The sound at first arrived occasionally on the wind. It wasn’t long before the entire team heard the distinct sound of a diesel engine approaching.
Shit! thought Karl, What now?
“Take up positions!”
Unfortunately, they were on an open desert floor and the armored vehicle, at the moment visible in the distance, appeared to be making a beeline for their position.
Karl shouted, “Sean, get the last warhead ready!”
Karl took out his binoculars to get a better look. The special film coating would prevent reflected light from giving away their position. It was a standard Iranian-army issue BTR-82. There was very little chance what Karl’s team was carrying would be able to defeat the vehicle’s armor. Their only chance was to remain undiscovered, but this vehicle seemed on a path that would lead it directly to their hiding place. The APC was lost from sight for a few moments when it drove into a shallow basin only to emerge again from behind a slight rise in the terrain.
How in the hell does this guy know where we are? Karl questioned himself, feeling his heart rate quicken.
The APC halted some 150 meters out from the team’s position. The driver's hatch opened. Karl took aim at the figure through his telescopic sight before yelling, “Wait, don’t shoot. It’s Sinatra! Don’t shoot!”
Everyone broke out into near hysterical laughter when they saw Derrick's head also pop out of one of the hatches.
They made it!
Even before the celebratory mood of the Black Angel team had a chance to get started, the sound of an approaching helicopter could be heard approaching from the east. The men heard Derrick shout out to take cover as he and Allen closed up their lids.
Damn! Karl thought as he hid, attempting to blend into the landscape under one of the few scrub brushes that dotted the area. Here it comes. Oh great! It's the anti-armor version!
That was not all that was coming their way. Off in the distance Karl could see dust being kicked up by something moving at high speed. Given the terrain, he figured they were tracked or multi-tire vehicles. It was all over for them if they were tanks.
Once the Russian-built MI-24 Hind spotted the buttoned up Iranian APC, it began circling it like a vulture while the gunner trained its 12.7-millimeter Gatling-gun at the thin, upper deck armor. The angle of the circling attack-copter prevented the APC from engaging it with its primary weapon, a 14.5-millimeter heavy machine gun mounted in a revolving turret.
Karl’s thoughts quickly raced through his head, The Hind is waiting for the other vehicles to make an appearance. Good thing Derrick thought to emblazon that BTR with the Iranian insignia; we have some time.
He broke radio silence by flipping the power on to his communications gear and endeavored to contact the SAD officers in the closed down APC.
"This is Mr. Black (Karl’s call sign as team leader), this is Mr. Black…Mother respond."
Karl paused for a moment and repeated his message.
"This is Mr. Black, this is Mr. Black…respond, Mother."
“Mr. Black, this is Mother."
Thank God, thought Karl.
"Mr. Black, we've got ‘SA 97s’ (codename for Singer Missiles) on board. Distraction needed."
Karl quickly gauged the direction of a slight breeze by watching how a handful of sand fell from his gloved hand. "Mother, will deploy smoke for cover. Repeat, will deploy smoke for cover. Be ready!"
"Roger that, Mr. Black.”
Sean's voice came over the com-link, “Number One, I’ve got the second Shark ready."
Crap, what an idiot, I completely forgot about Sean! Karl looked in the officer’s direction, "Sean, let that thing go on my mark.”
Karl could make out Sean nodding he understood.
“Copy that, Mother?”
“Copy that Mr. Black, on your mark."
Karl looked in Sean's direction who gave the team leader a thumbs up, before putting the missile launcher on his shoulder. Sean was now taking aim in the direction of the circling helicopter. Given the distance and motion of the flying tank, the best that could be hoped for was distracting the pilot long enough for someone in the APC to get off one of the purpose-built, ground-to-air missiles. Chances of getting a lucky hit with the Shark were at least one-hundred to one. This was it.
Karl tapped his earpiece, “Mr. Black to Mother."
"Go ahead Mr. Black.”
"Scrap smoke. Launching the Shark on my mark."
"Roger that Mr. Black, launch on your mark."
Karl looked at Sean, then at the APC, then the Hind and began counting down from five when he made an estimation on a time when the chopper would be closest to Sean and his launcher. "Five, four, three, two, mark!"
There was the thunderous sound from the launcher as the missile whooshed up in the direction of the enemy craft. It would take less than a...
There was a deafening explosion!
Karl looked up to see Sean had done the impossible.
Officer Hagman then quickly looked in the direction of the growing clouds of dust.
We might still make this!
----------
Lucy hung up the call from the pay phone inside the airport lobby, a necessary precaution, but her boyfriend’s attempt to calm her down had done little to help. Lucy feared for her life.
