Engage at Dawn: First Contact

by Edward Hochsmann

  “Long time, no see, Billy,” Frankle whispered. “How come you guys are staking out the rear, didn’t you get here first?”

  “True, old man,” Gerard replied, drawing a good-natured cuff on the back of his head. “Turns out the Feebs are bringing in their primo breach team from Miami and didn’t want us in the way. I can’t argue with that, honestly. Those guys trained up together; we stand an excellent chance of crossing wires during the big push if we’re mixed in with them. They’ll be here in a couple of hours, and then we go live. Plan is to wear ‘em down for a few hours to get them punchy, then breach at 0515.”

  Frankle gave a non-committal grunt. His experiences working with the FBI had been unsatisfactory. He did not like the rigidity of their tactics. Also, he had never met a situation lead that was not a first-class asshat. The house was a large ranch-style, with a screened porch. A path led from the house to a dock hosting a large speedboat. The house was raised, like many on the Keys, as a hedge against the storm surge accompanying hurricanes. Two sets of stairs led down off the front and back porches. The underside of the house was open except for two bathroom-sized enclosures. “Hmmm. Defensible, but it kinda commits you to a last stand.” Frankle returned his view to the house proper and noted some lights, but no sign of movement. “They on to the stakeout, you think?” he asked.

  “No question. Haven’t seen a sliver of a silhouette since sunset.”

  Frankle turned his view to the dock and fixed on the RHIB. “That’s plenty of boat. What do you think, 30 knots?”

  “Forty at least would be my guess.”

  “The big chief didn’t think that is a good egress option?”

  “Nope. She’s got that covered with a CBP Blackhawk. One door, easy to pick them off coming down. Figures they’ll see they’re sitting ducks on the run, even if they make it to the boat and either give up or shoot it out.”

  “Won’t work,” Bell interjected.

  “I don’t know, partner,” Frankle responded. “I’m not the biggest fan of the Bureau, but it sounds reasonable to me.”

  “They can’t cover the back with a helo when there’s fog.”

  Both senior agents turned toward Bell. After a few seconds of astonished silence, Frankle said, “Fog? You’ve got to be kidding, son. This is the Florida Keys, not Monterey, California.”

  Bell shook his head in the dark. “Don’t you guys check the weather before an op? Stable air mass, warm water, a weak cold front is moving through around 0100—no wind, just enough to cool down to the dewpoint. Twenty bucks says that we’ll be socked-in by 0300,” he said. “If I were them, I’d wait until I could barely see that dock, then I’d kick off a firefight in front. Or wait until we try to breach and throw us off-stride. Once the rearguard has the DOJ occupied, I think we’ll see Valentina squirt out the back with cover fire and haul ass in that boat. She can scoot across Florida Bay, be on the mainland in an hour.”

  “Kind of a long shot, don’t you think?” Gerard asked.

  “Better than no shot, which is what she’ll have trying to plow through the front. Just sayin’, we might want to scope out a blocking position on that path from the house.”

  Frankle considered the possibilities. He knew that although very rare, fog was not unknown in the Florida Keys, particularly in the winter. He also knew Bell was an old hand at planning ops on unfamiliar ground, and including weather in the planning could be the difference between success and failure. The deciding factor was the man’s certainty. He wouldn’t have brought it up, much less pushed hard if he wasn’t confident in his prediction. Frankle turned to Gerard. “If he thinks we’ll have fog, we’d better plan for it. That’s the worst case, couldn’t hurt to set up for it.” He handed his partner the low-light camera. “OK, mister science guy, find us a good setup to cover that dock and a covert route in.”

  “On it.” Bell took the camera and crept off.

  Frankle turned back to Gerard. “Are you sure she’s in there? It doesn’t figure her going to ground here when she probably could have made it to the mainland in the initial breakout.”

  “No doubt. We got an excellent shot of her looking out the window, and facial rec kicked back a 98% match. But I’m with you. Something’s wrong. She’s making a lot of mistakes for someone who’s supposed to be a shit-hot operator.”

