Search and Destroy

by JT Sawyer

  “Good to see you again, Stephen,” said Patterson, who stood up, shaking his hand. “Down to the finish line, it seems.”

  “Yes, indeed. Two years in the works, but Perseus will be in your hands shortly.” Burke nodded towards the other men then opened his laptop, interfacing it with the PowerPoint projector.

  Patterson motioned to a flatscreen monitor on the wall to his left, where a man in a green short-sleeved shirt was visible. “Milo Gardner, the CIA section chief down in Venezuela, will also be joining us. I thought, with what you briefly mentioned to me about Caracas, that his insights might be helpful.”

  “Of course,” Burke said.

  “So, Perseus is finally ready…outstanding,” said Begley. “If this turns out to be everything you originally discussed with us, then it will be a real game-changer.” He slid his glasses further up his steep nose to study the summary on the PowerPoint presentation at the front of the conference room.

  Burke tried to contain his nervous smile. “When I first began working with an early model of the software, I was very impressed with what Perseus could learn and detect based upon the parameters I programmed into the original program. Initially, I thought that it would merely coalesce all the data from the NSA feeds and open-source materials to formulate potential scenarios for proposed assassinations of state-level individuals, but”—he turned to look at Patterson, who sat stone-faced across from him—“your very gracious offer to loan out Agent Shepard was key in programming a human element into the target selection and threat analysis that forms the foundation of Perseus’ intel gathering.”

  Patterson swiveled slightly in his chair towards Rourke and then to Gardner on the monitor.

  “Shepard was my idea. Once Burke described his need for someone with real-world field experience in covert activities, I got the go-ahead from Director Begley to assign one of my field agents to Perseus to help fill in the gaps of what goes on from a strike team’s perspective, minus any classified details, of course.”

  “What’s Shepard’s background? I assume if he was with you then he was SAD…before your change of station back to the States because of your medical issues,” said Rourke in a condescending tone.

  Patterson let his stare linger on the man before continuing. “I recruited and trained him myself back when I was still in field ops. Shepard was top of his class at Arizona State University and graduated with record scores from the Farm, after which he began working for SAD under me. Since then, he’s run missions in numerous theaters abroad and eventually headed up the Special Activities Division SD unit.”

  “That’s a new one on me. Can you explain, or is that above Mr. Burke’s paygrade?” said Gardner.

  Patterson nodded knowingly up at Burke then looked back over at the others. “SD—search and destroy. They’re a five-man team consisting of the best of the best, SAD operatives whose sole aim is to hunt down and neutralize other assassins. The SD program was started by myself and Colonel Ryan Foley, who was a former Green Beret.”

  “Foley was the one who headed up that rescue op in Somalia with the kidnapped American journalists a few years ago, wasn’t he?” said Gardner.

  “That’s correct,” replied Patterson. “Shepard was also involved in that mission.”

  “As I recall, there weren’t many pirates left along the coast in that region after Foley and his team were done,” said Begley.

  Patterson nodded, continuing. “With Shepard back in the States last year rehabbing a shoulder injury, he was the perfect fit for Perseus.”

  Burke folded his arms. “Agent Shepard was an indispensable part of my work, and Perseus wouldn’t be what it is today without him. I feel like his thought matrix is interwoven into the software.”

  “OK, you’ve just read to me from the shiny brochure on the rack; now let’s see what we paid for,” said Begley, placing both his palms on the table and glancing up at the screen, anxiously awaiting the next slide.

  Burke motioned to the PowerPoint screen. “I’ve brought a sampling of the results, which I’ll run through now, but Perseus is going through the finishing touches as we speak and will be ready to be handed over to the DOD shortly.”

  “Then why the hell are we here?” said Begley, who was clearly expecting to see something tangible to explain the multi-million-dollar expenditure he had signed off on to create Perseus.

  “Today’s meeting is related to a slight anomaly that was detected when I did a test run on the software last week.”

