“Admin and Logistics, Media Control, Research and Development, and the Special Response Team.”
“Good for you. I was still so freaked out that monsters were real that I missed half of the nuts and bolts stuff from the academy,” Archer lied. He was a nuts and bolts kind of guy. Archer slid his keycard in the reader and pushed the button for the fourth floor. “You’ll be assigned to one of those after this Franks duty.”
“What department does Franks belong to?”
“None. The Bureau just lets Franks do his own thing. Were you Special Forces or anything like that?”
“Not even close.”
“Then you probably won’t go to the Strike Team. Yeah, that’s not the official name, but we don’t call them SRT. We had that name first, but then the FBI came along and stole it. They’re our resident badasses who ride in black helicopters and go in guns blazing,” he explained as the elevator rose.
“I heard they’re pretty tough.”
“Of course. You’ve been listening to Radabaugh. They’ve got some offices here, but mostly they stage out of military bases and train at Quantico. Myers is their boss now, and his number two is this crazy guy named Cueto. You don’t want that assignment though.”
“How come?”
“They’re most of the badges in the fountain.”
* * *
Archer returned to work, satisfied that he’d done his good deed for the day. The rookie seemed like a pretty sharp kid. R&D was always a crowd pleaser, with all of the dissected monsters and equipment prototypes laying around, then they’d gone through Media Control, where the MCB worked their magic discrediting and slandering witnesses, manipulating the news, and even producing their own easily debunked conspiracy theories. Strayhorn seemed a little put off by that department, though he’d tried to hide it, but that was a fairly normal reaction. Then Archer’d turned the rookie back over to his TO and gone back to his cubicle on the ninth floor.
He found that Grant was waiting there, grey-faced and anxious. It was unusual to see Grant disheveled, let alone looking like he was about to barf in the trash can. “Man, you don’t look very good.”
“That’s because I just got off the phone with our boss.”
“What did Myers say?”
“First off, situation in Vegas is looking better. They’ve mostly got it under control and our usual media shills are doing a great job. The phone videos that popped up from the witnesses are being mocked as Photoshop.”
“Myers is like an artist.”
“He’s trying to come back as soon as possible. Second, he didn’t say why, but we’re not supposed to go anywhere near operational, especially with a rookie along, and Franks is supposed to stay put, no matter how excited he gets to kill something.”
“That makes sense I suppose.” Going on an op with Franks was a duty best left to the badass snake eaters on the Strike Team. Those guys were mostly former SEALs and SF, like Radabaugh. Archer knew he was pretty good at his job, but he couldn’t help but feel a little dumpy next to those guys.
“No, you don’t get it. A giant kaiju monster could be climbing up the Washington Monument and Myers still wants Franks to stay put. No monsters. Period. You know what that means?”
Archer had to think about it for a moment. Franks’ inclination was always to walk up to the most dangerous monster in the room and punch it in the face. Only they’d just pissed off an organization that actively recruited monsters and used them for wet work. “Whoa.” Was Myers actually worried about an STFU setup?
Neither one of them wanted to confirm it out loud here. Their office probably wasn’t bugged. “Uh huh. Exactly. Nothing concrete, just Myers’ gut instinct, but Franks stays here.”
Where it’s safe and nothing can get to him. If anything happened, he really didn’t want to be the one to try to get Franks to stay at his desk. . . . But that couldn’t be why Grant looked like he’d just gotten off a roller coaster. “And?”
Grant swallowed hard. “And finally, he ordered me to go throw my career away.”
Archer sat down across from his partner. “Wait . . . What?”
He gave a resigned sigh. “I guess this is what I get for picking a side in a battle of bureaucrats. I’m reaping what I’ve sown. Damn it. See, Henry, this is what happens when you try to do the right thing. You get screwed every single time.”
“I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Myers thinks they’re going to try to crucify Franks in today’s Subcommittee meeting. We need to shift the blame to where it really belongs. Myers wants me to tell the truth about our friends in Vegas.”