The Senior Editor picked up her small brown-leather travel bag and walked briskly in the direction of the airport security checkpoint while taking a quick look at her watch.
One hour, Lucy thought, one more hour.
In a normal, sane world the evidence her reporters uncovered would have resulted in one of the biggest news stories to ever hit front page headlines; it was Watergate on steroids. Instead, one of her people was dead and the other was still missing, all in as much for what they uncovered.
“Shoes, change, watches need to be placed in the plastic receptacles,” the screener announced, as Lucy made her way to the front of the line.
Lucy placed her purse on to the conveyor belt followed by her suitcase. She then removed her shoes and watch and placed them in the plastic tray.
“Next,” said a second screener as the businessman in front of her took his turn in the walkthrough scanner. No bells, no buzzers no flashing lights. “Okay, you’re good to go.”
“Next.”
No bells, no buzzers no flashing lights. “Okay, you’re good to go.”
She walked to the end of the conveyor belt, put everything back in place, picked up her purse and suitcase, and walked at a quick pace through the sliding doors and into the concourse. Lucy looked at her ticket: Gate C, and up at the marquee. To the right.
It was a small public airport, out of the way and hard to get to. The seating area was at the end of the concourse. Lucy cautiously looked at the one businessperson seated in the waiting area as she approached.
He’s the same guy who preceded me through security, she thought.
She walked into a small, gift shop and was half greeted by a young retail clerk, standing behind the counter with a look of disinterest.
"Good morning," said the clerk. "Can I help you find something?"
"No, I'm fine, thanks just the same."
Lucy walked over to the paper stand, her back to the store entrance and waiting area and picked up a copy of World News Network. The main headline featured a story touting the President’s triumphal trip abroad. Lucy scanned the story and put the newspaper back in its original spot, then picked up a copy of American News.
Different headline, different words, different reporter, same exact story, no surprise.
She set the paper down and took a moment to look at her watch.
Still half an hour!
She picked up a copy of the World Tribune and turned to take the waiting area into view. Another man was at that moment seated, facing in her direction. Lucy studied him a second while pretending to be reading. For some reason, there was something odd about him. For one, this was the terminal for private
flights, so she expected to see nothing but business executives in this area. This man wore a leather jacket.
Lucy’s cellphone began to vibrate and she took a moment to take it from her purse.
Unknown Number?
She declined the call with a tap of her index finger and looked up to see the strange man walking back down the concourse, toward the security entrance.
Had she just been identified? Lucy began to panic. A feeling of nausea came over her.
No, I can’t go the restroom, too dangerous.
She placed the tabloid back in place and walked over to the seating area, taking a quick look down the concourse to find the man had disappeared.
The best place is out in the open, she thought and walked over to one of the chairs with a clear view down the concourse. Lucy pretended to be looking at email on her cellphone as she kept an eye on the now vacant concourse.
“What time’s your flight?” the lone businessperson asked as he sat looking at her with a pleasant smile.
“I’m not sure,” Lucy replied wanting to evade the question.
“The way you were looking at your watch, I would have thought it was quite soon.”
Lucy gave him a quick smile. “I’m sorry, I’ve got some email to catch up on.”
“I apologize,” he said with one more smile. “I completely understand.”
Lucy studied the man for a moment. Good looking, but of no interest.
Her cellphone began vibrating, again. Lucy looked to see who it was coming from...Dr. Magnason!
"Dr. Magnason?" she asked in a quiet voice.
The executive’s calm, reassuring voice responded, "Lucy, the pilot is fifteen minutes out. Are you doing all right?"
Lucy took a quick look around, saw the businessperson with an attaché case on his lap with a cell phone to his ear. The retail clerk had put on a pair of ear buds and was oblivious to his surroundings.
"Yes, so far."
"Hang in there..."
“Wait a second!” Lucy whispered. “That airline pilot! There is something strange about that airline pilot...his boots, he’s wearing boots!”
Victor could hear the fear in her voice! Suddenly, Lucy shrieked, "God, no! Please, don’t...!"
The next sound he heard was Lucy’s cellphone as it dropped to the tiled floor...then people screaming...someone, a man shouted, "Get’d out of here’d! Get’d out!"
Victor kept on listening as the background noise turned to silence. He began to hear heavy footsteps approach...then stop. There was one more brief moment of silence. Heavy breathing. A man’s voice with a heavy Eastern European accent then said, "Whoever you are, you bedder hide."
The line went dead.
----------
INDONESIA - Jack snatched up his office phone on the first ring.
“This is Newman.”
Victor’s voice came over the line, “Jack, I’ve got bad news, Lucy Dietrich is dead.”
Jack listened quietly as Victor explained his last words with the Senior Editor. He could feel the anger well up in him at the thought of what amounted to an execution.
