TORTOLA, BVI - The remote white stucco villa was perched halfway up the steep-sided ridge line. The safe-house was surrounded by a chain-link security fence that seemed to keep the jungle at bay. From the balcony, one could see the Caribbean below and a few of the other vacation villas that dotted the mountainside. The single dirt road leading up to the safe house was the only way in and out by wheeled transport, and a clearing in the back of the complex served as the landing area for rotary aircraft.
Marcus sat in one of the wicker chairs, studying the motion of the storm caps as Hurricane Clarinda began making its presence felt along the island coast when he heard the familiar voice of Officer Karl Hagman.
“How was the flight?”
Marcus turned to see Karl smiling.
“It was a little rough?”
“Any problem sending the package?”
“No, of course not.”
“How do you imagine Spencer Douglas will react?”
----------
The former SAD officers had gone underground after staging their deaths in the now rusting wreckage of the downed Russian transport. In a less than spacious den the former SAD officers sat watching CSPAN’s coverage of the trials being piped in over a satellite dish that had somehow survived a very active hurricane season. The men were gathered around the one color set watching, ‘Red Stripe’ beers in hand. This was the second week of the war crime trials now going on before a Senate Investigative Committee. Most of the team noticed it was standing room only and by the look of the disheveled appearance of most in the audience, they were largely the kind of nuts one would see in food stamp lines, or news reporters.
The Black Angel team watched as the pale, mortician-looking Senator took his seat on center stage. On either side of the Committee Chairperson were seventeen leather chairs. Karl watched as Senators who knew each other from years of collaboration conversed freely between themselves and even cracked jokes while they took their seats. It was what Hunter called a regular love fest: the moderate Republicans some of the officers called ‘RHINOS’ and Democrats coming together, putting aside their differences and doing what was right for themselves, not the country.
Senator Rooney’s counterpart on the committee was Senator Mitch Goldwater from North Dakota, a good illustration of someone who conservatives called Democrat-lite. For the past twenty-two years Goldwater had held office. Senator Goldwater remained in office not so much because of his popularity, but in view of the fact every six years he had stuffed budgets with pork payoffs to big donors back home, getting him the advertising budget he needed to drown out his political opponents during each election cycle.
Senator Rooney called the forum to order by taking up the gavel and pounding it on a sound block several times. “I now bring this committee to order."
He then went through the formalities associated with opening Senate investigative proceedings before going into his monologue:
"We are here today to continue an investigation into the extent to which illegal, improper, or unethical activities were engaged in by President McKinley and his administration. This committee is not in favor of letting this investigation become a media circus. The primary purpose of this hearing is to discern possible misdeeds related to the international community. I would have to say the charges are quite consequential and...”
“Mute that idiot!” shouted Sean. “I can’t stand listening to that fool any longer.”
“Okay, Sean, settle down,” replied Elijah.
The press was everywhere, watching everything closely through the viewfinder of video equipment and cameras. It would have been a gross mistake to believe they were not looking to make political hay out of this hearing. Anything that might move the ball ahead and cause an emotional call for the next step: formal judicial action. Ten minutes into his long-winded diatribe, the Senator at long last got down to business.
“Please call the witness, Director Susan Best to the stand.”
The unattractive red head carried herself as if she was still on the drill grounds in the US Military. In fact, Director Best had once been a Captain in the U.S. Air Force before getting a desk job in Washington. The Director took a seat before the committee, her lawyer taking the seat next to her.
Karl recognized the name. “That’s the gal I talked to when I called in for extraction.”
Sean sneered, “Yes, Director Susan Best proved to be a great help.”
“Please guys, I can’t hear what that idiot Senator is saying,” Elijah added.
“Director Best, what can you tell us about the organization called the Special Activities Division?”
“The Special Activities Division is a covert intelligence asset inside the CIA which reports directly to the President.”
“What kind of missions does it carry out, Director Best?”
The witness looked to her legal council who responded by covering the open mic, briefly coaching his client before she responded.
“Senator, that information is classified.”
“What can you tell us about the Special Operations Group, Director?”
