by Jack Bowie
Chapter 50
National Counterterrorism Center, McLean, Virginia
Monday, 1:00 p.m.
“Do you bring me to these meetings as a form of medieval punishment, Peter?” Slattery asked as they settled into the chairs in another SCIF in the NCTC. “What will it be today? A group inquisition?”
The CIA agent had fumed all morning over Carlson’s attack on Braxton. It wasn’t that he liked the consultant all that much—he could be an arrogant sonuvabitch—but he couldn’t put up with bureaucrats taking their frustration out on civilians. He was sure Carlson was pissed at the CIA for getting Braxton involved, pissed at NSA for lying about their screw-up, and pissed at Braxton for violating Vision One, one of the country’s high-tech hotshots. Unfortunately for the consultant, he was the only one over whom the DNI had any real clout.
Slattery had paced back and forth in his office all morning, ranting at the stupidity of the “system.” He hadn’t been talking to anyone; he simply needed to vent the anger inside.
And just when he was beginning to calm down, it was time for the meeting at the NCTC. What could be next?
“Our friends were busy this weekend, Roger,” Markovsky said, ignoring his subordinate’s previous question. “Carlson has an update for the group.”
“Did we learn anything from the Georgia raid?”
“You know about that?”
“Yeah. I talked with Flynn on Friday.”
“I don’t know any details. I’m sure Mary Ellen will tell us if she found out anything.”
The rest of the advisory group members filed in, Stroller and Robinson trailing, looking like a pair of beaten puppies. Carlson must have finally gotten around to them.
The activity in the room froze when Flynn entered. Slattery feared something unexpected had happened. The FBI Special Assistant looked especially dour. Which might be explained by the white cloth sling supporting her left arm.
Slattery tapped Markovsky on the shoulder.
“What happened to Mary Ellen?”
“She had a run-in with a mugger yesterday,” he replied. “He cut her forearm pretty badly, but she seems okay.”
Jesus. This town was getting dangerous. I wonder how the mugger made out?
“Everyone seems to be here so let’s get started,” Carlson finally announced. “There have been a number of militia developments over the weekend. The situation is becoming increasingly serious. Mary Ellen, would you please give us a summary of these events?”
Flynn rose and walked to the front of the room. Her movements were slow and deliberate. The injury was definitely having some effect. The now-familiar annotated map of the United States appeared behind her, dots of blue and green pinpointing the previous militia activity.
“Late last week,” the Special Assistant began, “we received corroboration from an informant that the activities of the Citizens for Liberty militia organization in Georgia were being directed by an external group. And that this cell had been involved in the Tyler and Middleton arsons. As a result we obtained a search warrant for the cell’s center of operations, a local farm. This warrant was executed late Saturday afternoon by a combined team from the FBI, ATF, and Georgia Patrol.” The country-wide map dissolved into a close-up of the Tyler farm. “We arrested thirty-seven militia members on a variety of state and federal weapons charges.”
“Were there any casualties, Mary Ellen?” Delacroix asked.
“Unfortunately yes, Admiral. We had no problem making the arrests, but one of our agents discovered a laboratory buried in a hidden bunker. The bunker was booby trapped. The laboratory was completely destroyed and Agent Gregory Franklin was killed.”
The room went silent. This was the second agent Flynn had lost. Slattery knew what she was going though. He had lost a few of his own on even successful operations.
“What kind of a laboratory was it, Mary Ellen?” Delacroix continued. His voice had lost its usual hard edge.
“Quantico has only started the analysis,” Flynn replied. “But from what we can tell it was a very sophisticated biochemical facility. Far beyond anything required for simple explosives. We believe it may have been used to culture the Chlamydophila Pneumoniae stolen from the CDC. Atlanta is performing similar analyses.”
Slattery watched the faces react when Flynn named the microbe. It appeared everyone had heard the news despite their efforts to keep it under wraps.