  He pulled up a satellite image of Venezuela, zooming in on an intersection two blocks from the center of downtown Caracas. He scrolled over to a ten-foot-by-ten-foot blacked-out square of the alley behind a café.

  “Do you see this area that looks like it’s in the shade? That is not created naturally by trees, an awning or a passing plane. That was intentionally done by someone else, and the only thing I know of that would create that is a high-intensity infrared beamed aimed on that section of sidewalk from a rooftop or apartment above at the very time that Perseus was scanning the city.”

  “We’ve seen that before with drone footage when Al Qaeda needed to blot out a small region around a village where someone was about to make an exchange for weapons or cash,” said Patterson. “I’ve not heard of that occurring in South America though.”

  “Nor have I,” said Gardner from the computer monitor. “And it’s not like Caracas is a hotbed for jihadists, not now anyway.”

  “Regardless, Perseus is trained to pick out aberrant patterns or disruptions in the political and economic structure of a country that could be tied with an attempt on a high-value political target. It clearly zoomed in on that city block for a reason. That it detected something in Caracas that is often associated with known terrorist tactics in the Middle East may be of concern.” He homed in on a grainy image of a man in a white shirt and tan cargo pants who was on the street corner three blocks away.

  “I ran the images of the pedestrians in a four-block radius through Perseus before and after 0530 that morning, and only one individual was flagged as being a person of interest.”

  He enhanced the area around the man’s face. “Perseus compared the spacing between his nose and chin with a previous photograph of the man from the eighties that was in the CIA’s database, along with comparing the height of his cheekbones to that photo. The match was 100%.” An Interpol record popped up in the upper-right corner of the screen, showing a mugshot of a bearded figure in his late fifties.

  “This is Major Carlos Montoya. He ran a death squad in Nicaragua in the late eighties, eliminating dissidents and journalists opposed to the newly installed government. Later, he was involved in a number of guerrilla movements in several Latin American countries in the decades following, mostly assassinations of political activists. Eventually, he found his way down to Colombia, where he was the chief enforcer for the Carmesi Cartel, then he fell off the radar a few years ago…until last week.”

  “Death squads—weren’t those CIA-sponsored units back when you guys were into monthly regime changes down south?” said Rourke as he glared at Patterson.

  “Different times and different administration,” said Patterson. “But as I recall, the NSA provided the widespread phone tap violations on dignitaries in Central America that gave our intel agencies a black eye once word got out.”

  Burke cleared his throat then stared up at the mugshot. “It’s not hard to ascertain that the appearance of this rogue mass murderer coincides with the visual glitch on that other street corner and may be connected with the upcoming presidential election. There have also been two Venezuelan journalists killed in the past three months that Perseus filed as being relevant. Again, this was all merely intended to be a test case, but Perseus flagged the elements connected with a potential political assassination or a coup…or both. If I’m correct about this then something of significance is going to happen in Venezuela, gentlemen.”

  Begley rubbed his chin. “Amazing work. This is a notch above our target
ed kill matrix that was created after 9/11 to identify Al Qaeda terrorists. I’m eager to see what we can do once Perseus is in our hands.”

  Burke pointed at the killer’s face on the screen. “I present this here now to not only highlight Perseus’ growing capabilities but to draw attention to the possibility that someone must have known that there was going to be satellite coverage over Caracas at that particular time, perhaps connected with the sudden appearance of Montoya.”

  “This is why I requested you be at this meeting,” Patterson said to Gardner. “You know the northern regions of South America. Anything going on there with rebel groups or rival cartels that Montoya might be connected with or that could pose a threat to our field agents or embassies in those countries?”

  Gardner’s frame filled the computer monitor as he leaned forward, speaking in a rote fashion, as if he was reading a breakdown of stocks. “Nothing on a grand scale. Just the usual kidnapping and ransom trade, which is in full swing, but that’s mainly occurring with wealthy tourists on their yachts along the coast. Trafficking of women has levelled off, but it’ll pick up again during spring break. The narcos are all pushing north through Panama, with Colombia being the conduit, but that wouldn’t bleed over into Caracas. They’re mostly into designer drugs around here.”