“Who the hell did this, and why?”
There was muffled silence.
“Victor, give me the truth! What had Lucy uncovered?”
The president’s question was met with stony silence. Victor could not lie to his friend. Jack’s grief-stricken thoughts cleared for a moment. His friend was protecting him from something. Victor knew why Lucy Dietrich had been murdered and that meant anyone with the same knowledge was unsafe.
Met with only stoney silence Jack disconnected the call as tears came to his eyes.
Victor hung up the phone angered by his helplessness. He sat quietly in thought. Minutes passed by and a sudden change was coming over his face. The CEO had one card yet to play. Victor pulled the SAD Director’s business card from his shirt pocket, looked at the backside, at the handwritten phone number...the number for a shell company.
----------
KURDISTAN REGION, IRAQ - Six silent, sunburnt, battle-hardened sentinels sat around a largely unscathed conference room table in one of the many looted rooms of the now deserted Iraqi air base. Derrick's original purpose, to save these men’s lives, had been accomplished. Now, all that remained was the matter of what to do next? Whatever the call, it was not going to be pleasant. Derrick knew what the options were. He would leave the call up to these officers on a final decision.
The director remained standing, looking at one of the shattered windows out onto the abandoned airfield pondering their next move. Derrick turned slowly looking into the tired faces of his men still recovering from their long ordeal. The director could easily understand their puzzled looks, each asking themselves why they were still in this less than hospitable place. The combat team would now know why, but first, he needed to get some things out into the open; Derrick needed to confirm his suspicions: that the mission had been purposely compromised.
Derrick took a look at each man seated around the table,
“Gentlemen, I know you're asking yourselves 'why are we here in this God forsaken place' and the answer is because we're in hiding.”
The dazed look of some of the officers immediately disappeared at those words. Derrick began walking around the oblong table as he spoke, taking a hard look at each of the killing specialists, gauging their reactions to the facts as they became known.
“Let me lay out what I know. For one, Martinez’s Attorney General has issued arrest warrants for our capture and incarceration...the charge, International War Crimes.”
Each officer watched Derrick in silence, even though each stirred slightly in their seats at the revelation.
"The Department of Justice shut down SAD Operations at exactly the same time using as its justification missions now considered illegal by the current administration. Justice is citing Article 39 of the United Nations Charter as the basis for the charges.”
"Article 39 refers to any military action violating international borders in undeclared wars. The evidence being cited by the Attorney General are classified orders from former President McKinley. Records that were leaked to the press by someone inside the CIA."
Derrick pulled the proof Victor had given him.
“Each of you should take a look at this. This is partial evidence that the media is already aware of Justice’s actions and its plans to railroad SAD. As you can see, the front-page story dovetails perfectly with Justice’s charge of sedition.”
Elijah was first to respond, "Sir, would you mind repeating that? I'm not sure I heard you correctly?"
"You heard me right, Eli. Everyone in this room has warrants issued for their arrest and the charge is for International War Crimes."
“You’ve got to be kidding!”
Sean quickly interjected, “Are you joking, surely you're joking?”
"No, I'm afraid I'm not," replied Derrick.
Karl responded, “Arrest warrants for war crimes, why haven’t you been nabbed?”
“Yes, Karl, you’re right. I have become a fugitive, as well. I managed to get a heads up call before the shit hit the fan.”
Hunter responded, “This doesn’t make any sense? Fugitives?”
Officers Karl Hagman and Allen Sinatra remained quiet, waiting for the other shoe to fall.
Elijah, in an exasperated tone, asks, “Why in the hell is Justice pursuing legal action for something that's been common practice for, how many Presidents? Five I imagine. What's the reason?”
"I can only speculate, Eli, but here's what I know. A mole inside ‘the Agency’ apparently got hold of McKinley's Orders and sold them to one of the major news services." Derrick pulled the folded photocopies from his pocket and handed them to Karl.
"These came to my attention an hour before I got the call that Justice Agents were shutting down our operation. I contacted one of my connections inside Intelligence and discovered arrest warrants were being issued fo
r all SAD personnel not caught in the first sweep."
The two photocopies made their way around the table.
"World News Network! That name keeps coming up in all the wrong places!" remarked Hunter upon seeing the headline.
"Wasn't it the news network Colonel Heston mentioned Abu al-Zarqawi and his terrorists were watching while butchering Americans?"
Karl answered, "The same one."
Derrick added, "You can see by the news headlines, at least one of the leading news companies is going to be running with the coverage against the former President; the timing is just too close to Justice's actions to be a coincidence."
"There is something going on here I can't yet explain; those documents and the actions of Justice are proof some kind of collusion exists and their plans involve members of our organization in some way." Derrick paused for a moment.
