Corps Justice Boxed Set: Books 1-3: Back to War, Council of Patriots, Prime Asset - Military Thrillers

by C. G. Cooper

  Ever since arriving at the hotel, he’d averaged two to three hours of sleep per night. In order to stay awake, Neil would occasionally do a couple sets of push-ups or burpees, just to get the blood flowing and jumpstart his brain.

  As he lowered himself down to the ground for the first of fifty fast push-ups, he spied the manila envelope at the door. Curious, he stood up, walked to the door, and opened up the envelope.

  It contained a simple message: WE KNOW ABOUT THE COUNCIL

  Neil cursed and ran to his phone.

  +++

  Cal watched as Gaucho carefully guided the remote vehicle through the winding maze. Two times he’d quickly swerved around walking employees who were oblivious to the spy camera’s presence. He almost jumped when his phone buzzed with the incoming call. He looked at the caller ID. What does Neil want?

  He put the phone to his ear. “What’s up?”

  “We’ve got a problem.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know, Neil.”

  “I just got a message,” Patel knew the capabilities of agencies like the NSA. Nothing you said on a cell phone was safe anymore.

  “Can’t this wait?”

  “No. I need you back here right now.”

  Cal looked at Brian and shrugged. “Okay. I’ll be there in ten.”

  Ramirez looked at his friend. “What’s going on?”

  “No idea. Apparently, we’re in another shitstorm. Neil won’t tell me until we get back to his suite.”

  “You want me to stay here?”

  Cal thought about it. On one hand, having an extra pair of eyes might be useful. On the other, Gaucho’s boys were more than capable.

  “No, come back with me. I might need your help.”

  Brian waved for the waitress to bring the check while Cal texted Gaucho to let him know he’d be off station. What else could be added to this little adventure?

  +++

  Ten minutes later, the costumed duo entered Patel’s suite. Neil motioned them over to the scattered papers on his makeshift desk. The first thing Cal noticed was the note from the envelope: WE KNOW ABOUT THE COUNCIL.

  “What the fuck?”

  “I told you it was bad. It gets worse though, Cal.” Neil pointed at the contents of the mysterious envelope. “I think they’re trying to tell us something.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Neil exhaled. He knew he had to keep his friend calm. “I think they’re trying to say that we better leave or they’ll expose the Council.”

  “But there’s no way they could know about it, Neil!”

  “Well, apparently someone pieced it together. It doesn’t look like something you could take to court, but they sure could cause a stink.”

  “How the hell did this happen?” Cal wondered aloud.

  +++

  The crooked politician started his investigation into the secret group nearly two years before. It all started as an accident. The aspiring President wasn’t new to Washington. Over the years, he’d fought hard to head certain committees and cement important relationships. Very diligent in his planning, the long-serving federal servant knew the importance of building a resumé. He now chaired one of the highly coveted intelligence oversight committees.

  On this particular occasion, a certain suspected terrorist cell was tracked to the United States by federal agencies. The problem was that The Patriot Act could only do so much. The President had already given explicit instructions that action would only be taken against suspected terrorist cells at home or abroad if the reviewed intelligence proved that the party was guilty beyond a reasonable doubt. Intelligence is rarely absolute. There isn’t always a smoking gun. To make matters worse, cells operating in America had become very skilled at evading authorities and masking their activities.

  One of the favored ways these groups stayed out of the reach of the law was to conduct clandestine meetings in mosques. Terrorists knew the American President drew the line at entering these holy places of worship. One of the pillars of his election was to repair the American relationship with the Muslim world. What sounded like a noble goal had turned into an open invitation. Ever since the Presidential inauguration, foreign fighters who’d managed to enter the U.S. flocked to mosques and made them their base of operations.

  This particular cell, though new on the intelligence radar, was already very accomplished. Recruitment in the Detroit area increased alarmingly. As one of the hardest hit areas as a result of the recent economic downturn, young Arabs were easy targets.

  The politician remembered grilling the FBI representatives that stood before his committee. He couldn’t believe they were incapable of doing anything. Their reply was always the same: “Our hands are tied.”

  He’d thought the agency would somehow get creative. It scared him to think that America’s enemies could so easily infiltrate his country. Something must be done.

  A week later, he happened to run into former President Hank Waller. The two men were members at the same exclusive country club in Annandale. They’d been acquaintances in the halls of Washington for years. Over martinis, they caught up on each other’s lives and commiserated on the trajectory of the American economy. Smoking cigars in the member lounge, the politician broached the subject of terrorists on American soil. Waller’s brow furrowed. He could tell something was bothering his old colleague.

  The politician proceeded to rail against the current President’s asinine policy of treating terrorists like prisoners of war. He went on to describe a laundry list of potentially important operations that never launched just because the President wanted to be careful about offending the international community.

  “Damnit, Hank. This man is making us look like a bunch of pussies!”

  Waller calmed his friend and asked if there was anything he could do to help. Maybe a friendly meeting with the new President?