“Excuse me, Mary Ellen,” Stroller interrupted, “but is there any chance the bacteria was destroyed in the explosion?”
“The resulting fire would certainly have neutralized any active material in the lab. But we have no proof that cultures weren’t taken away earlier. It has been a month since the theft.”
“Have you gotten anything out of the goddamn terrorists?” Delacroix demanded.
“Very little from most,” Flynn responded. “They seem to have just been happy to just play soldier every few weeks at training exercises. The leader of the Tyler cell was more cooperative, however. He confirmed that the cells were being coordinated by someone called the Commander. No one has ever seen him, if he even exists. All their contact was with a man called Gary. This Gary bought all the weapons, directed all the operations. Including the Tyler and Middleton attacks. We’ve developed this sketch of the man.”
A drawing of a face appeared on the screen. There was nothing remarkable about the features, yet Slattery felt a chill cut through him. Something about the face was familiar.
“So who is this man?” Markovsky asked.
“We do not have any identification at this time. We’re checking all the local motels, bars, and gas stations. We’ll find him.”
“Do you think this one man is responsible for all the attacks?” Garcia asked.
“I really don’t know, Jerry,” Flynn replied. “It seems unlikely that one person could coordinate all these groups. I expect there is a small team involved, reporting to this Commander. Once we have this Gary, we’ll track down the rest.”
“Is this all your arrests came up with?” added Delacroix.
“They also pointed us to additional cells in Tennessee and South Carolina, Admiral” Flynn added. “We’re checking them out now. We’ll have more information in the next twenty-four hours.”
“If this is all we have, General,” Stroller said to Carlson, “I would rather Mary Ellen was out trying to find whoever is behind all this rather than sitting in this meeting.”
“That might be easier to do if we had any consistent background intelligence,” Flynn countered.
The Special Assistant’s words hung in the air like a thundercloud. Carlson glared at Flynn, then back at Stroller. Stroller sat deathly still, his mouth agape. Slattery just held his breath.
“Unfortunately, there is more,” Flynn finally continued. “There has been another round of attacks. This time on state office buildings.” The US map reappeared, but now blotched with points of red overpowering those in blue and green. “Twelve attacks on offices all over the country. Another doubling of activity.”
“Any evidence of biological warfare?” Garcia asked.
“No. Only arson. Apparently designed to destroy records. And induce fear.”
“Any loss of life?” It was Admiral Delacroix.
“Three deaths, seven other injuries. All civilians, all fire related. Any occupants were cleared under gunpoint. We still don’t believe that any of the deaths were planned. They appear to be due to the poor training of the militia terrorists. This Commander is continuing to play on the sympathy of the conservatives. As long as there are no mass killings, it's still a ‘bloodless revolution.’ ”
“Same M.O. as the other attacks?” Markovsky asked.
“Yes, Peter. Again, they were very well planned. The terrorists used automatic weapons and high tech explosives. There was one deviation from the previous attacks, however. They all occurred at midnight local time. Unfortunately, we didn’t make the time connection until it was too late. We could have warned the W
est Coast offices.”
“Why didn’t your prisoners tell you about this attack?” Delacroix asked.
“They only knew that a third attack was being planned. The Tyler militia was not going to take part in Operation CHARLIE, as they called it. They were never told about the schedule or the targets until the last minute.”
“ALPHA, BRAVO, CHARLIE,” recited Delacroix. “I wonder how far it goes?”
“It’s not going any farther,” Carlson announced, rising from his chair. “Your job is to stop this now, Mary Ellen. What is your plan?”
“Our forensic investigative teams are already exhausted from the previous nine attacks. We don’t have the resources to cover over twice as many more. We’ll do what we can at the sites, but I don’t expect a lot of additional evidence. Our focus is now on this Gary and his associates. With the Tyler cell broken we can work back through the other cells and identify their contacts. Once we crack one, he’ll lead us to the Commander.”
“And how long will this take, Mary Ellen?” Carlson pressed.
