by T. C. Edge
After all, the war with the WSA was real. This was still only speculative.
Not to Ragan, of course. But the others would need something more conclusive before they truly believed him.
So far, their analysis of the maps, satellite imagery, structure schematics and blueprints, and all other available data had been less than definitive. All known locations for military bases and research labs were, by virtue of them being known about, unlikely to be harbouring any secrets.
Of course, it could be a bluff - that ‘idea’ was contributed by Captain Maddox - with a site retrofitted for this new purpose, but that seemed unlikely.
Ragan was certain - as much as he could be, at least - that a new site will have been developed to cater to this specific task. One used for the development of both a synthetics programme, and the devising of a methodology for consciousness transfer.
The other nations had all that in place, so why not the MSA? All they’d lacked, as had everyone else, was the final piece of the puzzle provided by Professor Phantom’s research.
Well, they had that now. As far as Ragan was concerned, the MSA were now the primary threat, even ahead of the WSA.
If he had his way, he’d be getting into contact with the leaders over in LA to work together on this. Right now, they were entirely out of the loop, and might well have information that could prove useful. If it came to it, a joint strike - even an invasion - might be necessary.
Extreme measures, yes. But these were extreme circumstances.
Ragan hadn’t, however, vocalised these particular thoughts quite yet to Commander Wexley. He knew the response it would get, so didn’t imagine there was much point.
Before any such join venture was struck, serious evidence would be required. Right now, they had, well…none. Only circumstantial evidence; conjecture based on the word of a man who many were calling a traitor.
Ragan had noticed that over the previous few hours. Those eyes, looking at him in that way. The doubt, the anger, the bewilderment at what he’d been doing.
Helping the fugitive, Chloe Phantom, escape? Delaying in his chase of Mikel to make sure she got free? Disabling half a dozen Panthers on the roof of the CID? And that was only what had happened here, a week or so ago, after the data was extracted from Chloe’s nanites.
Few knew of what he’d truly been up to since then. And Ragan wanted to keep it that way.
He turned his eyes back to the holograms of the maps, stats, data and notes. Wexley was perusing an area towards the northwestern shores of Lake Michigan, analysing an old military base up there. Many of these such places had very little recent information on them, mostly updated months, even years ago. The inspection teams had compiled most of that, travelling around the MSA and keeping track of their military growth.
Those had trailed off and become far too infrequent. Their files were woefully out of date, with many sites becoming something of an unknown quantity.
But still, Ragan was adamant that anything ‘known’ could be discounted.
“Commander, we’re wasting our time,” he said, turning to Wexley. The head of the CID looked over, and up - Ragan was a good half foot taller than him. He raised his eyebrows, waiting for Ragan to go on. “There’s no way the MSA would develop their secret programmes at sites we’re aware of,” he said. Well, repeated, really. He’d said all this already an hour or so ago. “They’d be too concerned that we, or the WSA, would send over an inspection team and discover what they’d been up to. If you were to start manufacturing an illegal drug, would you set up a lab in your own home? No, you’d do it in secret, somewhere with no ties to you, no links. The MSA will have done the same. They’ll have developed a brand new site, off the books, that we don’t know about.”
Wexley listened quietly, eyes giving nothing away. Then he nodded.
“I agree, soldier,” he said calmly. “Our hackers are currently working on that, searching MSA databases for clues. But right now, we have nothing else to go on except what’s right here before us. Unless you have a better idea?”
Ragan hesitated, looking at the many hovering images ahead of it.
“Well?” pressed Wexley. “Do you?”
Ragan exhaled slowly. He shook his head.
“Nothing…yet,” he said. “I’m still thinking on it, sir.”
“Aren’t we all, Hunt. In any case, I spoke with Doc a little while ago, and he informed me that the data should take some time to decode. From what he saw of it when it was extracted, it won’t be easy to piece together. That gives us some time.”