"Before we go waltzing back in and giving ourselves up to Justice, I for one want one more chance to discover who is really behind all this." Derrick looked in the PAG officer’s direction, "Allen, you and I will be flying out to rendezvous with someone who may have the answers, tomorrow.”
“Flying out, sir?” asked Karl.
Derrick smiled, “Yes, our boy here, Officer Sinatra, managed to get his hands on a Russian transport. It’s sitting out there in one of the hangers. Anyway, we will be flying out tomorrow to get some answers.”
"What kind of answers, Director?" asked Hunter.
"Hunter, we will be meeting with the same man who tipped me off. Our informer friend says he has further evidence of who is behind our predicament. He would not discuss what he's got by phone, someone was likely listening."
Karl at that moment spoke up, "Director, someone is sure to be looking for us. If we're discovered, what are your orders?"
"Karl, with the lapse in intelligence gathering I've seen so far I would expect we won't have to worry about Justice Agents for some time."
----------
Allen turned to Derrick after looking through the doorway. "This looks like the officer's quarters," he remarked as both men kept on with their search of the complex.
The two officers carried their un-holstered sidearms at the ready as they stepped through the doorway and into the officer's lounge. They were met by the sight of what resulted from the shock wave of a man-made earthquake, overturned furniture and card table, a wall-mounted television set that lay wrecked on the floor.
"By the appearances of things, whoever was here came off very lucky," Allen remarked as he saw no evidence of human injury.
Derrick continued down the hallway toward the back of the underground complex with Allen splitting off to the right when they came to the first intersection. Derrick looked into the individual sleeping accommodations, simple and spartan, most with photos of the men's families in broken picture frames scattered about the floor. The one thing that struck home, however, were the oversized portraits of Saddam Hussein, which once festooned a wall of each officer's quarters. Derrick understood the reason was not from adoration or devotion. The officers put them there for an altogether different reason - fear.
Derrick began thinking how different things must have been for these Iraqi Soldiers, forced as they were to serve under a psychopath who controlled a country through fear, terror and would eventually lead them to complete ruin. Unfortunately, Saddam was not unique and only a recent case in point of where totalitarian ideologies every time led.
Derrick was one of a generation who understood why and how madmen like Saddam Hussein could come to power, and once there, maintain control over a people. The circumstances leading to such ends invariably began as high-minded experiments in social engineering, but would eventually evolve into an animal of a completely different sort. The transition from a Democracy to totalitarian police-state could take less than a generation (thirty years). These were societies where power was vested in a dictator, or a small ruling class.
Without exception, men like Saddam Hussein, Joseph Stalin, Mao Zedong, Adolph Hitler, Fidel Castro and Kim Jong-il would find it necessary to crush individual freedom and liberty to maintain their power. These dictators, socialists and communists would invariably find it necessary to resort to the genocide of nonbelievers, as hundreds of millions of men, women and children would sadly discover under their rule.
That men like Saddam maintained their power through fear was not unknown throughout history. His portrait hanging in every officer's quarters was just a reminder that tyrants always existed; they would come and go. In many ways the Director felt a little sorry for the poor bastards. Given their circumstances they would never know what it was like to be an American.
Derrick was shaken from his thoughts by the sound of something crashing to the floor in the direction of his Field Officer. The war was over, but they were close enough to the Iranian border to see insurgents. Derrick checked to make sure the safety to his pistol was off before heading in Allen's direction, sliding with his backside down the right-side of the hallway with his right arm extended and pistol at the ready.
Derrick came to the doorway where he straightaway heard something crashing to the cement floor. He glanced quickly around the corner to see Sinatra standing at a distance, trying to close a set of pantry doors.
Allen noticed Derrick as he came around the corner. "Some of the shelves must have broken free. There's a mop in that corner that will help things here, if you don't mind sir."
Derrick looked in the direction the officer motioned his head toward, saw the mop, walked over and picked it up and made his way over to the pair of pantry doors. Allen braced the doors shut with the weight of his body, as Derrick threaded the mop handle through the pantry-door handles. The door secure, Allen slowly released the pressure to the doors.
Derrick stooped over and picked up several of the cans and began reading the Arabic labels. "Hummus, corned beef, pickled beets." The Director looked about the kitchen for something to carry the canned goods in while remarking, "Looks as if we've hit a small jackpot."
That's when both men froze in place following the sudden, distant echo of heavy metal doors being pried open.
Karl was just about to doze off when Derrick’s voice suddenly burst over his headset.
"Karl, check to see if your men are all accounted for?"
Karl propped himself up on one elbow and surveyed his small group lying about on the hard concrete, so drained it did not matter where they sprawled out.
