Iron Triangle: A Jackson Pike Novel (Book One of The Iron Triangle Series)

by Patrick Adams

  Mike placed his thumb on a small scanner to the right side of the door frame and several metallic clicks ensued. Jackson whistled as the thick metal door unlocked. The former Chief pushed open the two inch thick steel security door and placed a broad and calloused hand on Jackson's shoulder as he guided the much shorter man into his home.

  Jackson stepped into the residence a few paces before stopping as Mike turned and typed a key code into a computer screen on the inside of the door frame. He swung the door shut and Jackson heard three distinct metallic clicks before the retired SEAL Chief turned back to face Jackson.

  Jackson was impressed but not surprised by the security of the Chief's home. He had always been careful and highly suspicious of others.

  Although the home looked like a simple and dilapidated double wide from the exterior, the door was solid steel was equipped with multiple magnetic door locks which could only be opened via fingerprint scanner or a security code.

  The walls of the home were solid concrete.

  Jackson looked up and noted that the ceiling was reinforced with steel girders. Only the external layer of the ceiling was tin, and beneath the rusting tin of the outside lay thick plates of sheet metal.

  Jackson turned towards the windows, which allowed the fading light of the setting sun to cascade off of the hand build furniture within the residence. The thick plated glass appeared to be bulletproof.

  Jackson smiled, remembering the solar panels that lined the roof, and the newly painted generator shed outside. He could be sure that the home was powered exclusively by solar electricity, a backup generator, and battery power.

  He had no doubt that a well provided the drinking water.

  The home of former Chief Petty Officer Mike Jones was indeed a fortress, thought Jackson. It was also about as off the grid as possible in the modern United States. It was just the way Mike Jones liked it.

  Mike pointed Jackson towards the kitchen table. Unlike Jackson's home, the interior of this residence was meticulously clean and orderly, with the distinctive feel of a remote hunting cabin.

  Subdued lighting shone through the bulletproof windows of the front room and past the plaid curtains. The refracted light illuminated the simple leather couch and chair that sat facing one another in the center of the room.

  A television was nowhere in sight. Chief had always been more of the intellectual type.

  Jackson continued to look around for a while before taking his assigned seat at the kitchen table. He could hear Mike in the other room unloading and securing his weapon.

  Jackson peered around the room, taking note of the hand built wooden furniture in the home.

  Probably most impressive were the book cases that lined the walls of the home. The hand built shelves were packed with books of all kinds. Fiction, non-fiction, textbooks, and even religious texts lined the Chief's walls.

  Jackson suspected that the only pieces of furniture that the Chief had bought were the couch and chair that sat in the living room. Mike had always been good with his hands, thought Jackson as he stared at the hand built oak table where he sat.

  "I'm so sorry about your family, LT;" said Mike as he walked from the hallway and sat down at the kitchen table. He slid an open Budweiser across the table to Jackson and opened one for himself. He took a long draught.

  "Thank you, Mike." Jackson took a sip of his beer and continued. "I had nowhere else to go."

  Words spilled out of Jackson quickly now, as he recounted his tale of the past several days. He told Mike everything. About how he had been fired, the tale of the murder of Susan Winters and the man in his home.

  Finally, he described the murder of his family. Jackson pieced the story together carefully, including as much detail as he could. As he spoke, the former Chief remained silent.

  Jackson wrapped up his tale saying, "and so I ended up here."

  He paused. "Mike, I have to find the men who did this, and I am going to need some help."

  "Let me get this straight," replied Mike. "Roger your story. I believe every word. But you are a wanted murderer."

  Jackson nodded as Mike continued.

  "You brought a stolen car to my house."

  Jackson nodded again.

  "Well LT, a smart man would call the cops and be done with this situation."

  He let the heaviness of his words linger in the air before smiling.

  "But I'm just not that bright, and I hate cops."

  "Thanks Chief," replied Jackson, relieved. He took a sip of his beer. "Can you help me?"

  "I think I can help you, LT." Mike replied, "But first I want to show you something."

  Mike stood up and walked to the nearby bookshelf, removing a small film canister from the shelf. He dumped the contents on the handmade kitchen table. It was a mangled bullet.

  "You remember our final mission together?" The Chief asked, while Jackson nodded. He dreamed about the mission nightly.

  "This is the bullet that they pulled from my leg after that mission," continued the former Chief, sliding the bullet down the table towards Jackson.

  "I had it analyzed. It’s a Carmike bullet, Jackson. It is an 52 grain, M995 Armor Piercing 45mm NATO round. That's the only type of ammo that the security contractors who work for Carmike use. The Afghanis don't use that shit." He looked across the table.

  "You mean to tell me that Carmike security contractors were firing on us in that Afghan compound?" Jackson asked the Chief.

  "So it would seem, LT;" said Mike, as he scooped up the bullet and placed it back in the film dispenser.

  "I don't know what all of this means either, but between the bullet they pulled out of me, and the murders of Leigh and Clementine, I'm damn sure up for breaking in to the bastards' headquarters to find out."

  Jackson smiled, looking into Mike's eyes as he spoke.

  "Thank you."