Ragan nodded. He knew Doc to be a brilliant scientist, as sharp a mind as he’d ever come across. He’d have to trust his judgement on that.
“How is he, anyway?” Ragan asked. Last he’d seen of Doc, Mikel was breaking several of his fingers as he ripped the data disc from his hand. The poor man wasn’t used to such brutality, the entire ordeal likely quite harrowing for him.
“He’s…depressed,” muttered Wexley flatly. “You know how much he wanted that data.”
“Yeah. And…his hand?”
“Oh, that should be fine. Three broken fingers, nothing more. It’s his mental state that’s taken the worse beating.”
Ragan didn’t follow up with any more queries. Doing so might only expose his true feelings, his bitterness over that damned data.
All he managed was a murmured, “I’m sure he’ll be fine,” before turning his eyes back to the files.
The hours fled on, Ragan hardly aware of the time. Was it night? Morning time yet?
Here in this windowless command centre, with its constant bustle and energy, it was almost impossible to know without actively seeking out a clock. There were several around, however, in the corners of screens around the walls, telling of the time in various locations across the continent.
He sought one out, and found that it was early morning already, dawn having passed by. It would be the same time in Cincinnati, he knew…
I wonder where they are? he thought. Chloe, Nadia, Tanner. Where were they right now? Were they safe? Had they gotten away?
He’d heard nothing of them being captured, at least not by the Panthers or NDSA forces, so assumed they must have done. Perhaps the WSA might have snared them, but that was highly unlikely.
Yes, they got away. I’m sure of it, he thought.
His mind was enveloped by his friends for a time, turning from his immediate task. With any luck, they were safe and sound in the falcon, no longer being chased. With Quinn now dead - that thought still made Ragan feel a little guilty - and his entire unit too, there wouldn’t be anyone going after them, unless Colonel Slattery decided to unleash the remainder of the Crimson Corps and send them on a hunt.
A fruitless one, given the falcon couldn’t be tracked.
And Mikel? What of him? Might he have followed them somehow?
That thought was rather more concerning, and set his heart pumping for several heavy beats. Best not to dwell on it, he knew. Mikel had fled the city when the NDSA forces closed in, scurrying into the shadows like the coward he truly was. He was probably far away by now, lurking as he did, seeking out another meal to satisfy those urges of his.
So long as the group could stay clear of him for now, then they’d hunt him down together when all this was done. All of them had tasted his sting, in one form or another.
And Tanner, poor Tanner, had the most reason of all to seek vengeance.
An image flashed into his mind, one of torn flesh, blood gushing from deep lacerations, an eye cut through, a face disfigured. His fists balled as he saw it, as he heard Nadia’s screaming, felt her thrashing body in his arms, saw the confusion and pain in Tanner’s remaining eye as he was drawn back to consciousness.
It was a sight he’d never forget, a memory he’d never banish.
Not until Mikel was dead.
Not until they got retribution.
Not until they took it in turns to stab him, slice his ugly face, put out his eyes, cause him more pai
n than he ever thought…
“Ragan…”
The voice drew him from ugly thoughts. He blinked, escaping his dark reverie, and found Wexley looking upon him with a frown.
“Sir?” he breathed, swallowing.
Wexley’s eyes turned forward, looking ahead towards the entrance into the command centre. Ragan followed his gaze, searching through the holographic maps and files.
A group of men were pacing in their direction, half a dozen guards flanking a single man. He recognised those guards, and he recognised the man they were sworn to protect, with their lives if necessary.
Ragan’s eyes widened, and his pulse quickened. He glanced back over at Wexley.
“Keep your mouth shut where you can, Ragan,” Wexley said quietly. “Let me do the talking.”
The men continued to advance, drawing the eyes of everyone in the room. Everyone, no matter the importance of their work, stopped for a moment as the entourage marched on, making a beeline for Commander Wexley’s station at the rear.
It was understandable, of course.