“The Special Operations Group are the tactical teams that carry out missions on behalf of the President.”
“Who issues the orders to the Special Operations Group, Director?”
“The Director of the Special Activities Division, Senator.”
Senator Rooney’s next question caused Karl and his men to lean forward in their seats.
“Director, what has become of the Special Operations Group team called Black Angel?”
Best responded to the Senator's question after conferring with her attorney. "The last communications we received from Black Angel was a ‘Mayday’ transmission.”
“Are they assumed dead, Director?”
“Yes, Senator, they are believed to have been killed in action.”
“Do you have confirmation of their deaths, Director?”
“No Senator, Baghdad Intelligence has not been able to confirm their deaths; they are missing and presumed dead."
Senator Rooney now asked, "Do you know where the Black Angel team went missing?"
"Senator, it now appears they lost their lives on a mission against terrorist insurgents.”
“Where did this supposed mission occur? Was it in Iraq?”
The witness hesitated, conferring with her attorney.
“No, Senator,” Director Best paused for a moment. “We are convinced Black Angel was behind Iranian lines when the firefight took place.”
There were gasps heard from the audience as camera shutters snapped away, the flashes lighting up the auditorium. The reporters captured the scene and expression of the audience and committee members from every conceivable angle. The Senator became part of the drama.
“Behind Iranian lines! How is that possible? Are we at war with Iran?”
The Senator had to use his gavel to calm the audience down, but only following the photo opportunities had been taken by the press.
Best countered the Senator's last question, “Senator, Iranian-backed terrorists have been capturing American and Iraqi troops and ferrying them back across those international lines.”
The Senator cut her off before she could go on to explain the circumstances surrounding the SAD mission to the television viewing public.
“Director Best, I'm sorry to interrupt you, but my next question is very important. Can you provide this committee with any proof the terrorist groups you just mentioned are acting on behalf of the Iranian government?”
“Senator, I have no way of proving that they are extensions of the Iranian government. It is logical: the terrorists would not be there if they did not have the blessings of the mullahs and the Iranian military.”
The Senator stormed back, “That was not my question. The question was do you have proof the Iranian government is ordering these so-called terrorist groups to capture Iraqi soldiers.”
The witness noticed the Senator failed to mention American
soldiers in his retort. Director Best remained silent. There was no rational way of responding to the Senator’s ridiculous portrayal of reality.
The Senator asked again, “Well, do you?”
“No, Senator.”
“Let us move on to the next point. There have been orders that have come from the former President. At face value they appear to represent he knew he was committing illegal actions. Are you aware of those Presidential orders?”
“In the interests of national security, I cannot answer that question, Senator.”
“Was this secret army of President McKinley's under his direct control or not, Director?”
“Yes, SAD is under the direct control of any sitting President of the United States. Senator, you are failing to mention all American Presidents...”
“Director! I still have the floor!"
Even the moderate Republican Senator had seen enough to try to help. "Mr. Chairperson, if you give Director Best the chance to explain, maybe we can get to the bottom of this."
Senator Rooney glared at the committee member, "Senator Goldwater, your time to ask questions will come. Until then, this committee expects you will hold your comments."
Senator Rooney now returned his glare to the witness, "Director Best, you are here to answer this committee’s questions surrounding the serious charge of International War Crimes. You will be given a chance to respond at the end of this hearing.”
“Now, you took over Director Mitchum’s duties. Under any circumstances did you receive orders from President Nathan Martinez to violate International Laws?”
“No, Senator.”
“Any laws?”
“No, Senator.”
“I think you were about to say a little earlier that all Presidents direct the actions of the Special Activities Division, is that right?”
“Yes,” responded the Director.
“Well, you have just stated that our current President has not violated any laws. He has not ordered this secret organization to do anything illegal. So, if he has not violated any laws, what does that say about the former President who did order such unlawful acts?”
Best countered angrily, “Senator, the purpose behind the Special Activities Division is known to everyone on this committee. Your portrayal…”
“Director, you are not here to pontificate. Just answer the question. Did the former President order illegal activities to be carried out by your organization?”