  The Director of National Intelligence tapped his fingers on the edge of the table then sighed before turning to the sole civilian in their midst. “Venezuelan politics is hardly of concern to our national interests right now. Their economy is in meltdown, has been for years with their oil industry folding. Their president is more focused on preventing further internal strife than on anything of concern to our agenda in South America…at least at present. A few years from now, if Venezuela’s not a failed state and there’s a leader in office who is more strategically aligned with us, then we might be interested in lending a hand in their affairs.”

  Begley glanced at the others then up at Burke. “Thank you for your time. This has been most illuminating, and your work is as impressive as your reputation. We’ll be in touch if we need anything further regarding your current findings.”

  Burke gave an irritated nod, knowing he was being hastily dismissed. “Very well. I have another function to attend to anyway. My company will contact you once Perseus is completed.” Burke packed up his belongings, shooting a frown at Begley.

  Patterson was the only one who rose to walk him to the door. “Thanks for all your work, Stephen. I appreciate you coming down here today. Cal has had nothing but praise for you and your staff.”

  “It’s mutual, I assure you. I’ll call you once this project is wrapped up.”

  The two men shook hands, then Burke exited. Patterson returned to his seat as Begley spoke.

  “The real question of concern right now is who knew Burke would be running Perseus over Venezuela last week, specifically on Tuesday fucking morning? And what didn’t they want him to see? Was it this mercenary Montoya, or was that just a distraction to send us off in another direction?” said Begley, who slowly turned towards Rourke. The NSA analyst merely leaned back then redirected his gaze at Patterson.

  “This is your baby. You granted Burke access to our feeds and intel gathering and let your field agent spoon-feed him our spy tactics,” said Rourke. “This is what happens when you work with outside corporations to get a job done that should be reserved for analysts like my people.”

  “If we left it up to the NSA to develop something like Perseus then this briefing would be going on between our very distant successors,” quipped Patterson.

  “The work my people perform is far more productive in developing target packages then HALOing a special-ops team into a camel-trodden valley to spend a month doing what my analysts can do in two hours with electronic surveillance,” said Rourke. “Hell, your agency has a $23 billion dollar a year budget, which is more than half of the NSA’s, along with a shitload of drones, and this Perseus thing is what you throw your money at.”

  Patterson brushed a fleck of lint off his sleeve. “We all know where lack of human intelligence got us in the immediate aftermath of 9/11. The NSA’s intel works best when it’s combined with boots on the ground—assets that know the customs, language, and geography—all things you can’t do sipping on a caramel latte behind a desk, Tim.” Patterson glanced down at the man’s protruding waistline.

  “That’s enough,” said Begley, glancing at both men. “You know what needs to be done. Get an internal investigation going in both of your agencies amongst your senior analysts with access to sat feed. See who’s been analyzing any open- or closed-source material on Venezuela in recent weeks, along with checking the logs for the crew responsible for satellite retasking here in the U.S. and at our two joint sites in the UK and Australia.”

  He looked at Patterson. “Then get eyes on Burke and his staff. I know they’ve already been vetted and have varying levels of security clearance for what they’re doing, but find out if any of them have connections, familial, political, or otherwise, to any radical groups in Venezuela. Burke’s corporation itself could be the weak link.”

  Patterson nodded then swiveled slightly in his chair to face Gardner. “Keep me abreast of what’s happening down there with regard to any violent political activity or with this guy Montoya that could affect our assets on the ground.”

  “It’s election month, so things are chaotic, but I will certainly put my feelers out,” said Gardner.

  Patterson watched the others leave. He lingered in his seat, slowly turning to face the Interpol image of Montoya.