Seeing President Rashmore here was a rare thing indeed.
Ragan felt like slinking away into the shadows, but instead did quite the opposite. He firmed himself up, standing to his full height and adopting a rigid, military posture. A posture of respect and yet subordination. A pose that all military men affected when encountering someone above their station; strong, yet without the slouching timidity and subservience that would commonly infect civilian men.
To Ragan’s left, Commander Wexley did exactly the same; even the head of the CID would show the proper respect to the Commander-in-Chief of the entire nation.
In fact, everyone in the room stood and turned to President Rashmore as he passed, straightening their posture, arms settling to sides, feet together. It happened like a wave as he came, men standing and showing their respect, before returning to their duties as he moved through the room.
The President’s eyes narrowed as he approached, centring on Commander Wexley and only glancing at Ragan. Ragan hadn’t met the President before, not officially at least. He’d been around him, in the same room as him, but never face to face and sharing words. This would be their first true encounter.
He feared it might be a testy one.
That fear was given weight by the look on Rashmore’s face, one of a stark displeasure. It contorted what was otherwise a handsome visage, particularly for his age. Though into his early sixties now, he looked more like forty - you could never quite tell how old someone was anymore with the anti-ageing treatments available.
Eyes of a strict brown appeared from deepest sockets, his hair neatly cut and conservative, flecked with grey at the sides but otherwise mostly a dark shade of brown. His jawline was enviable for most men, his chin dimpled and skin only sparsely wrinkled. Clearly, he kept himself in shape; his tailored suit made that obvious enough.
He approached with a vigorous step, perhaps six feet in height, and thus a couple of inches taller than Wexley. The Commander of the CID didn’t flinch as he drew near. He waited with the sort of composure reserved for men of his rank and experience.
Rashmore arrived, three guards either side of him. As he approached, they fanned out, creating a perimeter. Their eyes were keen, and particularly suspicious when inspecting Ragan.
They were, of course, nano-augmented, some of the best trained soldiers and agents in the country. Though the job was mostly a safe one - at times like this, the President didn’t tend to leave the city - all will have seen service in war, gnarled by experience, and handpicked for the role.
If Ragan hadn’t become such a lead component in the hunt for Chloe, he might well have been by the President’s side right now, rather than about to face down his wrath.
“Mr President,” said Wexley, bowing his head as Rashmore drew near. “To what do we owe this pleasure?”
Rashmore glanced at Ragan pointedly. Ragan refused to look away or show any form of guilt; that would only be indicting and indicative of wrongdoing.
“I’m going to cut to the chase, Richard,” said Rashmore, his voice hasty, deep, with a note of ingrained anxiety. “I heard you had released this man from the interrogation cells, and frankly I find that entirely unacceptable.” He looked at Ragan again, jaw clenched, eyes running up and down his frame.
Ragan held his gaze for a moment, before the President turned back to Wexley. Don’t say anything out of turn, he warned himself. Do as the Commander told you…
“Well? What do you have to say for yourself?” Rashmore went on, his breathing speeding up a little.
He didn’t keep his poise particularly well during confrontations, it was said. By all accounts, he’d been insufferably difficult to deal with ever since Professor Phantom’s death. The hunt for Chloe had driven him near mad. The result was this rather jumpy demeanour, quite incongruent with his finely put together appearance. He had a regal air, and certainly looked the part, but all of that abandoned him as soon as he opened his mouth.
Or, maybe it was just this topic. It had been his obsession for many years, and clearly touched a nerve.
Wexley, on the other hand, had the composure of a statue. Though several inches shorter than the President, their height seemed to enjoy a sudden role reversal. He measured out his response carefully before voicing it, his words calm and well collected, set out neatly before him.
