The Fusion Cage (Warner & Lopez Book 2)

by Dean Crawford

  ‘Why is that?’ Mitchell asked, speaking for the first time. His voice was both soft and yet threatening at the same time, his forged–in–granite confidence apparently divesting him of the need to project an attitude.

  ‘Intelligence security,’ Nellis replied. ‘The program has assets on the ground and exposure of their activities could render them at risk.’

  Miller’s controlled expression slipped. Mitchell remained silent. Nellis became aware of the sound of people walking past beyond his office door as the silence stretched out for several seconds until Miller finally spoke.

  ‘We have identified two individuals connected to this program.’ He slid a pair of glossy images across the desk to Nellis. ‘Do you recognize them?’

  Nellis looked down and saw a black and white mug shot of Ethan Warner staring up at him. It was typical of the Pentagon that they would have provided a shot of Warner taken years ago in Cook County Jail, and not one from the much easier to acquire service record from the US Marine Corp’s primary training base at Quantico, Virginia. Beside Warner’s haggard features was a shot of Nicola Lopez, again taken via a surveillance team and not a more formal shot of her proudly wearing the blues of the Washington Police Department.

  He looked up at Mitchell and Miller.

  ‘They work for Jarvis,’ he replied.

  Mitchell folded his hands in his lap as he spoke.

  ‘You are aware that these two agents were responsible for disrupting a sensitive operation in Argentina a few months ago?’

  Nellis nodded. Ethan and Lopez, working with Jarvis, had deployed across the globe in search of something that even Nellis had difficulty in understanding: the remains of a species not of this Earth, a fossilized remnant of something that had died thousands of years ago and may have influenced human history and development. They had uncovered startling evidence of mankind’s ancient record of extra–terrestrial involvement in early civilizations, all of which had swiftly been recovered and concealed by Majestic Twelve. What Nellis could not be sure of was whether Mitchell and Miller were working for MJ–12 or were, like him, trying to get to the bottom of it all.

  ‘Jarvis’s agents were deployed to South America in that timeframe,’ he confirmed. ‘However I am not at liberty to discuss the operation due to national security considerations.’

  Mitchell smiled without warmth but remained silent.

  ‘Your man Jarvis allowed both Ethan Warner and his partner, Nicola Lopez, access to highly classified material,’ Miller pointed out.

  ‘Their exposure to sensitive programs is more than justified by their success in utilizing the information obtained.’

  ‘That would be true,’ Mitchell added, ‘were Warner and Lopez not civilian contractors.’

  Nellis levelled Mitchell with a cold gaze.

  ‘Warner and Lopez are only given cases that the rest of the intelligence community has already rejected as unworkable. Perhaps you should ask yourself why it is that the Pentagon has turned away from at least six major investigations that presented clear and present dangers to both American security and the lives of our citizens? And if I may, I’d like to point out that you are also a civilian, are you not?’

  ‘This isn’t about blame,’ Miller intervened. ‘We’re being asked to ensure that the security of our most sensitive operations cannot be blown by two people over whom we have no control. This program represents a very weak link in a long chain of security measures. I can’t go back to the Secretary of Defense and tell him, hey, everything’s just fine, chill out. If any DIA programs were exposed to the public, all of our careers would be on the line.’

  Nellis remained impassive.

  ‘Over half of all DIA employees are civilians. Who sent you, exactly?’ Neither Miller or Mitchell replied, which pretty much was an answer in itself. ‘So, the spooks at the CIA have taken a fresh interest in what Doug’s achieving down here?’ He looked at Mitchell. ‘Let me guess: Warner and Lopez have done what you guys couldn’t so now you’re looking to take over the operation.’

  ‘This is about security,’ Mitchell replied, ‘nothing more.’

  ‘Of course it is,’ Nellis replied without losing the smile. ‘So much so that you want me to breach my own agency’s security protocols because you’re worried about breaches of security protocol. Not going to happen.’