  “That won’t help. He’s got his guard of cronies that make sure no one rocks the boat. During the election, he was all about reaching across the aisle; working together to affect change. Now he won’t talk to a soul if his staff catches wind that they’re trying to push an opposing agenda. The man is playing emperor in his ivory palace!” huffed the tired politician.

  He’d continued by describing the case of the suspected terrorist cell in Detroit. “I mean, they are on OUR soil and we can’t lift a finger until they jaywalk or murder someone. It’s ludicrous.”

  Waller hadn’t promised anything. He’d simply told him that if he ever needed to vent again, his door was always open. After all, he was retired. Both men laughed and promised to stay in touch.

  The politician didn’t think about the conversation until two weeks later. FBI reps were set to give his committee an update on the Detroit operation. What he received was far different.

  “Sir, just this morning, we found out that the Detroit terror cell has been…well, it’s been eradicated,” informed the obviously confused FBI agent.

  “What do you mean it’s been eradicated, Mr. Pratt?” the politician questioned suspiciously.

  “Well, sir, the two leaders of the cell and their top lieutenants were found this morning in front of their mosque.”

  “And…?”

  “They were all dead, sir.”

  The politician sat back and digested the news. Certainly the FBI hadn’t had anything to do with it?

  “Were we involved, Mr. Pratt?”

  “No, sir! In fact, we got the tip into our regional office at five this morning. I think we knew about it before the mosque did,” Pratt paused, seemingly trying to formulate his next comment. “There’s more, sir.”

  “More? I can’t wait to hear this, Mr. Pratt.” The politician rolled his eyes turning to his colleagues.

  “This was a warning, sir.”

  “How so?”

  “Each man lying on the ground held a large poster board with a message and a package. I have a picture for you here, sir.”

  “Why don’t you save us some time and r
ead it, Mr. Pratt,” the politician recommended impatiently.

  “It says ‘America welcomes all races and religion. What we don’t tolerate is terrorists trying to kill our country and our people’.”

  The committee sat back in shocked silence. Although quietly rooting for the vigilantes, the politician understood the possible fall-out.

  “Thank you, Mr. Pratt. If you’ll please leave copies of your documentation we will call on you again soon.”

  The politician had tried not to rush as he’d taken his assigned packet. It seemed that whoever had murdered the terrorists had first done their homework first. Each man had a nametag stuck to his shirt. They were given names like PEDOPHILE, COWARD, and BLASPHEMER. In each package, they’d included the evidence to explain their nicknames. One man had a DVD showing close to six hours of the dead man having sex with ten-year-old prostitutes. The next man’s package contained a thumb drive with hours of audio. Each recorded conversation was the dead man talking with one of his colleagues. They were laughing about the naïve recruits that strapped bombs to their bodies. The man actually said, “I would never be stupid enough to do that. They are so easy to convince in this country.”

  The transcripts went on and on. These men were obviously guilty. To cap it all off, the killers also provided audio, video, and schematics recovered from the deceased terrorists. The plans detailed an operation soon to be executed. They were targeting public elementary schools. The captured video showed the terrorists casing local educational institutions at the start of the school day. Based on the information provided, the FBI had already raided the terrorist safe house and uncovered crates of automatic weapons, RPGs, and hand grenades.

  The politician was impressed by the daring killers. Whoever had conducted the investigation and the subsequent killings were professionals. Someone was secretly doing things right.

  Over the next week, more and more intel was mined from the contents of the Detroit safe house. No one cried for the loss of these men. Surprisingly, once the truth of the dead terrorists’ background and operation leaked to the press, the local Muslim community understood and calmed. They knew it was a warning to other would-be terrorists and not a threat to them.

  The politician marveled at the effect of the killings. While listening to the testimony of countless FBI representatives, he started to wonder how the initial investigation leaked to the covert masterminds.

  During one particularly boring hearing, the conversation with President Waller popped into his head. Could it be? Is that the leak? At first, the politician chided himself for his indiscretion. A plan formulated in his mind. Maybe if he let another piece of actionable intelligence slip to Waller, the problem would take care of itself.

  The politician had found out long ago that in the corridors of Washington’s elite, there was no such thing as knowing too many of other people’s secrets.

  That night, he carefully went over every supposedly dead-end operation he knew about. These would commonly be called ‘cold-cases’ in a police department. He liked to call them ‘grey cases.’ They lived in a grey area where either the evidence could only be collected through less than legal tactics or the suspected criminal was untouchable due to the person’s station or status under current law.

  Federal agencies hadn’t ‘officially’ given up on them, but the mix of current regulation and the sitting President made convictions nearly impossible. After much reflection, the politician knew the perfect case to leak.

  +++

  The next day, he placed a call to Hank Waller’s office. Because of his status in Washington, he was immediately patched through. During the brief chat, the politician never mentioned the Detroit operation. Instead, he invited President Waller to play eighteen holes at the Army-Navy Club the next week.