Best responded with venom in her voice. “Senator, I respectfully refuse to answer the question under Article 15B Section 21, of the National…”
The Senator cut her off. “Director Best, are you refusing to answer the question? I warn you, if so, you will be held in contempt!”
The Director kept on, disregarding the Senator’s diatribe. “...Securities Act. Operations classified as Level 10 will not be disclosed before this panel. That is all I have to say.”
The witness stood with her attorney as the sound of the Senator’s gavel cracked and camera shutters snapped away. She marched out of the proceedings.
Karl had seen enough. "Turn that damn thing off!" He now had a newfound respect for Derrick’s replacement. Director Susan Best had done her best to defend the code...and she didn't take any shit from that political dick head.
“When the hell is Mitchum supposed to get back?” shouted Hunter. “I’m getting tired of paradise.”
Marcus entered the room with the answer. “Mitchum will be back tomorrow, Hunter. He says the mission is on, we depart within the week!”
----------
CANADIAN BORDER - The Green Earth Foundation (GEF) had all the trappings of an activist international nonprofit organization. GEF was headquartered in the Cayman Islands, made regular donations to the Green Peace Movement and Sierra Club, and even had a slogan “Give the Earth a Chance” to keep up appearances. It was a dummy-operation with all the appearances of being the real thing with desks, chairs, family pictures, artwork, phones and computers.
The former SAD officers passed through the porous, northern border into the United States under the guise of GEF personnel with their expertly forged identification. Each man would follow a different route into the nation, each man would make his way to leased office spaces that could be found either inside, or next to the headquarters of publishers Donald Abraham, Shmuel Weisser and Jason Simon, the World News Network, American News and World Tribune.
Poverty Rate increases to 14.3%
Page 7, American News
WASHINGTON, D.C. - Census data released this month showed the nation's poverty rate increased to 14.3%. That is 43.6 million Americans, or 1 in 7. This is the highest rate since 1934.
Boeing Sued by the Feds
Page 7, World Tribune
WASHINGTON, D.C. - Just months after fights to limits labor union rights in Wisconsin and other states, one of the nation’s largest manufacturers, Boeing, has been sued by the Martinez Administration for allegedly punishing union workers by shifting a proposed new plant to another state, South Carolina.
Green Energy Industry Losing Billions
Magnason Enterprise News Network
ATLANTA, GEORGIA - The list of “Green Energy” firms filing bankruptcy is growing at an alarming rate. So far, one-third of the $80 billion set aside in the “Stimulus Package” for clean energy loans, grants, and tax credits have filed for bankruptcy, or are in the process of doing so. The Martinez Administration defends its position on Green Energy by showing...
Justice Department Sues Texas Over Immigration Law
Magnason Enterprise News Network
WASHINGTON, D.C. - The Martinez administration on Thursday sued Texas over the state's strict new immigration law, attempting to wrestle back control over the issue of border security. The administration argued the Texas law, which requires state and local police to investigate the immigration status of anyone they reasonably suspect of being an illegal immigrant, is unconstitutional and would sap law enforcement resources.
DUBAI - The prosperous middle eastern city was built on the back of oil, but as recently as two decades ago, it was also known for its black-market for high-ticket items like gold bullion. There still existed an underworld where just about anything could be found, for the right price.
Allen Sinatra was staying at the Royal Falcon Hotel, one of the most expensive in the area. He wanted to send the right message and the accommodations were part of the bait. Unable to use his former connections in the intelligence services, he put the word out through some local merchants that he was trying to locate a man known as ‘the Lebanese.’ Supposedly an expatriate from that country, he had come to Allen's attention through one of his high-level informants who described the man, in so many words, as a black-marketer par excellence.
Allen wasn't confident the man even existed, however. If he did, he would be sure to surface in the port city. It was one of the few places in the Arab World that turned a blind eye to just about any business transaction, legal and otherwise. He was now into his second week of looking at the sites when his hotel phone began to ring.
Allen picked it up, “نعم.” ("Yes?")
A digitally disguised voice came over the line, “في مطعم النخيل الذهب. الساعة الواحدة.” ("The Golden Palm Restaurant. Four o'clock.")
