Extreme Liquidation: Caitlin Diggs Series #2

by Gary Starta

  Dr. McCauley had ordered Sweizer to drop twenty pounds two weeks ago. The colonel uncapped a bottle, took a swig and swished it around his mouth. He frowned. Sweizer now equated the water regimen with McCauley’s elephant-sized butt. He wondered if water would really transform him, and if it could, would there ever be enough H20 on this small blue planet to shrink the doctor’s super sized ass.

  Praying for a distraction, Sweizer set the alarm on his digital watch. He would attempt to get a little shuteye. Although his participation in the upcoming battlefield simulations would be voluntary, Sweizer knew deep in his heart that nothing—not even the water in the ocean—could ever take the soldier out of him.

  Sweizer would begrudgingly relinquish command of the base today to Lieutenant Colonel Louis Stoker. Stoker would be responsible for moving an observer unit along eight miles of rough terrain specifically reserved for such simulations. Although he would never violate Army protocol, Sweizer felt threatened by the change in command, simulation or not. He feared his unit might take a preference to Stoker’s leadership. He had been there himself at one time, recalling his tenure as a private and how he hated his superior officer.

  Come to think of it, his commanding officer behaved an awful lot like Dr. McCauley back then—a hypocritical know-it-all. Well, if this Stoker was anything less than a complete hard ass, he might sway loyalty toward him. Sweizer was damned if he would sit idly by. Before dozing off, he phoned the base’s helicopter squadron, requesting a pilot put him in the air to view the sims. When asked what type of bird he preferred, the colonel snapped, “Nothing less than the best. Get me a Black Hawk.”

  Sweizer awoke to a digital intrusion one hour and forty-seven minutes later. He cursed in the darkness for another three minutes, fumbling and punching the glowing blue minicomputer attached to his wrist. Conceding he could not command the beeping alarm to stop, he stripped if off his wrist, muffled it in a towel and stuffed it in the back of his desk drawer. Suffering from a foggy head and cottonmouth, the lieutenant colonel ranted incoherently.

  A knock jolted him.

  “Pilot George Aims reporting for duty, sir.”

  “At ease, pilot. Care for some water?”

  Aims politely refused.

  “You’re smart. There won’t be any latrines up there, will there? Well, bathrooms or no bathrooms, Mr. Aims, I’m taking a six-pack with me. Doctor’s orders.”

  Minutes later, Aims escorted Sweizer to a chopper pad via Jeep. The cold sting from a January wind did little to sharpen Sweizer’s senses. A half yawn, half laugh erupted from the lieutenant colonel.

  The Black Hawk had already been readied. The pair swarmed toward the bird, heads ducked, fighting the blast of air emanating from its rotors. Once in the cockpit, Aims experienced a strange sensation, it felt something like dread. He eyed Sweizer warily. The commanding officer seated to his right had donned a pair of shades. He chuckled. Although Aims had never met Sweizer before, he found the colonel’s behavior bizarre.

  Sweizer ordered Aims to follow closely behind the battalion. He wanted to see what kind of offensive Lt. Colonel Stoker had up his sleeve today. It had better be good because in less than a month, the unit would be dispatched to serve in Iraq.

  For fifteen minutes, Sweizer held his breath, continuing to chug water. Then, just like his watch, he started barking uncontrollably.

  “These men and women will never survive a surprise attack. We’ve got to up the ante.”

  Aims’s eyes shifted uneasily.

  Colonel Sweizer’s hand reached for the ops command board. His finger settled upon the section marked weapon’s array. The chopper rocked as a mighty discharge followed. A door-mounted cannon took straight aim for the unit’s rear. It carved a Hummer-sized divot in the earth below them. Dust sprayed skyward in volcanic fashion. Aims searched the ground frantically, fearing the worst.

  “Sir, no air assaults were planned today.” He yelled over the whirring blades to no avail.

  “Are you telling me how to run my battalion?”

  Sweizer moved to ready another cannon when a radio transmission interrupted.

  “Black Hawk, stand down your attack immediately. No aerial assaults scheduled today, I repeat, stand down, immediately!”

  Aims recognized the voice. “It’s Lt. Colonel Stoker, sir. Permission to bring Black Hawk back to base.”