Bring up Unicorn? “Wow.” No wonder Myers wanted Franks to stay at MCB headquarters. They were about to flip the lights on and watch the roaches scurry for cover, only these cockroaches specialized in assassinations. Exposing Special Task Force Unicorn would be like a declaration of war. The implications sank in. “Oh hell . . .” Archer suddenly didn’t feel very good either.
* * *
The day proved to be as miserable as Franks had expected, filled with paperwork, useless reports, and foolish questions from petty men. He’d been grilled by members of the Subcommittee on Unearthly Forces, various high ranking MCB officers, and was now currently facing his main accuser, Director Stark. So far this meeting had been particularly shrill, with lots of dramatic table pounding for emphasis.
“And then as I confronted Agent Franks about his illegal actions and theft he physically assaulted me!” Table pound. The two congressmen, their aides, and other government teat suckers and hangers-on nodded thoughtfully. The augmented guard force just stayed in their corners, nervous at this display that was way over their pay grade as their Director continued his rant. “Not only did he put my life in jeopardy, but he also endangered the MCB’s response to the Las Vegas incident. I was in command and without my leadership—”
Franks snorted.
“Don’t mock me, Franks!” Stark struck the table with both fists that time. “I’m sick of your crap. You should be in jail right now.”
He’d always thought that Stark looked like a bulldog. Animals didn’t like Franks and tended to shy away from him, but Franks had always found the bulldog a fascinating creature, all slobbery, and ugly, with ill-fitting skin and labored breathing, yet they were determined beasts. Their awkwardness made him like them as much as he was capable of liking anything. The bulldog was proof that the Creator found joy in the cumbersome.
Stark on the other hand was just an asshole.
“You weren’t in charge,” Franks stated.
Double table pound. “Yes, I was! I had the situation in hand until your reckless actions endangered our entire operation.”
“You weren’t in charge. Unicorn was.”
The briefing room was packed with people, and they all began to mutter at that. Only a handful of them were probably cleared to know about the existence of STFU, but Franks didn’t care.
Grant Jefferson cleared his throat and leaned forward to speak into his microphone. “I believe that Agent Franks is saying that although Director Stark was present at the quarantine, the de facto command of the operation was in the hands of a high-ranking covert official code-named Stricken. Former Acting Director Dwayne Myers has obtained evidence that this Stricken was in fact aware of the full capabilities of the Nachtmar, and kept those facts to himself, needlessly causing—”
“That’ll be enough of that,” one of the congressmen interjected. The other one just looked confused.
“Needlessly causing danger to MCB personnel, local responders, and civilians. Dwayne Myers is currently running the Las Vegas operation, but I’m sure he’ll be happy to testify before the Subcommittee about how Mr. Stricken subverted our mission for his own ends—as soon as he returns from cleaning up Mr. Stricken’s careless mess.” Jefferson had a good stage presence. Franks recalled from his file that he’d been a lawyer once. He sure talked like one. “Agent Franks was placed in a difficult circumstance, wh
en forced to choose between following procedure or containing a Level Five outbreak, he choose to abide by the spirit of the First Reason. If Franks had not acted decisively, then thousands of other civilians would have been exposed to the supernatural. The record needs to indicate that Franks wouldn’t have faced this difficult choice, if Special Task Force Unicorn hadn’t overstepped their bounds.”
“What is Special Task Force Unicorn?” asked one of the confused officials.
“They are a covert action group that recruits monsters to serve as soldiers in exchange for PUFF exemptions,” Jefferson answered immediately.
The conference room was suddenly very loud. Most of those cleared for this hearing were high-ranking MCB, and this was news to them.
“Whoa there, son,” the first congressman said, glancing around the room nervously. “This isn’t the time or place to get into that.”
Franks scowled. Because everybody knows there’s no such thing as unicorns.