  He turned away, taking another sip of his beer as relief washed over him. As a SEAL, Jackson was glad to not be working alone. And Mike Jones had been one of the best operators Jackson had ever had the privilege of serving with.

  "So what's the plan, LT?" asked the former Chief Petty Officer, his eyes taking on a hard set as they began to focus on the mission.

  "Well Mike," said Jackson, "I know the location of the building and have a decent idea of the general layout and security protocols. I'm thinking that I'll go in solo, with you acting as my spotter from the outside. I'll plan on seeing if I can find any personnel files with known associates or team members of Mohammed Fatal. If there's time I'll also try and make it in to Susan Winter's office and collect some intelligence."

  "I always did like working with you, LT;" said Mike Jones, "I like how you keep it simple. But first things first, you are going to need a shower. I have peroxide in the bathroom, along with scissors and a razor. A shave and a haircut will do wonders for keeping you incognito on the road. I'll get you some clothes."

  Jackson walked to the bathroom. After a shower, a rudimentary lightening of his hair, and a shave, he almost didn't recognize himself.

  And Mike was as good as his word.

  "Here are some clothes for you" he said, handing Jackson a pair of black pants and a long sleeved black shirt.

  Jackson got dressed and looked in the mirror. He was blacked out from head to toe. The clothes that Mike had loaned him fit Jackson well, despite the pants being a little long.

  "You look like a new man, Jackson," said Mike Jones. He was blacked out in similar attire.

  "You know, Mike." Replied Jackson, "That's the first time you have ever called me by my first name."

  Mike laughed. "Well hell, sir. If we are going into the vigilante justice business, I see no need to stand on formality."

  Chapter 21:

  6:05 PM- Saturday, September 9th

  Washington, D.C.

  The gray haired politician blew an exasperated breath from his lungs. He settled back into the deep black leather of his armored limousine and poured a glass of scotch as the Vice Presid
ential motorcade cut a swath through the light Saturday traffic of the nation's capitol.

  The late model Cadillac limousine was probably the safest vehicle in the world. Its three inch bulletproof glass and armored shell rendered the luxury vehicle close to impenetrable. But the Cadillac's hardened exterior was only one layer of protection for the Vice President. With the D.C. Metropolitan Police and Secret Service vehicles making up the rest of the motorcade, the sixty year old Vice President couldn't have felt safer.

  The deep blue eyes of Vice President Colgan peered through the darkly tinted windows of the rolling fortress, lost in thought.

  Colgan rarely had the opportunity to be alone and reflect upon his thoughts in private.

  In fact, he couldn't remember the last time he had been alone in the back of a limousine. He was thoroughly enjoying the few moments of solitude as he took a small sip of the Glenfiddich single malt scotch whisky that he held in his soft and lightly trembling hands.

  The small flat screen television securely affixed to the forward bulkhead of the vehicle remained dark as the motorcade proceeded towards the Vice President's home at the US Naval Observatory.

  He was looking forward to a quiet evening at home with his wife, another event which had become all too rare in his busy political life, especially with only two months to the November elections. He tried to remember the last time he'd seen Margaret.

  Three weeks ago, he recalled sullenly. It had been at a fundraiser in New York.

  The Vice President had been on the campaign trail for months now.

  Luckily, he continued to lead in most key states. But a few remained contentious.

  The two that he and his advisors remained the most concerned about were Florida and New York.

  Both were worth 29 electoral votes. Either could make or break the election for the Republican Presidential candidate. He peered out the window of the luxury vehicle as he counted the states his advisors considered to be solidly red.

  He was still short of the 270 he would need to take the White House.

  The heavy black limousine cruised down K Street now, past the The George Washington University and west towards the cobblestone streets of Georgetown. The Vice President sighed, wishing the windows of his limousine rolled down. He would have enjoyed the fresh air.

  He took another sip of the expensive scotch whisky and peered out the dark windows into the bustle of the nation's capitol. If he was to take the election, he would need to take one of the two key swing states from his opponent, the two-time Democratic Congressman from California.

  He felt confident that he would.

  His business experience alone should make him a no-brainer for the few true undecided voters that remained.

  Vice President Colgan smiled, shrugging the stress from his shoulders. He could almost taste his coming victory in the November elections.

  Without strategists and advisors for the first time in months, the Vice President was finally able to reflect on his political strategy. It was amazing, he thought, how much the political landscape can change in a few short years.

  When his predecessor and current boss, President Butler had come to power, winning the vote meant solidifying the party base around the rallying cries of Christian principles and lower taxes. Now, all the voters seemed to care about was the economy and the impending U.S. debt crisis.

  Colgan took another long sip of the Glenfiddich Scotch whisky, draining the glass as his soft hands reached once more for the bottle. He splashed the brown liquor liberally into the glass and replaced the bottle in the small bar beneath the long armored window of the dark limousine. He took another deep draught of the brown liquid. It was smooth as it flowed easily down the throat of the elderly politician.

  Recent polling told the thin politician all he needed to know about the American voter.

  He smiled. All but two percent of the American public had already decided who they would vote for in November. For Colgan, that meant that he only had to concentrate on two percent of the voting population in the states of Florida and New York.