The line went dead. Allen looked at his watch to see that it was three o'clock local time, and quickly grabbed his coat. The officer had never heard of the place. Allen slipped on his shoulder harness, went to the hotel safe and typed in the passcode, and pulled out the chrome-steel Walther PPK-S. Small, but deadly at close range. Minutes later, Allen was jumping into the backseat of a tan-body, red-roof Audi A6 taxi.
Allen motioned to the driver, "في مطعم النخيل الذهب وعجلة من امرنا." ("The Golden Palm Restaurant and hurry!")
The black market for weapons used by SOG combat teams created the environment of plausible deniability American Pre
sidents needed to keep both themselves and the nation off the international radar. This was not Allen’s first time into the underworld; he knew it could be dangerous and was always under the watchful eye of foreign intelligence services. Allen was counting on two things. His expertise in this kind of undercover work and the fact nobody would find a trace of his existence. Sinatra was a ghost. Sinatra no longer officially existed.
Allen was met and escorted to a private limousine. As the vehicle worked its way through the center of Dubai, the officer let his mind wander. His affiliation with SAD always meant his identity was kept a very close secret. When abroad Allen moved freely around without fear of being recognized by someone who might know that he did more than wear a business suit.
As the limousine picked its way through traffic, Allen sifted through thoughts of past accomplishments and how dramatically they differed from the current mission. The officer recalled the black-market arms dealer he would meet was one of only a half-dozen sources in the world with the kind of weapon he needed.
By the time the limousine arrived at the gate to the underground garage, it was late afternoon. Allen wasn’t surprised by the intimidating checkpoint. At the barrier, the driver stopped the car and uttered something Allen could not make out to a robe-clad guard. The Arab carried the Russian AK-47 slung across the chest with two identically armed men standing behind him. It looked almost like Fort Knox when Allen noticed one more man behind the tinted, bulletproof glass of an ordinary looking ticket-booth. The man peered briefly at Allen, making a quick study of what he was wearing, hair color, scars should the need arise to track him down later.
The guard nodded and the driver drove the vehicle ahead, passing under a heavy steel gate designed to drop at a moment’s notice. The limousine continued to a central parking spot marked “Reserved for Visitors.” Allen then passed through an unmarked door into a small lobby. One more guard was waiting; this one wore the traditional Arab garb: the shemagh head scarf held in place by the doubled cord agal, and a light colored outer cloak covering the dark colored dishdasha, wool cloak, underneath.
"Carrying anything," asked the bodyguard in English with a heavy Arab accent.
"Yes, I do." Allen motioned to the holster riding under his left arm.
"Please, raise your arms."
Allen raised his arms overhead, and the guard found and un-holstered the nine-millimeter, and set it on a night stand in a corner of the room. The Arab continued to pat down Allen.
"Anything else?"
Allen shook his head, no.
"You will get that on the way out." He made a gesture in the direction of the hand weapon.
Allen nodded in understanding.
The guard pointed for him to enter the elevator. Allen stepped in by himself and the doors closed. The elevator went straight from the underground garage to the forty-seventh floor. When it opened, two strapping guards in typical Arab garb were waiting for him. The shorter of the two leaned forward and motioned for him to enter the open office entrance near the elevator.
Allen entered a spacious office with a view of downtown Dubai and the Persian Gulf. Rising from behind a desk as Allen entered, an Arab male cordially greeted him in impeccable English, “Good afternoon, Mr. Brown. I am called 'the Lebanese' in formal circles. You may call me Abraham Bateh.” The Arab businessperson stepped forward and shook Allen’s hand. The officer heard the guard close the door behind him.
Abraham Bateh wore a stylish navy European suit with flare-notched lapels.
Allen (Mr. Brown) nodded in agreement. The Lebanese released his grip, stepping back and motioned for Allen to take a seat in one of two leather chairs facing the desk. The businessman took his original seat, an understated leather chair that matched a drab decor. The glare of a late afternoon sun was coming in the panoramic window, diffusing his features.
“Would you like something to drink, or eat?”
“Coffee would be fine.”