  Waller quickly checked his schedule and confirmed that he could make the tee time.

  The following week, the two competitive men, surrounded by a roving Secret Service team, did their best to out-putt and out-drive each other. After the ninth hole, the politician steered the conversation to the increasing problems on the U.S.-Mexico border.

  “It’s pretty pathetic that the President has his attorney general crucifying these border guards. Did you hear that last week we actually had one of our outposts shelled?”

  Waller looked up in surprise. “As in mortar shelled?”

  “Yes,” the politician knew he had Waller’s attention. “The drug cartels are getting their hands on anything they want. What’s next, heavy artillery?”

  “Why aren’t we doing anything about it?”

  “These guys aren’t idiots, Hank. They sit just on the other side of the border and wage war. We don’t cross the border because Mexico is our ally. Problem is, the Mexican authorities are completely overwhelmed. They’ve got their hands full in major cities where hundreds of people are being murdered in broad daylight. What do they have to gain by helping us protect OUR border? Hell, a lot of their revenue comes from illegal immigrants coming over here and shipping money back to Mexico.”

  “So why doesn’t the President put the screws to Mexico? I know we’ve done some joint ops before. We can help them if they need the help.”

  The politician laughed. “Are you kidding? When was the last time you saw the President put the screws to any foreign leader? I think the only country he’s had a real pissing contest with is Israel. And they’re our allies! No, he doesn’t like making waves. He’d rather send drones into Pakistan than bitch slap a neighbor.”

  “That sounds pretty harsh,” Waller scolded.

  “It’s the truth, Hank. Come on. You’ve been in the hot seat. You know how it goes. Give these guys an inch and they take a whole country.”

  The politician went on to tell the ex-President about the powerful cartel that was changing the face of the border war. Led by a secretive gangster, the expanding organization now played gatekeeper for other cartels looking to ship their illegal goods into America. The mortar attack was suspected to be the work of the same cartel.

  Waller listened intently. The politician wouldn’t know until nearly a month later that Waller had passed the information on to a secret band of warriors.

  +++

  This time the results of the clandestine operation came from the DEA representative to the politician’s committee. The man described, in detail, the load of intel that had recently been anonymously sent to their office. As a side note, the DEA man reported that the head of the border cartel had recently been found and gagged outside the regional Mexican police headquarters. Attached to the man were ten kilos of cocaine and enough video evidence to incarcerate him and his associates for hundreds of years.

  So these covert warriors weren’t just killers. They had the ability to deliver criminals alive to the authorities when appropriate.

  The politician filed the thought away. He then set about having his contacts get him information on President Waller’s conversations and travels. He hadn’t known the exact identity of the organization conducting the covert operations, but he would soon.

  The highlights of the almost two-year secret investigation filled the space the size of a large manila envelope. It was a pity he’d have to break up the party, but it was for the greater good: America’s future.

  +++

  Cal and Brian sifted through the contents of the envelope. There were pictures of Council members together at various locations along with snippets of conversations. It sounded like someone had paraphrased after listening in. Maybe some of their Secret Service Agents?

  All the documents felt more like a precursor. They were incomplete. Something was missing. What was it? What were they getting at? They seemed to be saying, “If you think this is a lot, just wait until you see what else we’ve got.”

  Maybe it was just a fishing expedition. Maybe whoever ‘they’ were didn’t know anything. They were making one point painfully obvious: by delivering the envelope right to their suite, they knew where they were AND they knew about their
connection to the Council of Patriots.

  Cal picked up the secure phone next to Neil and dialed a number from memory. It was a number he swore he’d never use. He waited as the secure connection went through.

  Hank Waller answered, “Yes?”

  “Mr. President, we have a problem.”

  Chapter 29

  Las Vegas, Nevada

  12:28pm, September 18th

  The group of Japanese men sat around the conference room table, chatting with colleagues as they waited for their host to begin.

  Kazuo Nakamura looked around the room and remembered days long gone. These men truly were like family. Their histories were forever intertwined.

  +++

  Kazuo’s father, Akemi Nakamura, had been close to fifty when his son was born. His first wife, who’d left him childless, died six years earlier. His second wife was twenty-five years his junior. He’d married her simply to produce an heir.

  The second wife produced a son, but died from complications during his birth. Young Kazuo was raised by an elderly housekeeper and occasionally allowed to enter his father’s world.

  At the age of nine, Kazuo awoke late one night. He heard loud shouting from the other side of the house. Being in a traditional Japanese home, most of the doors were literally paper-thin. He crept towards the commotion and peeked through a small hole in one of the door’s panes.

  He observed his father and four other men sitting around their chabudai dining room table. His father pointed at one of the men across the short table and yelled, “You know how that makes us look! You take advantage of the American contracts, but you will not be social with them!”

  The man kept his head bowed in deference and tried to explain. “But, Nakamura-san, these Americans will do more business with us if I find the time to eat dinner with them or…”