"Everyone accounted for."
There was a momentary pause before Derrick's responded, "Karl, I think we've got visitors."
The officer was up in a flash, his weapon trained in the direction of the open doorway. In a crouched position Karl shook Hunter next to him awake, "Hunter, we've got bogies."
Hunter was up in an instant.
"Get Sean and Elijah up," whispered the team lead.
Derrick continued, "Bogies approaching from the blast doors. Karl, can you see anything outside from your vantage point?"
Sean, Elijah, Hunter quickly moved to defensible positions as Karl crept over to one of the broken windows. Looking to the south, in the direction of the bombed out hangers, nothing was moving. Repositioning himself so he could look off in another direction, Karl caught a glimpse of a camouflaged figure just as it disappeared from sight. "We've got one desert fatigue to the west.”
A man’s voice broke in on the communications network at that very moment.
"This is Special Agent, Alexander Rostov. I am here on behalf of the United States Government. You are ordered to drop your weapons and turn yourselves in. If you do not comply in fifteen minutes we will use force. You have fifteen minutes."
"How the hell did he break into the encrypted communications channel?" asked Allen.
“The only way they could,” replied Derrick. "They have broken into our custom com-link.”
The man's voice carried with it a heavy Ukrainian accent. Derrick now recalled Dr. Magnaso
n mentioning the assassin had a decidedly Eastern European accent. This was too much of a coincidence. Derrick's thoughts began to race.
Derrick whispered to Sinatra, "We need to get back to the observation deck before I can make a call on this. No shooting unless they start first. Are you ready?"
Allen nodded, "Yes, let’s go."
Several minutes later, the two SAD men ascended the last section of stairwell and could make out the doorway to the observation deck. That was when Rostov’s voice came back over the communications link.
"You have ten minutes to comply."
Derrick pressed the contact in his headgear, "Karl, Allen and I are coming in."
Karl's voice responded, "You're clear."
Derrick did not take the time to reconnoiter the placement of the SOG officers and instead raced over and grabbed his backpack then made tracks into an adjoining room offering more cover from direct fire. The Director quickly pulled a satellite phone from his pack and began dialing the cellphone number for Deputy Director, Spencer Douglas. Derrick removed his helmet to better put phone to his ear.
This was a long shot but Derrick knew, given the current circumstances, there was no chance he would get through the backdoor operator at Langley.
The Black Angel officers were for the moment formed up in a defensive perimeter with their weapons at the ready. While waiting for the call to go through, Derrick noticed his men no longer showed signs of fatigue. Given what they had been through, it was a sign of their training and resilience.
Derrick listened as Spence's mobile phone began to ring. "Come on Spence," mumbled Derrick. "Pick up, pick up."
"You have reached 221-132-4990, please leave a message and number at the tone."
Beep...
"Spence, this is Derrick. I need for you to see if there is an Alexander Rostov on any government payroll. My number is 115-92-8802-221, repeat my number is 115-92-8802-221. This is urgent."
Derrick disconnected the call and looked at his watch: seven minutes remained...he needed to stall for time.
He placed his headgear back in place and waved Karl over from the protection of one of the adjacent concrete walls. Shoving the satellite phone into his leg pocket, Derrick grabbed an assault rifle leaning against the wall.
Karl rolled past the exposed doorway and quickly rose into a crouched firing position when he reached the Director’s side.
"Any idea who they are?" asked Karl.
"I'm in the process of finding out. We’re going to need some time." Derrick pulled the phone from his pocket and handed it to Sinatra. "I'm expecting a call from Deputy Assistant, Spencer Douglas. Let me know the moment he tells you if the unknowns are good, or bad guys."
Allen now asked, "How well were they armed?"
"Light arms."
"Traveling light, that’s good," Derrick said with a slight grin. "Karl, we need to get the upper hand over the fellows. Can you get some of your men down behind them?”
“We should be able to do it, Director.”
“Okay, do it just as soon I give you the word. Those guys are to be considered the enemy until proved otherwise, understood?”
“Understood.”
"There is something that isn’t right about Mr. Rostov. If my suspicions are proven correct, he and that team of his are nothing more than mercenaries.”
“Who could they be working for?”
“Someone in the President’s administration would be my guess, Allen.”
A look of surprise came to both Sinatra and Karl’s faces.
Derrick pulled a small pencil and pad from his right thigh pocket and scribbled down a phone number. "Allen, call this number if I don’t make it back. It’s Deputy Director Spencer Douglas’ personal number. Tell him you and the team need safe passage back to the States.”
"Sounds like you're not planning on getting out of this, Director."
"No, Karl, but I always have at least one backup plan."