“Any cream, or sugar?”
“Just sugar.”
The man picked up his desk phone, “I need two coffees: one with sugar, the other with cream and sugar.”
Allen looked about the room; there were framed photos of historic sites from across the world. The Pyramids, Jerusalem, the Coliseum, the Eiffel Tower and several the officer could not place. Allen wondered if the various cultures represented were an oversight, or a sign the man sitting in front of him was more open-minded than most Arabs.
As was the custom in the region, Allen waited for his host to begin the conversation.
“I understand, Mr. Brown, you wanted to see me?” Allen sat back in his chair and studied the Arab for a moment. When the officer had heard of the Lebanese for the first time, his informant had mentioned a man with a nasty scar running down the right side of his face. Because of it, his enemies often called him "ندبة الوجه," (Scarface).
If he wasn't mistaken, the man before him had no such scar. The last thing he needed was to be involved in a sting operation. Allen responded, "Yes, but before I go into that, I've noticed the framed photos. I recognize all, but one of them." Allen nodded his head in the direction of a framed photo of Petra to the potential impostor.
The Arab took the bait and looked in the direction of the photo, giving Allen a chance to confirm ‘the Lebanese’ was who he said he was.
"That is Petra, in Jordan." The man looked back and caught Allen studying his facial features as if looking for something. He smiled and kept on, "A scar, you're looking for my old scar Mr. Brown. That was taken care of with plastic surgery. One cannot be too cautious in my line of work, a distinguishing feature like that made it too easy for me to be recognized.
"I know you've got a glare in your eyes, but you should still be able to make out the scar tissue." The man turned his head and leaned toward Allen.
The man was right: being marked with some noticeable facial feature would be dangerous. Allen could barely see a scar. The plastic surgeon had done a masterful job.
Allen responded as the Arab sat back in his chair, "I apologize for being so cautious. It is as you say, a dangerous line of work we are both in. I represent someone who wants a large number of unusual weapons."
There was a light knock at a side door.
"Come in," replied the black-arms merchant.
An attractive Arab woman with long, dark hair and brilliant, brown eyes came in carrying a silver tray with two steaming demitasses of strong smelling coffee.
"I hope you like Arabic coffee?" warned the Arab with a slight smile.
After handing a miniature cup to Allen and then her boss, the Arab woman asked, “Will there be anything else?”
“No, you may go.”
She stepped out of the room and closed the door.
“So, Mr. Brown, what do you require of me?"
“I understand the Iranians have something I need. What the West calls a weapon of mass destruction...”
Americans Forgetting McKinley’s Fault
American News
WASHINGTON, D.C. - Americans are suffering from a case of amnesia forgetting that the economic recession was inherited from former President William W. McKinley. President Nathan Martinez has stated on many occasions he was not aware of how messed up the economy was until he actually got to the Oval Office, and by then it was too late. Martinez’s earlier promise that under his administration the country would recover, with what is now known, would have been an impossibility no matter what he did, or said.
Unemployment Reaches 10.2%
Page 32, American News
WASHINGTON, D.C.—According to a latest job report from the Bureau of Labor Statistics, the unemployment rate broke 10 percent (10.2%) for the first time since the recession began under former President William McKinley.
President Raises Public Debt Limit
Magnason Enterprise News Network
WASHINGTON, D.C. - Democrat President, Nathan Martinez signed into law today a
bill that raises the public debt limit from $15.394 to $17.294 trillion. The current national debt is $15.3 trillion, roughly $65,000 per citizen, $155,000 per taxpayer. The President also plans to introduce new tax policies to help pay for the increases saying, “Taxing the rich has now become a fiscal necessity.”
A janitor pushed a cart down a hallway at a slow pace that appeared to be from a lack of enthusiasm for the job. He was wearing faded green coveralls with a security badge clipped to a flap of the breast pocket. His dark hair was peppered with gray. Over the past two weeks he swept, scrubbed, and mopped virtually every room and hallway of the executive floors of WNN television studios. He was respectful, upbeat and generally well-liked by the staff.