  ‘We’re on the same side,’ Miller said, making a stab at keeping the mood cordial. ‘We just need to keep everybody’s borders tight, is all. If this program were such a big deal then maybe you could run it through the NRO and cut Warner and Lopez loose. That way it’s all internal and we’re not farming work out to people like that.’

  Miller gestured to the images of Lopez and Warner.

  ‘People like what?’ Nellis rumbled.

  ‘A convicted felon and a gumshoe,’ Miller chuckled in response. ‘We’ve got much better people available for this kind of work who won’t set off alarm bells in DC.’

  Nellis’s fists balled of their own accord on his desk.

  ‘If you’d bothered to look into the history of these two investigators instead of just sucking up the crap that the CIA has obviously fed you, you’d know that Ethan Warner is decorated former United States Marine, as is Doug Jarvis, and that Nicola Lopez is a former DC police detective. Neither of them are amateurs at anything.’

  ‘They’re both liabilities,’ Mitchell snapped. ‘Ethan Warner has a reputation for directly disobeying authority and Lopez is known to be a short fuse at the best of times. Yet they’re both wandering around the country with access to all manner of classified material. Jarvis has in the past used assets of our Navy and Air Force to achieve his aims in support of these investigations, which have often led to extreme exposure events such as exploding civilian apartment buildings, violent incidents in allied countries such as Israel and repeated firearms violations in public areas throughout the country. Our business is both covert and classified.’ Mitchell gestured at the photographs. ‘They’re a danger to national security, not an asset to it.’

  Nellis leaned across the desk, his eyes glowering into Mitchell’s.

  ‘The Pentagon has acquired extraordinary technology as a direct result of Jarvis’s investigations and I’ll be damned if I’ll let the CIA kick the door down now.’

  Mitchell leaned forward. ‘Where are Warner and Lopez, right now?’

  ‘Busy, somewhere.’

  Mitchell seemed about to make a move when a discreet buzzing sound broke the silence. Mitchell reached down and retrieved a cell phone from his pocket, answering it and listening for a few moments. Then he stood from his seat without another word and stalked out of the office. Nellis waited until the door had closed behind him before he looked at Miller. The soldier’s expression said it all.

  ‘Are you really in bed with the spooks?’ Nellis asked.

  ‘This isn’t about the CIA,’ Miller said quietly. ‘It’s far beyond that. That call means that wherever your two intrepid agents have gone, Mitchell now knows about it.’

  Nellis looked at the soldier for a long moment, and then he reached out and grabbed a post–it note and a pen as he spoke.

  ‘You know I want to help but all of our agencies have their respective boundaries. I can’t just start exposing my own people to potential law suits should any of this become public knowledge. I have a loyalty to my agents just as much as the CIA, the Pentagon or anybody else.’

  Nellis wrote a word on the note and turned it to face Miller, who looked down at it as he replied.

  MJ-12?

  ‘I’m just doing my job here,’ Miller said as he read the note and looked back at Nellis. He nodded slowly. ‘You understand, of course?’

  ‘It’s nothing personal,’ Nellis replied.

  ‘It never is,’ Miller agreed. ‘We’ve all got our place and we all have to fulfil our obligations, regardless of the cost. Sometimes, the powers that be are so influential that they can alter the course of history. That’s not an enemy that you want to make.�
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  ‘Watch your back,’ Nellis warned. ‘Such people have a long history of self–preservation at the expense of their agents.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ve got myself covered,’ Miller said with an easy smile as he stood. The smile slipped as he regarded the general for a moment. ‘They’ll get what they want in the end.’

  ‘I know. Just going to try to hold them off for a while longer, is all.’

  ‘Don’t try too hard. There’s too much at stake, for all three of us now that we’re involved and for your man Jarvis,’ Miller warned him. ‘It’s better for you all if you handle their investigations directly through this office and keep us in the loop.’

  ‘Why’s that?’ Nellis asked.

  ‘Because I’m only here due to Warner’s military history,’ Miller replied. ‘Truth is, I’ve got very little control here over what CIA might try to do. I’m consulting, not controlling.’

  ‘Mitchell’s in charge?’ Nellis asked in surprise.