  “Permission denied, Pilot Aims. I outrank Stoker. Now continue the course.”

  Aims attempted to engage the bird in a turn.

  He found a switchblade thrust a few uncomfortable centimeters from his jugular vein.

  “Now, do we have an understanding, pilot? Stay the course!”

  ***

  Assistant Director Dudek’s secretary sank into her chair, arms raised. Her mind flashed back to a 1960s western where a black-masked man ordered everyone in the bank to reach for the sky. There was something terribly wrong with this picture, though. Except for a heightened fashion sense and a disheveled hairdo, she recognized Agent Diggs as the woman pointing the Beretta 9mm at her, and the secretary knew the FBI veteran was no gun-toting villain. Yes, indeed. Something was wrong here. Had the rumors about Agent Diggs’s mental status been true? Did she lose her mind last fall in the hunt for the Arrowhead Killer? Or did it happen before that, when she lost her partner and lover Geoffrey McAllister to a brutal slaying? Maybe it was a combination of both. Why else would a woman once revered as a hero behave so bizarrely?

  “Relax, I’m going to enter A.D. Dudek’s office now. I fear he might come—might have come to harm.” Diggs tried in vain to shake the vision of Dudek being shot as she slipped by the secretary, eyes trained on the door.

  The secretary entertained one thought before fainting. They were right about Agent Diggs. She had lost her mind.

  “Whah...what the hell is going on here?”

  Dudek popped out of his leather chair as if he were a jack in the box.

  “Are you alone, sir?”

  “At the moment.”

  “Did you go to the lab today?” Diggs continued firing questions, never taking her trigger finger off the Beretta.

  “To Quantico? No, I’ve been in a meeting. Will be for the entire day. We’re taking a break. I didn’t know I had to keep you apprised of my every action.”

  “So you haven’t come into contact with Hoyt and Rivers?”

  “Correct, agent. Now put the damn gun away and tell me what’s going on.”

  “I had a premonition.” Diggs returned the gun to a vest pocket.

  A loud clatter of feet erupted beyond the doorway. Bureau security burst over the threshold.

  “Sir, are you all right?”

  “Yes. We had a false alarm. Agent Diggs believed my life to be in danger. And I’ll have a full report in your hands by noon.”

  Three guards stood down, shooting holes in Agent Diggs with their eyes.

  When the door closed, Dudek became the interrogator.

  “Now, I’ll ask the questions. First of all, you better have had pretty good cause to assume my life was in danger.”

  Diggs ignored her superior and began dialing her cellphone.

  “Sorry, sir. It’s not that I don’t believe you. I need to ascertain that Agent Rivers is okay.”

  Diggs waited for the call to connect while Dudek fumed, hands on hips.

  “Of course she’s all right. She’s been working nonstop with Hoyt.”

  Diggs’s mind raced with suspicion. Working on what? She assumed Dudek was hiding the most important detail from her. “You have them working on a trust serum, don’t you?”

  “How the hell do you know anything about that? I can’t let this get to Hainsworth. I’m sure you can appreciate my attempt to work below his radar, Caitlin.”

  The call connected.

  “Agent Rivers. Thank God you’re okay. And by the way, how is Hoyt doing?”

  An uneasy voice answered on speakerphone.

  “He’s fine. Why do you ask ?”

  “I
can’t say right now .”

  The call ended. Dudek sighed uneasily in the background. He had been left out of the loop. Diggs decided to stand firm and not tell Dudek about her psychic abilities—especially within the confines of Director Hainsworth’s building. The veteran agent felt a tinge of guilt mixed with a dash of hypocrisy. What gave her the right to accuse the assistant director when she had been playing games in the shadows as well?

  “Sir, I can’t explain further right now. I must get to Fort Belvoir as quickly as possible.”

  “And let me guess, you’re working on another premonition?”

  Diggs nodded.

  Dudek began dialing the phone.

  “Get me a chopper. We need to transport two agents to the Fort Belvoir army base ASAP.”

  ***

  Lt. Colonel Stoker shouted over his radio. “All units take cover!”

  He dreaded his next course of action.

  “This is acting base commander Lt. Colonel Stoker. Requesting Apache Longbow to intercept Black Hawk, approach with weapons on standby.”