  This happens just as Burke and Shepard are about to wrap up their work together. Was someone watching them from inside the company this whole time? Or was it someone at one of our agencies? He knew of approximately two dozen people between the CIA, Pentagon, and NSA who knew about the true nature of the Perseus program and Cal’s involvement.

  How would they have known that Burke would be accessing sat imagery this morning? Only the NSA personnel and their supervisor with access to the satellites would have that information. Or is there a corporate spy at Burke’s company?

  Patterson licked his lower lip. But the old man made his early fortune in cyber-security, so he’s not clumsy enough to let that slip by him…or is he?

  His slew of questions was only thickening. He knew where to start his search, and it wasn’t back at Langley. He got up, heading to the exit, then took the elevator up to the first floor of the Pentagon, where his cellphone would be able to get reception, then he called the only person he could trust to get a straight answer.

  Cal, I hope you can tell me what the fuck is going on.

  4

  The drive through Arlington’s surging river of rush-hour traffic faded behind him as Cal headed west on Interstate 66 for an hour then onto U.S. Route 17 to Delaplane, Virginia. The rolling hills and wooded countryside reminded him of his youth growing up in Billings, Montana, and he had to remind himself that he was only sixty miles from the congested confines of DC.

  He exited the highway, driving past a winery then heading onto a two-lane county road. He had to restrain his usually leaden foot on the gas pedal as he kept one eye on the road and the other on the cluster of pies on the floor beside him.

  After this party, he was looking forward to having a weekend alone with Cassie. He planned to take her out to dinner tomorrow evening at Waterman’s Surfside Grille in Virginia Beach for a crab dinner, her favorite meal.

  Since passing her first trimester, it seemed like she was craving seafood on a regular basis, and the restaurant was where they had celebrated after buying their home in Arlington three years ago. He could still remember her golden-blond hair aglow in the fading rays of the sunset as they sat on the patio, exhausted from two days of moving but exhilarated about the life they were building together.

  Even though he was still running missions for the agency and was gone for large portions of time overseas, it was the first time he felt settled in years. His contract working fo
r Burke had only solidified that feeling, but he knew in a few weeks he’d be in the wind again, back with his old SAD team and hunkered down at a makeshift base in a strife-ridden corner of the globe.

  These past eight months being a consultant for Burke had been a reprieve after nearly sixteen years of non-stop combat operations, most of which had become a blur in his memory. But his body hadn’t forgotten the miles—the stiches from bullets, knives and shrapnel; hearing loss from gunfights and explosions; not to mention the bone and joint injuries from too many airborne insertions and gear-laden treks. Aches and pains that he shrugged off in his twenties were reminding his thirty-seven-year-old body that no one remained in field ops forever.

  While the public often envisioned agency operators and elite warriors as invincible, many of his colleagues were medically discharged from fieldwork by the time they were in their early thirties if not sooner, most of them learning to cope with their own private battles with PTSD and the horrors of what they had witnessed overseas.

  Beyond the tidy fiscal budgets behind the walls of Langley and the Pentagon, the war on terror exacted a great cost, and no one knew that more than the men and women in the clandestine services and special operations community.

  What had originally felt like being shackled to a desk for eight months away from his SAD team overseas now felt like it had been a blessing in disguise, giving his body and mind time to mend and strengthening his marriage in ways he never dreamed possible.

  And soon, I’ll be a dad to a sweet baby girl.

  He exuberantly thrust the jeep into fifth gear, picking up speed on the long stretch of road three miles out from Burke’s estate, feeling the rush of cool air from the open windows.

  Cal slowed at the next right turn, which led to a private driveway that wound for a quarter-mile up a slope. Further downshifting, he stopped at the entrance, noting that the double wrought-iron security gates were open. At any other time, that would be cause for alarm, but he knew that most of Burke’s senior staff had probably just arrived for the party and that Reggie had observed the comings and goings at the entrance from the security cameras posted around the estate.