  Miller nodded.

  ‘If Mitchell gets his claws into this alone, Ethan Warner and Nicola Lopez are likely to end up as targets themselves.’

  ***

  XVI

  Breathe.

  Ethan sucked in a mouthful of dusty air that scratched the back of his throat and made him cough. The choked coughs reverberated through his chest like war drums, fear scraping the lining of his stomach like a convict’s nails down the walls of a cell.

  He could see nothing through the coarse sack that was bound with rough cord around his neck and filling his nostrils with musty, stale air. His arms were tied behind his back with rope that tore the skin on his wrists. He knelt with his head between his knees, kept breathing and tried to remain calm.

  Fear scalded like acid through his veins, and the blackness messed with his sense of balance, further amplifying his asphyxia. He had been incarcerated by Saudi militants who would kill both him and Lopez without hesitation, and their captors had wasted no time in transporting them through Riyadh’s dangerous streets to what he presumed was a safe house likely far from the reach of the authorities.

  Breathe.

  He was buzzing now on nervous energy, poisoned with paranoia, fear and hallucinations. The oppressive heat closed in around him and a brief burst of Arabic punctured the silence.

  A door opened with a crash and rough hands grabbed him and hauled him to his feet. Ethan tried to stand but his legs would not respond and he sprawled awkwardly as the unseen hands dragged him across the rough, uneven ground.

  ‘Get up!’

  Broken, accented English. Ethan staggered upright and swayed as stars of light sparkled in the darkness before his eyes.

  ‘This way!’

  A hand shoved him and he stumbled blindly forwards, colliding with the walls of a corridor. Footfalls around him suggested two men, one in front of him and the other behind.

  He was shoved into what sounded, from the echoes and timbre of the sounds from outside, like a larger room and a hand grabbed his shoulder, turned him around and shoved him down. Ethan thumped into a wooden chair. Before he could react he felt himself being tied to the chair. Something wrenched at the hood over his face and a harsh white light burst into his eyes. He blinked away from it, squinting and struggling to focus on his surroundings.

  A bare room, one shuttered window facing out across the city, bright sunlight outside and blue sky. Heat, close and oppressive, the stench of old tobacco heavy in the room.

  ‘Welcome.’

  Ethan squinted up and to his right to see a pair of dark eyes observing him. The man was young and fuelled with the arrogance of that youth, perhaps twenty–five years old, his hair thick and black, coarse stubble darkening his jaw.

  ‘Who are you?’ Ethan asked.

  ‘What does it matter?’

  Ethan managed to hold the man’s gaze with a thin veneer of bravado.

  ‘It matters to me, I’m the one tied to a chair.’

  The man leaned close to him. ‘You’re an American. You deserve to be tied to a chair.’

  ‘Where is the woman I was brought here with?’

  The features creased into a smile poisoned with brutal delight. ‘She is safe, in a manner of speaking.’

  ‘I need to see her.’

  The man whirled and ploughed his fist deep into Ethan’s stomach. Ethan’s eyes almost burst from their sockets as he bolted forward over the blow.

  ‘Who sent you here?’ his captor demanded.

  Ethan sucked in a pained lungful of air, waves of nausea flushing through his guts.

  ‘We’re looking for somebody.’

  The militant sighed and shook his head.

  ‘You were inside the Seavers compound, talking with the American oil man.’

  Ethan shook his head, slowly gaining control of his breathing.

  ‘We came here looking for a man named Stanley Meyer. We think that Seavers may have abducted him.’

  The militant looked across at his companion, whose face was almost completely concealed behind a thick beard.

  ‘That would seem highly unlikely,’ Ethan’s interrogator leaned close to him, the smell of tobacco thick on his breath. ‘Why would an American abduct an American? That’s our job.’

  Ethan looked at the man and performed a swift mental calculation. Keep telling the truth. Don’t get caught in a lie or they’ll cut your throat and feed what’s left to the carrion birds.

  ‘There’s more to it than that,’ he said. ‘Stanley Meyer is who they’re looking for too.’