  Stoker did not waste time giving the Black Hawk’s position. The Apache Longbow was well equipped to see its targets in clear, vivid color—even if they were miles away. It also carried missiles.

  “Pilot, I need you to give me a full casualty report upon your approach.”

  “Affirmative, Lt Colonel. We have wounded. I count three bodies—correction, I see three remains two miles ahead.”

  Remains? Stoker’s stomach soured. This was supposed to be a drill.

  “Pilot, try to engage the Black Hawk with a hail. If that fails, I want you to force it out of the clearing and into the forest. That’s if you can’t get them to land.”

  “Roger that, sir. Respectfully, this course of action might result in fatalities. The Hawk could crash, sir. We might lose course control as well.”

  “Acknowledged, Pilot Adams. We must neutralize the threat—at all costs. Proceed with caution upon your approach and keep your weapons on standby. I am authorizing a full weapons launch if the colonel can’t be persuaded to land. We will only engage in assault from the ground as a last consequence. Stoker, out.”

  Pilot Frank Adams grimaced. He never imagined his first battlefield encounter would entail friendly fire.

  Two hails to the Black Hawk went unanswered .

  ***

  “Follow the damn targets, Aims. They’re getting away.”

  “Sir, you’re firing on our unit. This is a drill, Colonel Sweizer. I repeat, a drill.”

  “For God’s sake, Aims, I’m right here. Do you think I’m senile? Maybe a little brain damaged?” Sweizer waggled the knife dangerously close to the pilot’s Aim’s throat.

  “No, sir. Maybe a little confused, that’s all.”

  “I’m not confused. I’m engaging the enemy—the real enemy. Do you understand, now?”

  “Not quite...sir.”

  “I’ll spell it out for you then. I don’t believe it’s necessary to send more men and women to their deaths. This idea suddenly popped into my brain this morning as I contemplated my Spartan breakfast and a few sparkling pints of this purer than shit spring mountain water. Speaking of which—” Sweizer drained the remains of his bottle. “My actions here today will end up saving lives. This damn war should have been over by now. The answer is really very simple. Now answer me honestly, Aims. Am I a traitor?”

  Aims swallowed hard as the knife dangled precariously close to his neck. He would take a vow of silence. He had fallen into the hands of the enemy.

  On the ground, Washington PD waited for their captain’s orders. Positioned along the base perimeter, five of DC’s best watched in awe as two choppers prepared for battle. Truth be told, Captain Marcotte didn’t have a clue how to handle this one. As he bided for more time, the whir of a third chopper stole his attention. This one hovered just above the patrol cars.

  “Everybody take cover!” The captain fell face down on the ground.

  Lieutenant Amanda Orr intervened. “It’s okay, Captain. It’s the FBI.”

  “And when were you going to advise me?”

  “I’m sorry, Captain. I thought you caught it on the radio.”

  Marcotte, on his knees, and covered with dust shot Orr a look of disdain.

  “Let me help you up, sir.”

  “That won’t be necessary.” As Marcotte slowly began to rise to his feet, a gust of wind nearly knocked him back down again.

  And as more dust swirled around him, Marcotte wondered what good more law enforcement would do at this point. He also grew suspicious of the Bureau’s involvement. How could they have predicted this?

  Diggs answered the captain’s inquiry moments later.

  “ Someone has drugged Colonel Sweizer. We believe military personnel and those most vocally supportive of the war are the intended targets. We know this because it is part of an ongoing investigation. I had hoped you would have had time to head this off.”

  Captain Marcotte paused to scratch his cheek. Armed with nothing stronger than sarcasm, he marched toward Diggs, slowly annunciating each word of his next question. “And how could we have done that, Agent Diggs?”

  Rivers eyed Diggs curiously. She chose to side with the captain on this one. Had Diggs alerted the base about a possible contamination of its water supply? Several seconds elapsed. It told Rivers she had not. Deondra eyed the sky, wondering how in the hell they were going to stop an air war.

  A voice from behind intervened. “A warning wouldn’t have done anybody much good.” The man acknowledged Diggs as she turned to face him. It was General Otis Farnell. “Good to see you again, agent.”