  Frankle frowned. “Maybe that jolt the Coasties gave her tumbled her gyros a bit. I’ll take ‘em any way I can get ‘em, but we’d better stay sharp and assume they’re up to something.”

  “Like?”

  “Like everybody with a federal badge is gathering here. It’s the kiddie soccer scenario—everybody runs to the ball. Meanwhile…”

  “Yeah, I get what you mean. You want to check with the boss?”

  “Can’t hurt. At least we see it gets passed to Pete that he’s on his own until morning.” After a pause, Frankle looked around and continued, “We’ll set up a defense in depth. You guys take it close and cover the stairs and we Marines will dig in by the boat.”

  “Roger that.” Gerard nodded. “What do I tell the Head Fed if she wants to talk to you?”

  Frankle snorted. “Tell her I’m out taking a piss or a nap or something. Remind her of my ‘advanced age.’ Should be enough to convince her to go elsewhere for castle stormers.”

  Gerard grinned. “Roger that.”

  Conch Inn, Room 118, Marathon, Florida

  2047 EST, 18 January

  They had ordered in dinner via GrubHub to avoid the open exposure in a restaurant. Simmons used a new credit card under one of his aliases, and Ben had the only contact with the delivery driver. The food was decent, Ben was glad not dealing with fast food again, and the beer was excellent. The conversation was light, with Ben sharing details of his upbringing in Northern Illinois, his academy experience, and his first tour on Dependable. His efforts to elicit similar information from his DIA companion were politely rebuffed, which did not come as much of a surprise. He got Simmons to admit the “pretty grad student,” for whom he had gained his literary knowledge, and his late fiancé were the same person. However, he cut off further inquiry along that line, and even Ben could see through the agent’s carefully preserved bonhomie that her death was still very painful for him.

  Simmons wiped his hands after a long pull on his beer, and said, “You know, that cooking on Kauai spoiled me. You can keep the close quarters and sea showers, but man, take out just won’t measure up anymore.”

  “You can always head to a swanky restaurant and live it up.” Ben smiled in return.

  “Um, yeah, let me run down the ‘list of swankies’ in Marathon. Putting aside that we need to reduce public presence to a minimum when we’re in the field, any notions you have of DIA agents running around high-class venues in tuxes are in error.” He noticed Ben grinning at him. “What?”

  “Sorry, trying to picture you stepping out of an Aston Martin in black tie, and someone hands you a martini. Yup, you’re right. Does not compute.”

  Simmons feigned a severely insulted expression. “I take deep umbrage at your implication, sir! I’ll have you know that I’ve masqueraded as some of the finest people in the social register on many occasions!”

  “You have my most sincere apologies, your lordship.” Ben joined in the game. “I hope this will circumvent the need to demand satisfaction or any other regrettable social rituals.”

  “Very well.” The agent nodded with mock solemnity. “The lack of ready cape-holders compels me to accept your apology, but do not think for a minute you can expect treats like this in the future!” Both shared a hearty laugh, cut short by an incoming call on Simmons’s encrypted cell phone. He smiled when he saw the originating number and hit the speaker button before laying it on the table between them. “Hello, Victoria! You’re on speaker with Benjamin and me. How was your trip?”

  “Hello, Peter and Benjamin. My flight was three hours, 27 minutes…, um, I mean, my trip was ‘fine,’ thank you, Peter.” Her voice dipped slightly at the end. “
I have finished processing your surface sensor data. Would you like me to tell you the results?”

  “Yes, very much, thank you, Victoria. Can you give us a summary, please?” the agent replied carefully, winking at Ben.

  “All sensor arrays showed many transients congruent with natural background vibrations in the area. Three sets showed unusual readings not consistent with the natural phenomena of the area, but none of these were persistent or rhythmic.”

  “It’s OK if you can’t answer this, Victoria, but can you speculate on what could’ve made the transient vibrations?”

  “I have put the signatures through a comparative database we have assembled. Some are consistent with metal-on-metal collisions. Others are plastic rubbing on plastic. A few classified as ‘relay closing.’ However, our comparative database is sparse because the technology is new. Those classifications, particularly the last one, are low probability matches compared to the others.”

