Rogue Operator

by J. Robert Kennedy

  There was no way they were going to get anything on him.

  The power went out as he entered Tucker’s office. Tucker was just flipping his switch when he spun, his trusted Glock in his hand, aimed directly at Finch’s chest.

  Finch didn’t react, knowing full well the Colonel was too well trained to accidentally shoot him. The weapon flipped up, and was quickly stuffed behind his colleague’s back.

  “What’s going on?” asked Tucker as the diesel generator kicked in, restoring power.

  “FBI raid. They’re here for me.”

  “And probably me.”

  “Perhaps. If not now, definitely eventually.”

  “Exit plan?”

  “Alpha.”

  “The tunnels?”

  Finch nodded. “Let’s go, we don’t have much time.”

  As if to remind them, small explosions erupted in rapid succession as what Finch guessed would be coordinated blasting of the locks on the sealed doors. He ducked across the hallway and into a room marked Janitorial, Tucker close behind, as red beams from the laser scopes of the FBI tactical team’s rifles shone through the dust. Tucker pressed the door silently closed behind them, then locked it, as Finch flipped three light switches up, then the middle one down, releasing a hidden clasp. He swung out a supply cabinet that was perfectly balanced to glide with ease, and in silence. He stepped into the alcove, along with Tucker, then pulled the cabinet closed behind them, the switches on the other side resetting, the door unlocking.

  Finch wrapped his arms around the fireman’s pole that stood before them, and stepped off, wrapping his legs around the cold steel. As he gained speed, passing each of the four floors, he could hear shouting and banging as the FBI quickly overran the building. He squeezed tighter, slowing his descent, and gently hit the floor, then quickly stepped back to avoid being hit by Tucker who joined him seconds later.

  Glancing at his cellphone, he saw almost the entire panel was now green, with the few reds very few indeed. The lockdown had been nearly completely successful, now it would be a matter of determining whether or not those red areas were areas where the switch just hadn’t been flipped, were partially cleared, or not cleared at all, and whether or not any of the data not cleared was compromising.

  He doubted it, most of the truly compromising data on higher floors, and most of that not kept in print. The main floors would simply be personnel files, where they had nothing to hide. Their black ops teams, their off the books projects, were all run out of their Dubai headquarters, and he was quite certain secure, however the security alert would have extended to them, and anything compromising again would have been destroyed, only to be retrieved later from their secure offsite backup once the crisis had passed.

  If it passed.

  Finch headed down a long tunnel that had been dug after the complex was built. It was off the books, unknown to everyone except the foreign workers brought in to dig it, and himself and the senior executives, none of whom were on site today except for him and Tucker.

  “This has to be because of Erickson,” said Tucker.

  “Perhaps. Or it’s because of that complete fuckup of an operation you ran last night.”

  Finch heard Tucker’s footfalls slow down behind him. Finch reached under his jacket and pulled his Glock, gently flicking off the safety.

  “Just what is that supposed to mean?”

  Finch passed one of the lights placed every thirty feet then came to a stop at the midpoint between it and the next one. He turned to look at Tucker, his hand with the gun hidden behind him. Tucker stopped under the light.

  “It means you were supposed to make it look like an accident or a mugging. Not some full on assault with a fucking chopper!”

  Finch took a deep breath, trying to calm himself.

  “Hey, that wasn’t me. That was the guy running the op. He called in air support. I was just as surprised as you.”

  “You chose him?”

  Tucker’s jaw squared under the light.

  “Yes.”

  “And you’re responsible for those under your command?”

  Tucker pursed his lips.

  “Yes.”

  “And what would you do about this, if you were me.”

  Tucker’s hand twitched, probably wishing he had a gun in it, rather than tucked into his belt.

  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  Finch raised his gun and aimed it directly at Tucker’s chest. Tucker’s hands slowly rose.

  “You’ve said in the past that we as a country should never tolerate failure, and we as a company shouldn’t either. You’ve even expressed admiration when speaking of the Romans and the Spartans, and how they would assassinate any leader who showed weakness or failure. Well, your incompetence has brought down BlackTide, the company I founded with my own blood and sweat over fifteen years. And in one day you’ve brought it down.”

  Tucker stepped back, shaking his head. “Brad, come on, you know me, you know I love this company, you know everything I’ve done for it. I’m loyal, you know it. So the guy I chose for the job screwed up. We can blame it on him. There’s nothing to tie it to us. We’ll just say he went rogue.”

  “It’s too late for that, my friend. If they don’t know about Erickson already, they will soon. And then it’s all over, because that coward will talk. Then you will talk, because you, the retired army hero, will be given a deal. Then I’ll be buried.”

  Tucker spun and ran. Finch squeezed the trigger twice and heard Tucker cry out in pain then hit the ground. Finch walked over to his still moaning colleague.

  “I’m sorry, my friend.”

  He raised his weapon and put two bullets in the base of Tucker’s skull.

  “There’s no room for failure in The Assembly.”