  His appearance left Diggs speechless. Thoughts of collusion danced in her head. The Joint Chiefs of Staff must have known this would happen. Maybe they considered her warning after all...

  “Captain Marcotte, Agent Diggs did try to warn us about a threat. We—the military—chose to take an uncooperative attitude. We didn’t believe acknowledging the threat would prevent another attack.”

  Diggs swallowed hard. “I beg to differ, general. If you had acknowledged the threat, the perpetrator might have begun a negotiation, instead of launching another assault.”

  “Agent Diggs, you know as well as I do, we can never deliver what these perpetrators truly want. And how would they become privy to our acknowledgement? I thought you wanted this kept out of the press.”

  “We all know there are those who work outside the scope of the military, general. These people might have been able to relay a message.”

  “I beg to differ. Those who work outside this scope would never risk personal exposure. Perhaps you should concentrate the scope of your investigation where it really belongs—on the terrorists.”

  Diggs channeled her frustration by boring her boot into the frozen soil. She had witnessed Farnell’s duplicity by admitting that people work outside the scope of the military. He therefore must have known about the conspiracy all along. It did answer another question , though. She now knew why Fromme had discouraged her from seeking the military’s assistance on the investigation. It was because the military would never acknowledge an enemy exists within. Their agenda was clear. They would prioritize saving face over saving lives.

  Addressing officers and agents alike, the general suggested all bureaucratic discussion cease immediately. “The press will be here in seconds.”

  Diggs fumed. The general was right in this regard. She couldn’t let any talk of psychotropic drugs or military conspiracies get into the press. And as she contemplated a horrific ending to the simulated war playing out mere miles away, a tap on her shoulder startled her. Her face paled. Reporter Ross Fisher had joined the captive audience.

  Chapter 20

  Aleister Crowley, the man who once claimed the most dishonorable mentions of being the wickedest man alive, relished his escape from the flawed mortal vessel which now housed his soul.

  A majority incorrectly believed Crowley had given up his satanic crown upon
his death in 1947, and that was quite all right with the magician in black. Aleister had a plan. He would exercise patience until he could take the heavens by storm. When the time was right, he would engage a sneak attack upon the ultimate gated community. The unsuspecting deities who resided there—specifically those who had nixed many a soul’s hope of attaining godhood—would have to concede his entrance. True, these gods had earned their right to be uppity, omnipotent and arrogant. Consequently, they had ruled with an attitude, making the Golden Mean Spiral the most exclusive of all inter-dimensional clubs. Still, he had no doubt he would one day walk among them.

  Crowley had been deemed unworthy upon his death. His soul had jumped into an ordinary man. In the ensuing years, indifferent gods never gave Crowley a second thought, believing his soul would fade into black, the kind of black devoid of shape and substance. Yet Crowley respected the gods’ discriminating admission policy, choosing to hate the game, not the players. Forced reincarnation mandated he roam the world in a new body until his sorcery met the grade.

  He accepted his fate and engaged in a most hostile takeover, commanding his new corporeal vessel to do his bidding. Consequently, that vessel relied heavily upon manmade alchemy to do the wizardry he had once achieved through transcendental telekinesis and the most ethereal empathic design. This man, the one robed in purple, the one a small sect had labeled Master, would never be mistaken for a grand sorcerer. Yet his will was strong. And Crowley believed this man to be quite capable because of this.

  He even saw a bit of himself in this Master, a man who clung tightly to his commitment to follow through despite the odds, despite the command of only a small entourage of supporters and despite his fallibility as a mere human being. These obstacles only drove him harder to accomplish his will, to make his presence felt, to one day make an impact so strong the gods in the Golden Mean Spiral would have no choice but to grant him, and the soul he carried, admittance into their grandest kingdom.

  Crowley, with the help of the Master, counted the days. Together, they would perform the greatest show on Earth because it would be the last show on Earth. They would exterminate humanity so only the select few could take the next grandiose step—the attainment of godhood. By removing all human vessels, Crowley and his disciple would eliminate the possibility of reincarnation. The gods would then be forced to comply, to admit the worthy. And those souls not meritorious enough to claim godhood would perish into nothingness—to vanish with the most extreme liquidation.