  “That is very useful information, Victoria. Can you tell me which locations’ data included those unusual readings? Also, were the readings stronger on any location compared to others?”

  “Yes,” the analyst replied with more animation. “Lantern Key, Johnston Key, and Resolution Key all had the unusual readings. Resolution Key was significantly stronger than the others, almost an order of magnitude stronger.”

  Ben perked up. “Do you think…” He stopped when Simmons raised his hand.

  “Victoria, could the presence of the old beachcomber on Resolution account for the high transients you noted?” Simmons asked.

  “Yes, Peter. It would suggest a problem with the sensor array had it not read an increase when a human is active in the vicinity.”

  Simmons nodded. “Yes, I thought as much. I was hoping the stronger signal was not on Resolution—that would have been a ‘man bites dog’ story.”

  “Peter, I do not understand why a man would bite a dog or how that is relevant.”

  “Sorry, Victoria.” The agent smiled. “I was using a journalistic aphorism. The point is that a man biting a dog would be a significant news story.”

  “Oh, yes, I see now. That is clever.”

  “OK, if there’s nothing else to report, I’ll let Benjamin say hello.”

  “No, Peter, nothing else.”

  Simmons took the phone off the speaker and handed it to Ben. He then retired to another room.

  Grateful for the privacy, Ben said, “Hello, Victoria. We are off speaker, and I’m alone here.”

  “Hello, Benjamin. It is good to hear your voice. I hope you had a pleasant day.”

  “Far better if I could have spent it with you, but I would say that it’s been an enjoyable day.” He imagined her smile at the other end. “Peter provided your email address, and I’d like to send you a letter occasionally if that would be OK. It might be some time before I can, you understand.”

  “Yes, I would like that, thank you. I know it will have to wait until you return to your ship, perhaps longer if you have communication restrictions.”

  It encouraged Ben she knew and understood operational security. One of his earlier relationships had foundered on that very issue. “Yes, or even after we return home when I can access my personal email. I just wanted you to know that I was thinking about you and looking forward to seeing you again.”

  “Oh, that’s very sweet of you. I am also looking forward to your visit. There is much to do and see.”

  “Yes, I’m sure there is. I hope you don’t mind my saying that I enjoy the sound of your voice. I appreciate that Peter had to short-stop you, but would you mind telling me more about your trip and whatever else you would like to share?”

  “No, I don’t mind at all!” Ben was content to let the conversational roles of the previous night reverse. He enjoyed listening to the plummy sound of her voice and the intricate detail in her language. Ben regretted having to bring the session to an end when Simmons came back into the room about ten minutes later and pointed at his watch.

  “I’m sorry, Victoria. Peter is reminding me we have more work to do.”

  “I understand. I enjoyed our conversation and hope we can have another one soon, Benjamin. Goodbye.”

  “Me too, Victoria, Goodbye.” Ben disconnected and handed the phone back to Simmons. “Not complaining here, but I’m surprised you allowed that on a government phone.”

  “Ah, young padawan, we buy burner phones and use adapters to put the sim cards in our encrypted gear. Now that you’re done sweet-talking my little sister, I can switch out the sim.” He winked. “It’s a practice bordering on paranoid, perhaps over the border.

  “I admit to being more than a little disappointed at the results today,” he continued. “I was hoping the ground sensors would tell us something more than they did.”

  “So, what do we do now? Kauai heads out for refueling the end of the day after tomorrow at the latest.” He hoped Simmons would tell him of a deadline for ending the ET hunt.

  “We hit the imagery tonight for a couple of hours, then head back to Lantern, Johnston, and Resolution tomorrow. We plant and leave the sensors in place for hours instead of minutes this time. I assume they can see us and are shutting everything down while we’re poking around. If they were holding their breath today, they can’t do it for much longer. Maybe they’ll open back up when they think we’ve hit the road.” He rubbed his temples absentmindedly. “Something will break tomorrow. I can feel it.” He moved to hook the laptop up to the room’s TV with an HDMI cable. “Ready for some genuine intel work?”