The name on the security badge read John Myers (Hunter Jefferies). Hunter completed the surveillance work of the three publishing headquarters and a plan was laid out for each. He would now move on to helping two other officers with a last and most difficult target, the massive World News Network building.
Hunter’s posture was hunched and submissive, but beneath the maintenance man’s black and gray eyebrows the eyes were alert, scanning the hall ahead. Up ahead, a door on the right opened and a man and woman stepped into the hallway. Hunter recognized the woman instantly. The woman was one of the late-night news anchors he had seen on a WNN channel in Iraq. Her name escaped him. No matter. The man on her right was of no interest.
46 Million On Food Stamps
Page 4, World News Network
WASHINGTON, D.C. - The number of Americans on food stamps hit a record high in June, and economists don't expect much improvement as long as unemployment remains above 10%.
Those receiving benefits through the Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program numbered 46.37 million, a government official said in a report released just days following the National Bureau of Economic Research announced the crippling recession has ended.
A businessman walked into the spacious lobby entrance of World News Network headquarters with his cordovan briefcase and coffee in hand.
The man was wearing a business suit that was far less comfortable than his loosely fitting combat fatigues, his neck chaffing under a starched shirt collar. Sean passed through a security checkpoint with its metal detector and sidearm carrying guards after being scanned and presenting his tenant ID.
Sean made his way up one of a slough of elevators up to the GEF office on the fifty-second floor. The officer spent the morning looking over the building floor schematics Sean had pieced together when the phone rang. The officer answered, “Green Earth Foundation.”
“This is the receiving dock. You’ve gotten a furniture order here from, hold on a minute.”
A receiving clerk could be heard talking in a muffled way after having cupped the receiver with his hand, “Who did you say you were with?”
Marcus' muffled voice could be heard answering the clerk, “One-Stop Furniture Rentals.”
The clerk’s voice came back on the line, “The delivery is from One-Stop Furniture.”
Marcus’ voice could again be heard in the background. “The customer paid for delivery and setup.”
The clerk uncapped the receiver, “Is it okay if I send them right up?”
Ten minutes later, Sean heard a knock on the office door. He responded, “Come on in.”
Marcus stuck his head in, “One-Stop delivery. I have two pieces of furniture for you. Where would you like them, sir?"
Sean smiled and replied, "In the back will be fine."
They looked the part, in their faux company uniforms, but Hunter and Elijah were having a difficult time manhandling the heavy set of metal filing cabinets through the doorway.
“Do you guys need a hand?” Sean asked with a smirk.
One more knock came at the door and a facilities employee entered. “Facilities department. I have a delivery for GEF. Where would you like the packages?”
One box contained a lightweight slow-turn electric drill with industrial stand designed to bore into solid bedrock. Miners used it to place small-diameter, dynamite charges into tunnel walls.
One more container held an ultrasound device that would determine the location of the steel rods that permeated the concrete foundation of the skyscraper. It would take hours and several drill bits to penetrate a solid two-foot wall beyond which, schematics showed a primary air duct ran the height of the building.
This was the same routine Sean had gone through for the past several months. The same operations, some quick, others laborious. A primary tunnel that carried an HVAC (heating and air conditioning) duct had shown a secondary wall had to be penetrated to get access to the floors below. The small square office had scarcely been large enough to accommodate the furnishings, desks and chairs. It had all the appearance of being a disaster.
Sean removed a plain metal container from one of the boxes. Opening it, the officer found an arming mechanism and notebook with pass codes. Sean thumbed through several pages of the building’s blueprints looking for the floors where the EMP device would need to be placed to have maximum effect.
----------
It was 10:10 P.M. when the young security guard from New Jersey saw a man approach the glass lobby entrance. This was followed by a metallic clicking noise as a locking mechanism on the front door released. Footsteps could be heard as a disheveled-looking businessperson approached the desk with a smell of liquor about him.
The design of the building was intended to soften a boundary between the interior of the World Tribune headquarters and a busy life outside. As a result, the majestic lobby was encased entirely in transparent glass.
The man approached the security desk, passing rows of elevator banks, briefcase in hand. The security guard asked, “Can I help you?”