“Mr President, I fully understand your feelings on this matter,” he began. “However, I do believe that Agent Hunt here is still a useful asset. He has been our finest tracker for many years, and has an eye for detail that might prove important…”
“Our finest tracker, yes,” interrupted Rashmore, voice hasty and nervously energetic. “He did oh so well bringing Chloe Phantom to our door, only to then help her free!” He looked at Ragan again, though turned away equally fast. “How can you put any faith in a man like that?”
Wexley looked to Ragan with a calming cast to his face. He took a moment - seeming so unruffled that his confidence bordered on arrogance - then turned back to the President.
“Perhaps this conversation is better had in private, Mr President,” he said coolly.
“Why? Do we have anything to hide? No, only this man does.” He referenced Ragan again, whose blood was just starting to simmer.
This was…humiliating, being discussed so openly, as though he wasn’t even there. Wexley could clearly sense that, hence his suggestion to retire elsewhere.
“Sir, Agent Hunt is an asset, as I say. He made a mistake, but he’s trying to make up for it. We have bigger problems to focus on than debating his culpability in aiding a fugitive.”
“Oh yes, these problems,” snapped Rashmore, clearly not caring - or perhaps not aware - that a number of staff members in the command centre had now abandoned their work, and were watching the show with great interest. “Frankly, Richard, I do not buy into this notion that the Mid-States of America have the capability to utilise Professor Phantom’s research. The level of conjecture to this point is absurd, and it’s all come from Mr…Hunt, here.” He grumbled the name out, like he was spitting up some rotten food.
Well, at least he said my name this time, thought Ragan. That’s progress, right?
“Sir, I concede that we are working off of speculation, to a degree,” said Wexley calmly. “However, other facts cannot be ignored. The data has been stolen. It has been handed to a known resident of the MSA, someone closely linked to President Chase. There is no sense in the MSA getting their hands on the data unless it can be used.”
“No, that isn’t true,” countered Rashmore. “They may simply be trying to retrieve it in order to see to its destruction. To deny us what is rightfully ours!”
“And if that’s the case, then this is no concern of yours, Mr President.”
Rashmore looked aghast by the comment, eyes widening, mouth agape.
“You…dare take that tone with me, Richard?”
Wexley bowed his head in apology.
“I mean no offence, sir. I’m just pointing out that, if the data has been destroyed, then there’s nothing we can do about it now. Personally, I don’t believe that’s the case, and consider this a very serious threat that needs to be investigated. That is my remit, sir. And I am choosing to tug on this thread and see what I can unravel.”
Rashmore stared at him for a long moment, as if finally realising that half the room was watching. He drew a long breath to calm himself, shutting his eyes slowly and opening them up again.
“If…” he began slowly, “you consider this a valid threat, so be it. I don’t want to step on your toes, Commander, and am aware that the mission of this agency is to follow up on all threats to this nation.” He drew a breath, maintaining his calm. “Personally, I consider this a waste of time and resources, but what do I know? You are far more intimately apprised of the small details than I am.” He looked to Ragan. “However, I will not abide this man being here. If nothing else, he aided and abetted a known fugitive, and that is a crime worthy of capital punishment if I deem it so.”
Ragan felt his chest tighten, his poise begin to flee. A frown fell over his eyes, turning to Wexley for support. His old Commander stepped forward a little, lowering his voice for only Rashmore and Ragan to hear.
“Sir, I would advise against anything too rash,” he said. “Ragan Hunt is a vital asset, and a highly decorated soldier and agent. I know…I know that Chloe Phantom was of special interest to you, but we must observe due process. There are mitigating circumstances that need to be considered.”
“Oh, they will be, Richard,” growled Rashmore quietly. “You continue your good work here, and I shall be on my way. However, Mr Hunt will be coming with me. I would feel happier having him locked up in my own compound.”
“Sir, that isn’t necessary. I have him under guard here already,” said Wexley, referencing Captain Maddox and his two fellow Panthers.
“Excellent,” said Rashmore. “Then they’re acquainted with Mr Hunt already. They can come too and continue their vigil over him.”