Jefferson gave him a nervous glance. If Stricken had the majority of the Subcommittee cowed, then they were in worse shape than expected. He turned back to their questioners. “You can’t expect Franks to defend himself if he’s not allowed to explain why he did what he had to do.”
“Who does this Unicorn thing answer to?” demanded one of the MCB section commanders.
“You would have to ask Mr. Stricken that, sir. But whoever it is, they need to hold Stricken accountable for his careless actions in Las Vegas.”
The chairman ordered the room to be silent. Franks was glad to see that there was still some fire in some of the MCB’s leadership. Stark was red in the face and sweating. He’d not expected his string-pullers to be so blatantly exposed.
Then a senior administrator addressed them. “Officially, there’s no record of any other agency or entity involved with running the quarantine. Rest assured that we’ll listen to what Special Agent Myers has to say when he returns tomorrow. In the meantime this is an internal MCB matter, so let the record show that Director Stark was in command the entire time.”
Franks was not amused. “So the MCB is a sock puppet for Stricken’s murder squad now?”
Though most of the room were still in the dark, there were a lot of uncomfortable glances shared around the Subcommittee’s table. One of the congressmen hurried and grabbed his microphone. “Let’s have Agent Franks write up a statement for us pertaining to any sensitive information, then we’ll reconvene this hearing tomorrow.” He banged his gavel.
“He went nuts and tried to kill me!” Director Stark shouted. Double table pound. They’d worked together before, so Franks knew Stark had always been a fake, hiding his cowardice behind a wall of bluster and bravado. When the shit got real, Stark could be counted on to fold, but right now they were in his element, where talking about actions meant more than the actions themselves. “What are you waiting for? I demand that Franks be locked up!”
Franks rested his big hands on the table. “Try it.”
Stark shut his mouth.
“That will not be necessary,” said one of the congressmen.
The MCB security force breathed a collective sigh of relief.
* * *
“They named you in the Subcommittee hearing, right in front of everybody. They talked about the Task Force and said that Myers had evidence, the works.”
Stricken listened carefully as his source continued describing the testimony. It matched almost exactly what another source from the same secret meeting had supplied a few minutes earlier. It was nice to have multiple moles. It kept everyone honest.
“Thank you, Elwood. I’ll remember the favor.” Stricken hung up on the congressman, then tossed the iPhone to one of his subordinates, who immediately sealed it into a bag. There were protocols in place for anything that might prove useful for future blackmail purposes.
A different man handed him another phone. “It’s Director Stark.”
Now that was one particular puppet whose annoyance was quickly outweighing his continued usefulness. Stricken took the phone. “What, Doug?”
“I tried to give the order to have Franks arrested, but the committee—”
“I already know. While you were taking your sweet time somebody else informed me about how you sat there like a moron while Myers’ golden boy spouted off about my secret organization. Way to go, champ.”
The line went quiet for a long time. Stark knew he was in trouble. They both knew the only reason he’d gotten the directorship was because of Stricken’s string-pulling. “I tried to call as soon as—”
“Make sure Franks stays put. Don’t go near him. I’ll be in touch.” He ended the call, then handed the phone back. This one didn’t get bagged. He had so much dirt on Stark that it didn’t matter at this point. “Myers, you clever bastard. What are you up to?”
They were supposed to have ruled Franks a menace. The MCB should have detained him. The President’s hands would be clean. Everyone would be happy. There were only a couple of facilities in the country that could hold something like Franks, and Stricken had already made arrangements at both of them for Franks to get obliterated trying to escape. But Myers was good . . . He’d moved first and spooked the Subcommittee members who were in Stricken’s pocket. Word was that Myers was getting Las Vegas under control surprisingly fast, which meant he would rush back to the action to really try to screw Stricken over.
It had been a long time since he’d so enjoyed a game of chess like this.