  Outside BlackTide Headquarters, Arlington, Virginia

  Director Morrison stood outside the BlackTide Headquarters building, leaning impatiently on the custom Dodge Sprint cargo van. He knew it was an FBI operation, this was their jurisdiction, but it still frustrated him. Early in his career he had been a Green Beret, serving three tours in ’Nam, plus some Cold War tours in West Germany, before retiring just after Gulf War One as they now called it. He itched for the action, but his old bones would have nothing of it.

  Christ, you’re still feeling the run to the Ops Center two days ago!

  Once Secretary of Defense Erickson had shot himself, the shit hit the fan, and he briefed the President within minutes. The Administration went into immediate panic mode, locking everything down while they figured out who they could trust. Warrants were requested and issued for everything BlackTide, and raids were coordinated with governments around the world, executed today at exactly 2 pm Eastern time.

  From the reports coming out over the comm unit sitting in the vehicle, it didn’t look good. BlackTide had some sort of security protocol that had wiped all the hardware and their incinerator, which was belching smoke out of the top of the building in a definite EPA violation, was working overtime on any piece of paper that might contain incriminating evidence.

  But what BlackTide didn’t know, was that they had traced their network traffic and found their offsite backup in South Africa, and it had been raided two hours earlier, successfully. The data was being transferred to Department of Justice computers as the take-down operation unfolded. Other than the data wipe, the operation was going smooth, but at their training camp in North Carolina, apparently it had turned into a gun battle that still raged. Dozens on both sides were dead or wounded, and it showed no sign of abating.

  Two dull echoes seemed to erupt from under his feet. He pushed himself off the van, leaving his hand in place. Two more sounds. Dull, but their vibrations distinct.

  “Did you hear that?” he asked one of his cadre of guards.

  The man nodded. “Sounded like gunshots.”

  “Yeah, but from where?” He couldn’t help but look at the pavement, then his eyes drifted to a nearby grate and he pointed. “Get men in t
here, now!”

  Orders were snapped, and four of his security team rushed over to the grate, prying it loose and rolling it aside.

  “Somebody’s in here!” one of the men yelled. He dropped into the hole and out of sight as the other three followed. “Halt!” came the muffled cry, then a single gunshot rang out, followed by the sounds of several automatic weapons erupting in response.

  Morrison jogged over to the hole, taking a knee. “Status!” he yelled.

  “One man injured, one hostile down. Checking now!”

  Morrison turned to one of his men who had remained above ground. “Get a medic, now!” The man nodded and activated his comm, making the request.

  “Subject is terminated,” came a voice from below.

  “ID?”

  There was a pause as the man’s fingerprints were run through the palm scanner. “Looks like it’s a retired Colonel, Atticus Tucker, sir!”

  “Keep searching, Finch might be with him!” ordered Morrison as he pushed himself to his feet. They needed him alive. Only he knew what was truly going on, the extent of who was involved, and why.

  A group of FBI SWAT pulled up, along with an ambulance and a black car. The SWAT team surrounded the area. The scene commander for the FBI, whom Morrison had been introduced to earlier as Glen Armstrong, strode up.

  “What’s going on?” he asked.

  Morrison looked at the medics and pointed at the exposed manhole cover. “I’ve got a man down in there.” The two medics nodded then ran over to the hole, looking in and receiving the all clear from one of his CIA team down below. Morrison looked at Armstrong. “We heard gunshots underground. My men went into the hole and engaged a hostile, taking him out. They’re currently looking to see if the subject was alone.”

  “Was it Finch?”

  Morrison shook his head. “Why, you don’t have him?”

  Armstrong shook his head. “No, he either wasn’t there, or gave us the slip.”

  “Intel?”

  “They wiped and burned everything. Some sort of lockdown procedure. We had to use explosives to gain entry. No resistance though. Good thing your people found their offsite backup, otherwise we’d have nothing.”

  Morrison pursed his lips, then looked over as his wounded man was pushed up and through the hole. “Excuse me,” he said, leaving Armstrong. He strode over to his man and took a knee. “How ya doing, son?”

  “I’ll be fine, sir,” replied the young man, barely out of diapers as far as Morrison was concerned. “My body armor caught most of it.”

  Morrison looked at the medic who nodded. “Some cracked ribs, minor flesh wound. He’ll be in fighting shape in no time.”

  Morrison patted the young man on the shoulder, smiling. “You did good today, I’ll come check on you later.”

  “Yes, sir, thank you, sir.”

  Morrison stood and strode back to his van when he heard the comm tucked into his ear activate.

  “No joy, sir. We found an open grate at the end. Whoever was with Tucker is gone, over.”

  Shit!

  Morrison activated his comm. “Flash the coordinates to HQ, then return to street level, hand over the scene to the FBI. We’re heading back to Langley, out.” Morrison climbed in the passenger seat, closing the door. He closed his eyes, then fished out his phone, hitting speed dial.

  “This is Morrison. I want eyes on the coordinates just flashed to you. Go back fifteen minutes, see if you can spot anyone exiting and where they went.” He hung up, his eyes still closed. He was dead tired, having barely slept in two days.

  Finch, where the hell are you?