"What are you going to do?" asked Allen.
"I'm going to go buy us some time and hope Spence returns my call."
Derrick looked both men directly in the eyes, "Gentlemen, we’re in some deep shit and we may have to fight our way out of this. If someone inside the administration believes we’ve got damning evidence on the new President and his administration our lives won’t be worth a plug nickel.”
Derrick at that moment wrote down two more phone numbers on a sheet, tore it out and pushed it into Karl’s hand. “I called McQueen and he’s prepared to help. He’s the top number.”
“What about the second number?”
“That’s the number for the informant.”
“Why do we need it?”
“Our informer says he’s got further proof, audio clips of phone conversations with Martinez’s plan.”
The voice of Alexander Rostov came over the network again. "You have five minutes before we take action."
"One more thing, Karl, I want you to get that evidence. What the informer has could be what we need to get out of this fix. Okay, it is time to go.”
Karl looked in Sean’s direction and gave the signal to accompany the Director. Nodding he understood, Sean and the Director disappeared down the doorway to make their way down to the lower level.
The minutes passed; Karl and Allen had worked their way down to ground level and taken up positions with open fields of fire, while Elijah and Hunter remained as top cover looking out from shattered, second-story windows. Everyone now waited for the report of gunfire, or Derrick’s next order.
If a firefight ensued, the plan called for Derrick and Sean to work their way back to platform, drawing the hostiles into the complex. Karl and Allen were to make their way behind the hostiles, with Elijah and Hunter providing covering fire. The trap was set, ready to be sprung, and if it worked, would turn the demand for surrender around 180 degrees.
Karl could feel the tension in the air as he and Allen waited for word from Derrick. The calm before the storm was always a soldier’s worst enemy; it gave time for emotions to take over one’s thoughts. Karl looked at his watch. It was approaching five minutes past the deadline. Derrick's charm seemed to be working.
The deathly stillness was broken by two figures darting to cover near the main entryway. Karl turned from his prone position and motioned to Hunter the location of the two adversaries. Hunter nodded that he had picked them up then motioned to the snipers posted on second floor the direction of the hostiles.
----------
Derrick was in a crouched position behind some fallen masonry with his assault rifle trained in the direction of the potential threat; two fragmentation grenades lay at his feet. The Director was running out of time, and his demand for proof that Rostov was who he said he was were, for the moment, falling on deaf ears. Derrick could tell by the movement of Rostov’s men each was jockeying for a better firing positions in the confined corridor. This was not going to be a piece of cake, and he recognized Rostov’s men were equipped with some of the latest combat gear and at least one was carrying a man-portable rocket, an RPG. Things could get very hot very soon.
Derrick understood the tactical situation; the Director had been in nearly identical situations before. The hallway was like a tunnel with thick concrete walls that would channel the energy of an RPG in both directions, injuring both parties. No, Derrick did not imagine it likely Rostov’s man would use the RPG in such a confined space, at least as long as the Russians, Derrick knew they had to be Russians, were in their current forward position. There was no room for maneuver, a frontal assault was Rostov’s only option. His men would start by tossing their percussion grenades first followed by small arms fire. Derrick knew whoever got off the mark first would likely come out the winner.
Elijah’s excited voice immediately came over the communications net. "Rostov’s former Spetsnaz!"
Derrick dropped his assault rifle, grabbed a grenade, stripped the pin out in one action a
nd heaved it in the direction of the confirmed mercenaries. At nearly the same time, Sean’s grenade landed in about the same area.
The twin explosions were deafening! Derrick may have suffered eardrum damage, but he could worry about that later. The Director grabbed the second grenade just as Sean carried out the same action and the second pair of grenades disappeared in a cloud of dust and debris.
Outside the complex, the silence was suddenly broken by muffled explosions and small arms fire coming from the direction of the main entrance. Just as suddenly, the distinct, sharp crack of two high-powered sniper rifles snapped from above.
Moments later, Karl moved off quickly in the direction of the gunfire, throwing himself down alongside one of the enemy mercenaries quivering in his final death throws.
----------
Sean, bruised and covered in a fine chalk-like dust kept his automatic weapon trained on the wounded Russian survivor wearing Army Ranger combat gear. The man calling himself Alexander Rostov had not made it. He was killed and by the look of things, in the initial blasts from Derrick and Sean’s grenades.
Karl walked up to Sean. "Derrick wants to see the survivor."
Karl looked at the Spetsnaz mercenary and in perfect Russian said, "Ты пойдешь со мной. Встать!" ("You're coming with me. On your feet!")