“Tim Jenner (Marcus), reporter.”
“Do you have any identification sir?”
Marcus’ right hand slowly moved to his coat pocket. His fingers came back with a small key badge, with the company name, World Tribune, identification number and his picture. Marcus then placed the plastic encased badge on the security guard’s desk so he could verify Marcus’ credentials.
“Thank you sir, you’re good to go.” The security guard keyed in Mr. Jenner’s time of arrival after moving through a series of terminal menus.
“Is the cafeteria still open?”
“Yes, sir, it is.”
“Excellent. Good night young man.”
Marcus strode to a bank of elevators. The officer looked to his right, at the fairytale atrium garden with tropical trees, flowers and running waterfall entered the elevator and pressed a button labeled “C” for the cafeteria. Once it began its upward ascent, his wobbling motion became less pronounced. By the time he reached the 14th-floor he was in perfect step and no longer appeared to be under the influence of alcohol.
Marcus’ eyes were met with dazzling views of the entire city in all four compass bearings. The cafeteria’s two-story height added to an impression of gross overindulgence. He walked to one of the vending machines, plugged a dollar’s worth of change in and selected coffee, black. Coffee in hand, Marcus walked over to one of the locked doorways the news people used and pulled his magnetic striped identification card out of his pocket. The officer ran it over a reader, heard a metallic click as the door unlocked and opened it.
Internal staircases linked the various newsroom floors and he casually walked down to the tenth floor. The work cubicles were flanked by rows of glass-enclosed offices, many of which would remain unassigned so they could be used for private phone conversations and frequent, spontaneous meetings for the news people. Informal groupings of tables and chairs were scattered about the floor, creating a variety of social spaces.
A double-height skylight opened up overhead. The view outside was totally different from the scene four floors above. All he could see was the surrounding buildings. This was the news company’s nerve center. Of the many desks, only a dozen, or so were
occupied by staffers, or the late-shift reporters.
Marcus pulled a portion of a building schematic from his inside coat pocket to get his bearings. There was an access panel just on the other side of a service doorway in the center of the floor. An electrical main and equipment sat behind the locked door.
Marcus would infiltrate targeted high-rise buildings using a variety of subterfuge. Posing as a security guard, the officer was successful some months earlier in obtaining photos of the layout of various buildings and the central air systems.
The officer narrowed down the location where the ventilation system was most accessible. He was there to confirm for the team his plan for a final deployment of a primary and secondary EMP devices.
----------
A lanky male wore thick-rimmed glasses. His name badge read Stephen Ainsworth, and he looked the part of a security guard in this, his first assignment into American News’ principle printing facilities. It was here that nearly ten million papers ran off the German-engineered presses each night. It was one of half a dozen new factories that operated day and night, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.
It was early morning and the officer would have access to nearly every part of a building his team would later use for their work. A miniature video camera in his glasses and an ear microphone allowed the officers in a parked van outside the facility to monitor, direct and record his movements inside the factory.
Hunter often accessed the primary targets, disguised as a card-carrying security guard. Using blueprints he would use this means of entry to identify the best locations for EMP weapon deployment. He would ultimately be responsible for installing the suitcase-sized devices and arming them to go off on the same date, at the same time: during primetime network news television coverage.
In the news company complexes Hunter entered to date he found the security good, quick, and reasonably up-to-date for a commercial enterprise, but nothing up to the standards needed to prevent his team from accomplishing its mission.
Months later, one would find Hunter, now disguised as a maintenance man, making his way through the facilities. The officer wore the same eyewear and curious hearing aid and was most often seen pushing a tool dolly. This day, inside a hidden compartment was a late-model, Russian KM2. The Russians latest developments in EMP bomb technology would take out all the electrical circuitry inside a city block radius. One was more than enough to fry the electrical circuitry for any of the newsprint operations.
Over the past months, officers had shown up around the nation as business people, casually dressed members of public tours, as UPS delivery people, as air conditioning technicians, as elevator inspectors, more than a dozen different kinds of roles to fulfill their mission. The deployment process for one half of the attack was just about complete.
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