  The Assembly Safe House

  Brad Finch sat, feet up, sipping a cognac worth more an ounce than a working stiff’s best suit. He had been lucky. Damned lucky. The moment he heard the grate being pulled aside, he had jumped up and yanked the electrical wire feeding the lights, plunging the underground into darkness. He fired a single shot at the team, illuminated from the removed manhole cover above, then he hit the deck. After they ceased fire, he had risen and silently made his escape while the team in pursuit of him found Tucker’s body, presuming he was the shooter. Within minutes he was outside, and into the waiting car, whisked away to this luxury abode overlooking the Potomac.

  Now, with The Assembly’s help, you’ll disappear, never to be seen again.

  The Assembly.

  The mere thought sent a shiver down his spine, and a surge of pride that he was a member. He’d never forget the day he was approached, fifteen years ago. He had just filed the papers to create BlackTide. He had grand dreams, but he was also grounded in reality. He knew it would be a long, tough slog to try and get contracts, and it would be an even longer time before he would be able to afford to hire others to help him expand the business.

  But when two men showed up one day with briefcases of cash, saying they represented a group that wanted to invest, he had jumped at the opportunity, especially when he heard the terms. None, save one. They would provide the startup capital, they would provide the contracts, and he would run his company, unimpeded. But one day they would ask a favor, and he wouldn’t be able to say no.

  He had agreed with a handshake, and never heard from them again. He used the money to fund the startup, and he won contract after contract with little effort, and had almost forgotten his anonymous benefactors, until a year ago. He had been picked up in the middle of the night, driven to some location, the black sack over his head keeping it a secret, then introduced to a group of men, sitting around a large, round table, every one of them backlit so he could only see their silhouettes, he sitting in the center, their voices mechanically altered so he couldn’t recognize them.

  It was the most nerve racking night of his life.

  If he were asked to describe who The Assembly were, he wouldn’t for fear of death, but if he could, he would describe them as the one percent of the one percent. The companies they controlled, the stock markets they manipulated, the central banks they owned, were stunning. And that was just the sampler he was given to convince him of their power. He had no doubt they owned far more.

  “We are the hearts and minds of the world,” had said one of the men. “We control its destiny, for the good of all mankind.”

  He dared not question them, despite their plan for triggering a war that could kill millions if not tens or hundreds of millions.

  “It is time for renewal. It is time for war. The planet will survive, the planet will thrive. Millions may die, but with death comes life, a renewed vibrancy that erupts from the hearts of nations wanting to rebuild, looking for joy and happiness amongst the destruction. Look at Germany today, look at Japan today. Destroyed, reduced to nothing but their population, and even that, decimated, so many of their young men gone. But within a generation, recovery, within two, dominance. It is time for a rebirth in America, and for future Chinese dominance to be checked.”

  “A world dominated by a Communist superpower is not acceptable,” had said another voice. “Our plan will prevent that, and save America and the capitalist way of life.”

  “But what if it goes nuclear?” he had asked.

  “Then it goes nuclear. We are prepared for that. Why do you think we have been developing antiballistic missile shields for years, against treaty? Every eventuality has been planned for.”

  “What if we lose?”

  “America will never lose,” said a female voice. “With over two hundred million firearms in the hands of private citizens, no army in the world is big enough to hold her. American partisans would make certain of that. And once she had tossed off the yoke of her oppressors, she would emerge stronger than ever, and her enemies weaker than ever.”

  “We have planned for every eventuality,” summarized the first voice, who Finch took to be the leader. “We project we will win, decisively, achieving the majority of our goals, within two years of the war starting. Outlier possibilities have the war dragging for almost a decade until both sides sue for peace, thus achiev
ing our goals regardless, only on a longer term, and should the remote possibility we lose occur, within a generation we shall achieve victory through rebellion.”

  “But what of yourselves? Won’t you risk being destroyed along with America?”

  There were chuckles around the table.

  “Son, we will go wherever we have to go to live however we want to live. Our scenarios specifically leave Europe alone for that very purpose. However you think too short term. We are but the current generation of The Assembly. It has been around for far longer than you can imagine.”

  And the lights had gone out, leaving him in the pitch dark. Hands on his arms had led him back to the car, and he was returned to his house, and handed a file with his orders.

  And the plan for three scientists and their families to be kidnapped were soon under development.

  Footfalls had his closed eyes popping open as he turned toward the sound. It was a woman, early forties, gorgeous, exuding nothing but class. She owned the room, and one look at her revealed all you needed to know about her.

  She was power.

  And he had no idea who she was.

  “You failed.”

  A pit formed in the bottom of his stomach as her words cleaved away any confidence he might have had a moment before.

  “N-n-no,” he stammered, leaning forward and putting the drink down. “The mission was a success. The scientists are in place, as are their families. You’ll have your war!”

  She stepped down into the sunken area he was sitting in, and took a seat opposite him. “You were discovered, the plan has been discovered, and now we risk exposure.”

  “It was Erickson. He must have spoken, not me. Not my people.” He leaned back, trying to look comfortable, but failing miserably. “Don’t worry about the FBI. They’ll find nothing.”

  “They found your offsite backup location and raided it two hours before you knew anything was happening.”