Karl and Sean grabbed the mercenary by his arms and lifted him to his feet. The prisoner yelled out in pain; his side had been pierced by a 7.62mm round; he was bandaged up, but still bleeding. Following a little ruff handling, the prisoner was taken to the rear of the Russian armored vehicle.
Karl chuckled, "Эта вещь должна выглядеть знакомой" ("This thing ought to look familiar.")
Derrick looked up from his study of the coded communiqué he found in the dead Russian officer’s pocket and pointed to the bench opposite him. Once the mercenary was seated Derrick closed the distance, less than a couple of inches face to face.
For Derrick, something did not add up. Why send Mercs? Why not send in U.S. Special Forces?
The Director looked straight into the eyes of the Russian. "Вы говорите по-английски?" (“Do you speak English?”)
To which the Russian answered, “Yes, a little.”
“Good. What’s your name?’
“Ivan Schotzki.”
“Now pay attention to me very carefully, Ivan Schotzki. I can either get you medical attention, or have you bleed out...” Derrick paused to let those words sink in. “You need to tell me what I want to know to get out of this alive.”
“I pay attention carefully,” the mercenary replied as he struggled against the pain.
“Who sent you?”
“Someone in Washington.”
“Someone at the Department of Justice?”
The Russian hesitated, a clear sign the line of questioning could mean his death, not by Derrick’s hand but by someone else.
“No, not Justice.”
“The Pentagon?”
“No.” There was a long pause. “Someone in Washington.”
“Who?”
“Don’t know, only Colonel knows man’s name.”
A Colonel? “Karl, did Spence give Rostov’s rank?”
“Yes, Kapitán Rostov,” replied Karl.
Derrick looked back at the Russian. “Ivan, who is the Colonel?”
The mercenary hesitated.
“You don’t have much time.”
“His name is Colonel Boris Demetree.”
“And what was your mission, Ivan?”
“To hand you over to the Iranians.”
Karl exclaimed, “Holy shit! Who are these guys?”
“Alive, or dead?” asked Derrick.
There was a momentary pause before the Russian replied, “Alive, or dead. Did not matter.”
Derrick turned and looked at Karl, “See what you can do for him.”
“He’s not going to make it, Director, he needs a hospital.”
“No! No! I don’t want to die!” cried out the mercenary.
Derrick responded harshly, “I’m afraid you’ve made your own bed, Ivan. Karl, do what you can for him, we owe him that.”
“No! No, please. Don’t want to die!”
----------
COLORADO SPRINGS, CO - Marcus had been riding his favorite palomino out to a section of fence that needed repair when the call came in from Director Mitchum. Derrick had simply said, “The team is in trouble, I’m going to need your help.” That was all the Director said and that was all it took for Marcus to begin getting ready for a new mission.
Why hadn’t Derrick elaborated on what the trouble was? He had to be under surveillance.
Marcus turned his horse around and would be back in his ranch home within the hour. The former SOG officer knew he could be called to action at a seconds notice; his ranch hands would cover for him while he was gone.
There was not a lot for Marcus to pack, all his hardware had remained with the Special Activities Division. He took a moment to look at news coming out of Washington using an internet search engine. There was nothing to give him any idea what kind of misfortune the Director, or the Black Angel team were in. He did notice when doing a search on the “Iraq War” the coverage had all of a sudden gone dark and when he looked at the dates of the last featured stories, they roughly coincided with President Martinez’s inauguration. The only thing remotely close to being the plausible issue were the torture allegations against the former President featuring evidence coming from the ACLU.
Marcus suspected Black Angel must have been on mission, probably behind enemy lines, but that alone would not explain why the Director was breaking protocol...not unless there was something wrong in Washington.
Everything was set to go. Marcus sat quietly on his front porch his phone in his pocket cleaning the one thing he had carried with him into private life, the fifty-caliber Desert Eagle given to him by President William W. McKinley, a going away present for his service to the country.
----------
The detective had to cover his face with his handkerchief when the coroner pulled back the zipper of the body bag. This was the part of his job he hated the most, but it came with the territory.
“Jesus Christ!” He had to turn his head away as he gagged uncontrollably. Even with the strong scent of formaldehyde wafting about the putrefying smell of decay was still too overpowering for his senses. “How long was she in the water?”
“Two to three days by the looks of it,” replied the coroner. “Any missing reports for a white, female in her twenties?”
“No, nothing yet,” the detective answered, his voice muffled by the handkerchief. “You can zip that up now.”
“Here, put this under you nose,” said the coroner as he handed the detective a vial of jell to cover up the strong smell of decay.
“Thanks, what have you discovered?”
“Jane Doe shows signs of being both raped and tortured.”
“Tortured?”
“Yes, there were lacerations up and down the length of her body. It looks like they used a razor on her.”
