hours from now. If he must lament, it would be more prudent to do so on the plane.

  He’d seen nothing of Ben that morning. His wingman had scored; Max fell asleep on his couch listening to the creaking of bedsprings through the wall, accompanied by grunts and groans of pleasure. Max, who didn’t really go for looser sorts of women, had settled for a bit of second-base action and the phone number of an attractive yet generic blond about ten years his junior, which was fine by him. He’d wound up going on a mission with the last woman he picked up in a dance club, a CIA snake named Juno Rey, who tried to murder him a few days later in North Korea. Last night was a different situation, not lethal in the slightest, but it paid to be picky about whom one slept with.

  Ben hadn’t elaborated much regarding Nexus, opting instead to provide Max with a computer file on a flash drive that explained everything… or, more likely, only what Ben wished him to know. After departing Ben’s place that morning with a mild hangover, he returned to his hotel to review the file on his laptop before checking out, reading it over four times until he memorized all of the principal details.

  Nexus was an artificial intelligence program, allegedly the most advanced ever created, able to penetrate the security firewalls of any computer system in the world and hijack their operating systems. The US government coveted the program strictly for security reasons, or so they claimed. Oh sure, they would never use it to hack the computer systems of other governments. But turnabout was fair play, he supposed, if one believed the claims that China and Russia were constantly hacking in to mine data from the US government. In the intelligence community, one either kept pace with the enemy or fell victim to its attacks.

  As he began loading his 40-liter backpack with gear—starting with several boxes each of .45 and .380 ammunition, along with silencers and extra magazines for the two pistols—he again broke down the information on Dr. Daniel Farber, creator of Nexus. A wealthy Israeli national, forty years old and a widower, Farber had been educated at prestigious institutions abroad and in the United States. He’d earned dual doctorates in computer science and robotics from MIT, after which he returned to Israel to forge his career in AI.

  Nexus, Farber’s ultimate brainchild, could well be his last. After word of Nexus leaked to the intelligence community, interests from around the world sought to procure it. Harassed and threatened, Farber departed Israel. After a harrowing journey across the world he arrived in America, the only place where he might find succor. Of course, Farber would be forced to surrender Nexus to his saviors, the FBI, if they could get him to a safehouse located outside DC.

  Though the file mentioned nothing about the CIA or Mossad, Max knew they would be after Nexus as well. In fact, with Farber now in America, CIA agents would likely pose the greatest threat to him reaching the safehouse.

  That’s where I come in.

  FBI special agents Donald Wagner and Margaret Leet had been tasked with getting Farber from the West Coast to DC. Unfortunately, their journey went horribly wrong before it even started, when Wagner, the veteran agent of the two, was gunned down in the bathroom at Los Angeles Union Station by an unidentified man trying to steal Nexus. The hostile operative failed to secure the plans, but now only Leet stood
between Farber and those scheming to steal his creation.

  Ben, Leet’s DC contact and the man charged with securing Nexus for the Bureau, feared a mole in the organization and was reluctant to assign another agent to assist Leet. The fewer insiders who knew of Nexus, the better. Thus he’d called in Max to help her deliver Nexus and Dr. Farber.

  These were the official facts. But Ben had added his own addendum to the file, regarding Special Agent Leet. Twenty-eight years old, she had been with the Bureau for only three years and, in addition to being inexperienced and outgunned, Ben believed that she had been romantically involved with her deceased partner, Wagner. Max understood his concerns, having lost a few romantic interests on missions himself. She might be rattled and unstable over her partner’s death. Even if Leet had kept herself together, it sounded like she could use all the help she could get.

  Max sorted his gear in earnest as time grew shorter. If nothing else, this will be a change of pace. For this rare mission into the civilian world, Max would be leaving his full combat load behind. No need for a heavy-duty plate carrier, ballistic helmet, rifle, or tactical suits in several environmental patterns. He did pack suits in both black and urban camouflage, just in case, along with a pair of night vision goggles he would carry in his luggage.

  Knowing he might be forced to fly commercial in the following days, Max was hesitant to pack heavier firepower. Flying with two legal pistols these days proved difficult enough; a submachine gun could land him in jail. Yet his instincts screamed at him to err on the side of caution, even if he had to leave the weapon behind in storage to get on a plane.

  His HK MP-7 had always served well as a backup weapon on combat missions, but he chose instead to bring a new addition to his arsenal—a Springfield Armory Saint chambered in 5.56mm, a compact, cutting-edge, AR-15-style pistol that he’d yet to wield under fire. It had an EOTech holographic red dot sight, a custom-built suppressor, and a thirty-round magazine clamped to a second mag for rapid reload. The Saint was only slightly larger than his MP-7, and the larger round it carried would allow him to engage targets at both close and long range. Max put the Saint and two sets of attached magazines into the backpack along with some spare ammunition and batteries.