Slattery was again reminded why he hated bureaucrats. There was no way any law enforcement officer could put a deadline on an investigation. There were too many unknowns. But Carlson wasn’t going to be satisfied until Flynn was all the way out on that wobbly plank. All he cared about was having a scapegoat. And leaving the dirty work to the foot soldiers.
Flynn stood her ground and returned Carlson’s stare. “Seventy-two hours, General.”
Shit. She’s dead.
“We’ll hold you to that,” the DNI replied.
“Yes sir. I know you will.”
Flynn walked back to her seat as Carlson turned to face the others. “I agree with Claude that we should now cut this meeting short and let you get back to managing your teams. I did think, however, that giving everyone a consistent overview of the situation was important. We cannot afford any miscommunication. I know you all will do everything possible to resolve this crisis.” He focused his gaze on Stroller. “We have, unfortunately, lost our earlier intel on these groups. I expect you all to give Mary Ellen and Jerry your full support.”
“General Carlson?” The query came from David Scott, the normally reticent State Department representative.
“Yes, David?” Carlson answered.
“I think we need to consider another aspect of the attacks. Besides the obvious escalation in numbers, there is also an escalation in targets. From local, to county, to state institutions. The next step is clear. We should alert all the Federal Office Buildings. We can’t afford another Oklahoma City.”
“Excellent point, David. Please coordinate a response with Mary Ellen.
“One final item. There is no way we can now keep this quiet. And David’s analysis will not be lost on the media. By tomorrow I expect to see reports of these attacks in every paper in the nation. We must find out who is behind this. If this government cannot protect its citizens and its institutions, we will surely descend into anarchy.”
Chapter 51
Pentagon, Arlington, Virginia
Monday, 3:00 p.m.
“You wanted to see me, sir?” Walker marched up to Yancey’s desk and gave her best salute. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Fraser cowering behind a report on the side of the room.
The General had paged her just to be sure everyone else in the complex knew she was being called on the carpet. She had been an intrusion on the DIA’s old boy network ever since she had signed on, and they never missed a chance to run her through the office gauntlet.
“At ease, Lieutenant,” Yancey mumbled without looking up from his desk.
Walker stepped to parade rest and waited for the inevitable barrage. To her side, Fraser set the report in his lap and waited like an obedient servant.
After about two minutes, Yancey’s head slowly raised. The General’s eyes were bloodshot and even more hollow than usual. It must have been a bad night.
“I’ve been reading the results of the inspection, Lieutenant,” he began. “I’m afraid it’s not quite what we had hoped.”
“They found the security level didn’t they, sir?” she asked. “And the laboratory?”
“Oh, yes,” Yancey replied softly. “They found the security level.”
Well, so far so good. Now they can’t deny what we found.
“But there wasn’t any goddamn laboratory!” He jumped from his chair and slammed his fist on the desktop. “The whole area is nothing but charred rubble. Whatever was in there was destroyed by a fire over the weekend. And by the way, Vision One says it was a document vault.”
“A document vault?” Walker cried. “The lab was there. A full Level 4.”
“So you say!” Yancey yelled back. “Here, you read the goddamn report.” He threw the file at her. She held her ground as it struck her chest and fell to the floor.
“You screwed up big time, Lieutenant,” Yancey continued. “You and your goddamn boyfriend.”
“He was not my boyfriend, sir.”
“I really don’t give a rat’s ass if he was your long-lost father, Lieutenant. He’s in as much trouble as you over this.”
“Braxton? What trouble?”
“I’m sure it comes as a surprise to you, Lieutenant, but the DoD doesn’t look kindly to people breaking into their contractor’s sites.”
“But there was no damage. We didn’t touch anything. What are they going to do?”
“He’s just a civilian,” Fraser interrupted. “Why would we care about him, Lieutenant?”
“Because he does have a connection to us, sir.” Walker directed the reply to her boss. “He was a witness. We should find out what he knows about Vision One.”