They were a lot alike, and both of them knew how to play the system, but the difference between him and Myers was that Myers still had faith in the system actually working as designed, checks and balances and whatnot. He would expect Stricken to run for cover and start doing damage control. He’d expect meetings and heated arguments, maybe some internal investigations, that sort of thing.
Myers sure as hell wouldn’t expect what would happen next.
Despite his opponent’s considerable intellect and ability to spin lies with the best of them, Myers was at heart a decent, patriotic man. That made him vulnerable. Myers reserved his ruthlessness for paranormal enemies. Stricken didn’t make such distinctions. You’re either with me or you’re in my way. Considering what he suspected was coming down the pike, for America—hell, the human race—to survive, then they’d need somebody with the guts to do what was necessary running the show. Stricken knew he was that man.
In any other time, Myers probably would have been sufficient. Now? He just wasn’t up to the task. And Dwayne Myers had even been willing to nuke Alabama to stop the Old Ones. Stricken considered that a nice start.
“We’re launching our contingency plan immediately.” The STFU bunker was so big that the distance between his office and the control center was significant, so he used the time to give a series of rapid-fire orders to his subordinates that fell in behind him. “Foster, you’re running this op. Call up Renfroe. Pull the spider out of the tank. I want it wired with explosives so it doesn’t get any funny ideas about running off on the job.”
“This is Franks we’re talking about,” said one of his men. And these were all men. His inner circle would never contain any supernatural members again. Adam Conover had taught him a valuable lesson about the trustworthiness of monsters. “Our most reliable team was lost. Want me to call up some extra muscle?”
“Not yet.” It was too bad about his first string. Those monsters had shown real potential, but Kerkonen had been the only one to get out of the nightmare realm alive. “Red isn’t right for this job. Sending her against foreign terrorists is one thing, but Americans? And MCB at that? She’s got a soft spot for cops. PUFF exemption on the line or not, she’d balk and screw this up.” Managing monsters and black ops teams was a real challenge; he had to sort them not just by capabilities, but by which ones had functioning moral compasses. “Send her to the Flierls’ team. They’re a bunch of goody-goodies too. We’ll hold them in reserve in case this goes sideways.”
“If the Flierls find out we’re
operating outside the law, they’ll flip out . . . Hell, Renfroe won’t like this assignment much either.”
“His employment isn’t exactly voluntary, now is it?”
The men laughed, because when Stricken made a joke, you’d damn well better believe they laughed like it was the funniest damned thing ever. Intimidating subordinates was a guilty pleasure of his. One of them held open the door to the command center for him.
The name was kind of a misnomer. When he’d first heard command center he’d pictured something like NASA mission control. This was more like an office overlooking the laboratory floor, populated by a handful of nerds armed with computers and some big screens on the walls. It wasn’t impressive because of how it looked, but rather, what he could screw with from here. The nerds looked at him fearfully as he entered and then furtively went back to their work. They reminded him of a bunch of ground squirrels.
“I don’t know who you intend to use for this mission then, sir, because we’ll need time to get other assets together. You don’t intend to send only our regular forces, do you?”
It had been Foster who had asked that question. It was a reasonable question, since the former CIA man had just been put in charge of a hit against the biggest badass in the federal government, but Stricken figured the hesitancy was because Foster was still a little squeamish from his encounter with Franks in Vegas. No STFU man wanted to go up against a monster without monsters of his own.
“Of course not, Foster. I’m a firm believer in letting our subcontracted employees do the bleeding on our behalf.” He spotted exactly who he was hoping to find in the command center and walked directly toward her. “Hello, Dr. Bhaskara.”
She turned and nodded politely to the albino. “Mr. Stricken.”
Stricken liked the Project’s head scientist. She was an attractive Indian woman in her mid forties, with a British accent that reminded him of Mary Poppins, but she was every bit as driven as he was, and as far as he could tell, she’d never been weighed down with any of those pesky medical ethics some of these brilliant science types seemed to get hung up on. “Any new developments with our babies?”
Monster Hunter Nemesis Page 6