  According to his advisors, winning either state should hand the Vice President the election. And he was polling better in both states on the economy.

  The media had made a great deal of fuss over his record as an international businessman.

  He shrugged. To the Vice President, it was a non-factor. But to the American public, the Vice President's graduation from Columbia University and Harvard Business School meant something, especially in this economy.

  The key positions that Colgan had held throughout the financial sector didn't hurt his chances either. Over a twenty year career in private industry, the current Vice President of the United States had eventually worked his way to becoming the CEO of Carmike Industries, one of the largest corporations in the world, a position that he had resigned just before being asked to become the current President's running mate.

  Colgan rested his head heavily in the soft embrace of the limousine's leather seats as the motorcade continued to cut through the light, late afternoon Washington D.C. traffic. His gaze shifted lazily between the crystal glass in his hand and the Saturday afternoon Washington bustle as the motorcade cruised down the cobblestone streets of Georgetown and turned right onto Wisconsin Avenue.

  The Vice President peered through the tinted window, momentarily distracted by a flash of light that glinted brightly in his eye.

  He searched for its source.

  A white utility van sat idling at a crossing red light. Its high beams were shining directly at the Vice President's motorcade at eye level. The Vice President sighed and drained his second glass of whisky peering in disdain at the young black driver distractedly resting on the steering wheel as the motorcade passed by, his orange working vest glinting in the late afternoon sun.

  Some people just had no consideration, thought the Vice President as he closed his eyes and pressed his head once more into the supple leather of the limousine's headrest before unfolding his black Motorola cell phone.

  His wife hated it when he didn't call on the way home.

  The Vice President dialed his home phone number and waited. After three rings, his wife answered, her voice broadcasting clearly through the wireless device, "Hello?"

  Vice President Colgan's famously deep and soothing voice responded. "Hi sweetheart, I was just calling to let you know I'll be home in about ten minutes."

  "I can't wait!" Said his wife as the Vice President flipped the phone closed.

  Chapter 22:

  7:15 PM- Saturday, September 9th

  Outside of Norfolk, VA

  Retired Chief Petty Officer Mike Jones hefted his six foot four inch frame from the handmade chair in his kitchen and nodded at Jackson. Both men stepped towards the back bedroom. Down a short hallway, they entered Mike's bed chamber and Jackson followed the much larger black man's lead, turning to face the interior wall of the meticulously clean home.

  Jackson chuckled. As he had expected, Mike was in possession of an arsenal of weapons. Jackson doubted the legality of most of these armaments, and knew some of them to be outright banned by federal law.

  Jackson whistled through pursed lips as he stared at the array, which included hand grenades, knives, fully automatic rifles including the AK-47 Jackson had seen earlier, even a rocket launcher.

  The weapons were secured in a hand-made gun case that took up the entire wall.

  "Holy shit, Mike. You get caught with this stuff and you'll do some serious jail time," said Jackson, admiring the collection as he waited for his friend to unlock the gun case.

  Mike Jones didn't bother to address Jackson's concerns. As far as he saw it, he had the right to bear arms. The framers of the constitution had not limited that right to certain weapons. So as far as Mike Jones was concerned, this collection was on a fundamental level, quite legal.

  Mike Jones shook his head and rolled his eyes as he pressed his thick thumb to the finger print scanner on the front of the gun case. After
several metallic clicks, the locks released and Jackson took a step back, allowing the door to swing open fully.

  "Take your pick," Mike said simply, picking up a silenced Beretta 9mm handgun and sliding a fully loaded magazine into the receiver before racking the slide and placing the safety on. He tucked the weapon into his belt loop and stepped back.

  He tossed a bullet proof vest to Jackson before strapping one on himself, tightening the thick Velcro straps around his chest as he checked for full range of motion in his arms. Both men stared into the weapons cache.

  Jackson clipped two smoke grenades onto his vest and pulled the silenced Glock 17 that he had taken off of Mohammed Fatal from his waist band. He handed the weapon to Mike.

  "This weapon is probably hot," he said simply as he pulled a silenced Beretta 9mm from the case, tucking it into a shoulder holster that he strapped above his bullet proof vest.

  He tucked the weapon beneath his arm and slid on his black motorcycle jacket as he strapped Mohammed Fatal's Ka-Bar onto his belt and checked his own range of motion and weapons accessibility.

  Mike nodded as he took the Glock 17 that Jackson had just handed him and placed it in a drawer beneath the weapons case. Jackson had no doubt that the weapon would be stripped for parts and unrecognizable before long.

  Jackson peered through the case while Mike picked up an MP5K submachine gun and several extra magazines. Jackson chuckled without mirth to himself as he too retrieved an MP5K submachine gun from the case, tucking three extra magazines into the pockets of his motorcycle jacket.

  Jackson watched Mike secure the gun case. How his friend had obtained these weapons, normally reserved for military special operations, Jackson didn't know. And he didn't care.

  He was grateful for the Chief's arsenal, and for once, grateful for Mike's unnatural aversion to political and legal authority. No one told the Chief what types of weapons he could and couldn't own.

  The two men looked each other over.