  A cruel smile creased the man’s features. ‘Yes, so I keep hearing.’

  He raised a hand and clicked his fingers. Instantly the bearded militant grabbed something from inside one of the nearby crates. The man reached inside and produced a series of images, handing them to his companion.

  The militant held the images out one by one to Ethan, shots taken from a parked car of armed police guards beating a Saudi protester, of the water cannons hosing them down in droves, and of Ethan and Lopez fleeing the scene in the stolen truck.

  ‘You’re a servant of the Great Satan, are you not?’ he hissed. ‘And now you’re here, seeking to conspire with the oil men in their compounds.’

  ‘Where is Lopez?’ Ethan demanded.

  ‘Your friend, the woman?’ the militant asked. ‘Where she ends up depends very much on what you do next.’

  ***

  XVII

  ‘Let Lopez go,’ Ethan recalled, staring at the photographs. ‘We’ve already lost track of Amber.’

  ‘The younger woman who was with you,’ the militant said. ‘How tragic.’

  ‘She’s just a child,’ Ethan said quickly, aware of the sweat soaking his skin. ‘Are you going to just let her die at the hands of people like Huck Seavers?!’

  The militant’s features tightened as sheet lightning danced behind his dark eyes.

  ‘Die?’ he snarled with a wide grin of fury. ‘She’s been taken to Huck Seaver’s personal home in a gated compound in the city, in a limousine, no less. She will be sipping fine wine as we sit out here in the baking desert searching for scraps to feed our children.’

  ‘Her father is on the run,’ Ethan snapped back. ‘This is about things far bigger than you can possibly imagine!’

  ‘Enlighten me.’

  Ethan shook his head as he closed his eyes and spoke almost mechanically as he recounted what had happened and why they had travelled to Saudi Arabia. The militant listened for a long time, watching Ethan with his dark eyes and his arms folded until, finally, Ethan finished and the militant looked at Ethan for a long moment.

  The man’s jaw creased in a broad smile and he glanced at his companion.

  ‘So, you are the victim of a conspiracy by corporate leaders of, what was it, MJ–12? And they are here to kill you, and your friends, all because this Stanley Meyer invented a device that makes oil useless?’

  Ethan nodded, and the militant looked over his shoulder at his bearded companion and smiled broadly.


  ‘I think he’s been watching too much Hollywood films, no?’

  The bearded militant smiled as Ethan’s interrogator turned back to him and produced an elegantly carved blade that he examined as he spoke.

  ‘Americans,’ he uttered. ‘Your presidents demand from the world honourable leadership, the dignity of your people, justice and liberty for all, and yet they then smile and shake hands with Saudi princes who take our country’s money and spend it on luxury yachts and cars and private jets while we sweat in poverty. You rally against terrorism and yet supply Israel with arms with which to subjugate and torture Palestine. You decry injustice, yet prop up a corrupt House of Saud that is stealing our wealth from beneath our deserts and punishes, brutally, anybody who dares demand equality in this land.’

  Ethan managed to drag his eyes away from the blade, looking instead at his captor.

  ‘I don’t make or agree with United States foreign policy.’

  ‘I believe you,’ the militant said. ‘But it matters little. You see, my brother was a journalist who tried to expose the rotten core of our beloved House of Saud. When he was arrested, he was tried without jury in a court and sentenced to life imprisonment and one thousand lashes. I’m told he made it to about three hundred before his heart gave out. Where was your country’s liberty and justice then? We sent images of his body to your news networks, but they wouldn’t show the pictures of his remains on your western television networks because it might offend.’ The militant suddenly grabbed Ethan’s hair, yanked it back until it hurt and pressed the blade against his throat. Ethan felt the cold steel touch his skin, felt his pulse throbbing against the blade. ‘Are you offended, right now?’

  Ethan peered at the man and his voice sounded thin in his own ears.

  ‘I was asked to search for Meyer by the Defense Intelligence Agency.’

  ‘Why did they ask you?!’ the militant shouted, spittle flying into Ethan’s face. ‘Why would you care?!’