  Ben groaned. “Can I have my job application back, please? The IC is not for me.”

  Simmons chuckled and pulled up the Park Service and UAV composite image files. “Alas, once you have strayed into the Dark Side, forever will it dominate your destiny!”

  4601 Bryant Ave, Little Pine Key, Florida

  0512 EST, 19 January

  Bell was off by half an hour, but the rest of his weather forecast was spot-on. A light mist had crept in about half past midnight, and within an hour, it had blanketed the entire area. From his position near the dock, Frankle could barely make out the few lights showing at the house. The FBI had formally announced their presence at midnight, with negotiations ongoing since. Government agents closed off any egress, but they lacked any alternative for a clean takedown other than an exposed assault “uphill” on the stairs. Fog prevented any use of helicopters, as Bell predicted. The plan was for a simultaneous push from the front and underside of the house. After breaching through the floor and tossing in flash-bangs, the main assault would push through the front, with sharpshooters clearing the windows and explosive charges on the door. With no hostages to worry about, anybody not lying prone with arms outstretched after entry would draw kill shots. Except for Valentina Petrova. She was a High-Value Target or HVT. Everyone wanted her alive, if practicable.

  Although Frankle couldn’t see him through the fog and concealment, Bell hunkered down on the left side of the path, deadly still. The Blue Force tracker in his goggles showed Gerard and Kelly closer in to the house. Their position covered the back door and stairs. The assault teams were getting in position. “Negotiations” if you could call them that, cut off at 0500, the deal offered was, essentially, surrender or die. Their reply was an Eastern European version of “Screw you!” So much, the better. Frankle had seen and read enough about the 252s that he had no issue with snuffing out them all.

  Frankle shivered. It wasn’t cold, but the light chill and the dampness of fog, combined with lying still for an extended period, cut right through him. Cold, in the goddamn Florida Keys—you are getting on, old man!

  “Two minutes, team leads call ready,” the Scene Lead called on the tactical net. “Alpha Ready,”; “Bravo Ready,”; “Charlie Ready,” replies followed, the last from Gerard up near the house.

  “Delta ready,” Frankle sent. He shifted in his position and thumbed the selector of his M4 from “safe” to “burst,” then gave his Glock a touch check. While
the seconds counted down and he stared into the fog, he could see in his mind’s eye a dozen other agents tensely shifting, grasping weapons and equipment, coiled to spring.

  His headset came alive. “Standby, ten seconds, five seconds, three, two, one, BRAVO GO.” At the last word, a loud boom sounded from the house, and almost simultaneously, his headset shrieked briefly and went silent, and his goggles likewise flashed a blinding light and immediately darkened.

  “What the hell?” Frankle said to himself, then keyed the radio. “Any station, Delta, over.” No reply—the headset and goggles were dead. He tore them off and tried to blink away the afterimage of the flash. After a few seconds, the sounds of flash-bangs arrived from the direction of the house, followed at once by a continuous overlapping staccato of automatic gunfire. Whatever shit the targets just pulled, the assault teams had recovered quickly and pressed the attack, he thought. His night vision was slowly returning when he heard Bell shout the fallback verbal challenge and receive two streams of shots in return. Frankle aimed in the general direction of the gunfire and fired bursts with his M4, hearing a cry suggesting at least one round had struck home. He stood up and swept his sights, ready to fire again when a figure flashed past.

  He spun around and raised the carbine for another burst when Bell shouted, “Check fire!” The thuds of running feet followed shortly afterward. A second later, a loud crash on the dock, with the yells from Bell and a woman set Frankle into a run. A few steps later, he could make out two figures struggling on the dock. The larger figure grasped the smaller by the leg with one arm, the other arm dragging behind while the smaller figure reached forward. Frankle immediately stepped on the smaller figure’s hand, drawing a female cry of pain, and kicked away the object he presumed was a handgun. He pressed the muzzle of the M4 into the prone figure’s temple and shouted, “Enough!” When she stopped struggling, he continued, “Right hand back!”