“Why the hell torture her?”
“Your guess is as good as mine, Detective.”
“Sadistic bastards, and the cause of death?”
“Gunshot to the back of the neck.”
“Russian Mafia,” commented the detective. “How in the hell could Ms. Doe have gotten caught up with that element? Any signs of drug addiction.”
“No, bloods tests have come back clean.”
“Anything else?’
“She was once an irresistible, blue-eyed blonde. I hope you get the bastards who did this,” responded the coroner while pushing the corpse back into the wall, storage chamber.
----------
ATLANTA, GEORGIA - Ingrid stepped into the president’s office after knocking at the doorway.
“Mr. Newman, we have some gentlemen here from the Dep
artment of Justice who want to see you.”
“From Washington?”
“Yes, they want to ask you some questions about Dr. Magnason.”
“Victor?”
“Yes, sir.”
What the hell is going on? Jack asked himself.
“Fine, okay Ingrid, send them in.”
“Yes, Mr. Newman.”
An hour into what appeared to be a fishing expedition by the Justice Department attorneys Jack’s phone began to buzz. He looked to see it was his secretary calling.
“Just one moment while I take this call.”
“Yes, Ingrid.”
“I’m sorry to disturb you Mr. Newman, but you have a call from a D.C. Police Detective."
“Washington?” What the hell! He thought.
“Yes, a Detective Andrews. She says she needs a minute of your time to answer a few questions.”
“Questions about what?”
“Senator Robert Burton.”
“Bob?”
“Yes, Mr. Newman.”
"Okay Ingrid, put her through."
Jack covered the mouthpiece and looked at the three justice attorneys saying, “Excuse me for a few minutes while I take this call.”
The attorney’s said nothing, just nodded.
“Ingrid, please take our guests to the executive break room, I’ll come get them when I’m finished with this call. Send the call through.”
“Yes, Mr. Newman.”
Jack heard some audible tones letting him know the D.C. detective was on the line.
"This is Jack Newman."
"Mr. Newman, this is Detective Alice Andrews with the Washington Metro Police Department."
"Yes, Detective Marshall, how can I help you?"
"Mr. Newman, I understand that Senator Robert Burton was employed by your company. We’ve checked with the Senator’s bank, recent deposits show your company is making direct deposits to his account.”
“Yes, Senator Burton was a consultant of ours. Why do you ask?”
“In cases of homicide, Mr. Newman, we look at all angles.”
“Homicide, what’s happened to the Senator?”
“The Senator was murdered.”
Gasp “When?”
“Sometime this morning.”
Jack could not believe his ears. What the hell is going on?
----------
The facts quickly rolled through Victor’s thoughts as he retraced recent events.
The audio recordings are incriminating, so much so, the President has unleashed a team of assassins who’ve killed two of my reporters, Lucy Dietrich and I’m confident I’m next. I only hope Lucy’s error in judgment has not endangered the Senator’s life (Burton) as well. He’s not picking up my calls, so I fear the worse has already happened. It is to be hoped that the police will get to him before anything happens.
Exposing those bastards is the best course of action, but I’m not sure what good that will do given the state of my news organization...it’s simply not big enough yet. Abraham and his lot will use their influence to diffuse the issue; the fallout would result in the end of MENN.
The bastards hold all the cards and I know too much.
Victor had already begun taking what prudent steps he could, the accountants were moving his American-based assets overseas; Jack would not yet know it, but his attorney’s had already begun the process of removing him from the board at both MEI and Magnason Enterprise News Network...Jack would soon be running both enterprises and he could not know anything. The attorney’s had recommended he seek asylum in one of several foreign countries, but living out one’s life in fear in a former Russian Province, or Banana Republic carried no weight.
Victor’s phone began to vibrate, and he looked to see the call was from his partner.
“Yes, Jack.”
Victor listened, not saying a word as he payed attention to the company president and his anger intensified the more he heard. The thought of his hopelessness outraged him as the revelations of the situation came more, and more to light.
Those bastards did not waste any time, the CEO thought to himself.
“Jack, I don’t know what to say.”
Victor paused, letting Jack continue.
“I know. I know.”
Another pause.
“No, no I can’t attend. Look, I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you anything. Just know that I’m looking out for your best interests, okay.”
Pause.
“Yes, yes, okay. I’ll talk to you soon. Yes, okay. Goodbye Jack.”
Victor disconnected the call. I’ve got to keep Jack in the dark, the recordings must remain a secret. Every goddamn thing is falling apart.
Could Director Mitchum provide an answer? Would the recordings be the ticket to add a new twist to an otherwise crumbling world? Was Derrick’s position just as untenable as his own, or would his connections in Washington turn the tide?
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