“He doesn’t know jack shit, little lady,” Yancey said. “And I can assure you he will have nothing more to do with this operation. As of yesterday, like you, Mr. Braxton is out of the game.”
* * *
God, what a day!
Braxton had tried to finish up two new proposals but he had still been so upset from his meeting at the White House he could barely concentrate. He had tried to call Fowler, hoping to have someone to complain to, but the detective had been out of town on another assignment. He had finally given up, and wasted the rest of the afternoon in mindless bliss playing FreeCell on his PC.
At 6:30 he threw the incomplete documents into his briefcase and dragged out of his office. Maybe a quick meal would get him going. Will it be leftover pizza or leftover Chinese?
On the way to his car, he passed the newspaper stands at the entrance to the parking garage. A headline on the afternoon Post caught his attention.
Militia Attacks Escalate - FBI Denies Conspiracy
He dropped four quarters into the slot, pulled out the paper, and scanned the article.
Militia groups all over the nation last night escalated their fight against the government by attacking twelve state office buildings. These attacks follow earlier engagements at . . .
“Nice story don’t you think?”
Braxton jumped at the unexpected voice. He turned and saw a smallish, disheveled man looking over his shoulder.
“I hope I didn’t startle you, Mr. Braxton,” the man said. “My name is Taylor Luckett. I’m a reporter for the Post. That’s my story. I’d like to talk to you for a moment if I may.”
A reporter? Why would a reporter want to talk to me? Oh, of course. Yang’s murder.
“I’m sorry mister, Luckett was it? I have a meeting to get to. And I really don’t have anything to say about the events in Amsterdam.” He turned back toward the garage.
“At 6:30? That wouldn’t be a meeting with Mr. Slattery would it?”
The agent’s name stopped Braxton cold. He spun around to face the reporter.
“I see you’re familiar with his real name,” Luckett said. “I wasn’t sure.”
“I don’t know who you’re talking about. I suggest you leave me alone, Mr. Luckett.”
“Come on, Braxton. Let’s cut the shit. I saw you in the White
House with Slattery. You obviously know him. And you do seem to have a penchant for getting yourself into high-profile trouble.”
Braxton tried to look offended but doubted the reporter was fooled. What could he do?
“I still have nothing to say to you, Mister Luckett.”
“That’s fine. Just listen for one minute. Then decide what side I’m on. It might be worth your while.”
Luckett paused and Braxton considered what to say. He didn’t like standing around in a parking garage with this Woodward and Bernstein wannabe, but if there was a chance he could explain what happened at the White House . . . .
“One minute, Mr. Luckett.”
“For the past two months I’ve been researching a story on the militia movement. A few weeks ago, a friend gave me information on something much bigger. Have you read anything on recent militia attacks?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. Weren’t there a couple of fires set?”
“Yes. About two weeks ago three small town newspaper offices were burned down. All were anti-militia. Three different parts of the country, all at the same time. Then last week, while you were in Amsterdam, there were six more fires at county courthouses. All over the country, all at the same time.”
Nine cases of arson? He hadn’t heard of all those.
“And now last night, there were twelve more attacks on state offices.”
“What are you suggesting, Mr. Luckett?”
“I’m not suggesting anything, Braxton. I’m telling you that someone is organizing militia groups. He’s coordinating terrorist attacks. And he’s not going to stop.”
“What does this have to do with me? I don’t know anything about any conspiracy.”
“Roger Slattery is the CIA’s top counterterrorism agent. He’s now sitting on the Director of National Intelligence’s personal advisory group. The agencies are keeping the truth about the attacks buried while they try to figure out what’s going on. But they’re getting nowhere. No one has ever coordinated these groups before. They hardly even talked to each other. But someone is changing all that.”
That’s the connection! Coordinated militia attacks. That’s what Yang meant when he said our military groups were working together. It was ‘militia’ not ‘military’! And that’s why Slattery needed the decryption algorithm.