The Loyal Nine

by Bobby Akart

  “I want you to consider this. Should China and Russia elect to devalue our currency, resulting in our allies such as Germany and Japan becoming skittish about purchasing more of our debt, what would be the fate of the almighty dollar?” asked Sarge rhetorically. “If the United States cannot continue to finance itself via debt instruments, then it must tax its citizenry at an unprecedented rate. I submit to you that there isn’t enough income or wealth in this country to cover the bill.”

  Sarge pointed to the screen.

  “I will leave you with this. If all empires eventually collapse, does this premise also apply to the United States? If so, is this the beginning of the end?”

  Chapter 26

  February 9, 2016

  Lausanne, Switzerland

  Steven disconnected the call and scrambled out of the master bedroom, poking his head into the room across the stairwell landing. Slash sat up in one of the beds, reading his Kindle. Steven didn’t have to say a word. The look on his face told Slash everything he needed to know.

  “How far away?” asked the operative.

  “Less than a kilometer. Bring everything with you,” said Steven.

  “This is all I brought in,” said Slash, following him down the stairs.

  “We’re on the move. Control has identified a recently arrived ISIS-backed terror cell less than a kilometer west of here. Intelligence suggests they will move against the Iranian delegation later tonight,” said Steven.

  The team rose from their seats without speaking and rapidly descended the stairs to the garage, taking their assigned positions inside the Range Rover. Each operative’s MP-7, suppressor and individual gear had been stowed in a dark brown nylon backpack in the passenger compartment, while the metal box rested in the SUV boot. Ammunition magazines for their concealed-carry pistols and the MP-7s were distributed between the backpacks and specially designed cargo pockets sewn into their pants. When they stepped out of the SUV near the target, they’d resemble well-dressed Europeans wearing backpacks. Four identical backpacks.

  Steven carefully backed the SUV out of the garage, onto the dark pavement, while the team screwed the suppressors to their submachine guns. If possible, they would make as little noise as possible taking down the terror cell. Once the SUV hit the street outside of the alley, he started to brief the team.

  “We’re headed to 4 Rue Voltaire. Sharpie, plug that into your phone and land us one block over,” said Steven. “Bugs, attach my suppressor before we arrive.”

  “I’m one step ahead of you,” said Bugs. “What are we looking at?”

  “Four, possibly five ISIS-trained European-zone-based jihadis holed up in a third-floor flat. Intel suggests they’re prepping for an attack later tonight, so we’ll either catch them off guard, praying for a good death, or we’ll meet them head-on ready to leave,” said Steven.

  “I’m hoping for the former,” said Sharpie. “ROE?”

  “Terminate with extreme prejudice. Control doesn’t want to deal with smuggling anyone out of Lausanne. Not with the conference underway less than a mile from here,” said Steven.

  “Jesus, the delegates are still at the hotel?” asked Sharpie.

  “Yes. Control wants to keep this as quiet as possible, for as long as possible,” said Steven.

  “What if that’s—not possible?” asked Bugs.

  “Highest priority is given to eliminating the threat,” said Steven. “Which way am I turning?”

  “After the Metro overpass, take a left onto Avenue Floreal and start looking for a parking spot. Voltaire will be the first east-west street after making the turn onto Floreal. We’re less than a minute out,” said Sharpie.

  “Got it,” said Steven, keeping the SUV’s speed under the posted limit.

  As he drove the SUV under the concrete Metro overpass, Steven slowed his breathing, hoping to slow his heart rate and calm his racing mind. Control usually provided a more detailed threat assessment, which added to his anxiety. They had an address and a rough number of targets, leaving a ton of variables unexplored and questions unanswered. Most of the answers lay on the other side of the door to apartment 3B, 4 Rue Voltaire.

  “Take a left up here,” said Sharpie.

  Bugs shifted the MP-7 from his right hand to his left and disengaged the safety, preparing to put the weapon into action covering the passenger side of the SUV. Two more clicks confirmed that the rest of the team was ready for an ambush approaching the target building.

  Steven turned the Range Rover onto Avenue Floreal, searching for a parking space on the cramped, one-way street. At 10:12 on a weekday evening, he’d be lucky to find a spot.

  “I’m not seeing a lot of parking options,” said Bugs.

  “Not any legal options. I’ll put us halfway on the sidewalk near the intersection,” said Steven, slowing down next to the last car on the street.

  “If a police car rolls down Voltaire, our illegally parked Range Rover will attract attention,” said Bugs.

  “Voltaire is a dead end to the left, and a one-way street to the right,” said Sharpie. “The chances of a police car passing by are slim to none. Most of the police will be busy with the Beau-Rivage Palace Hotel.”

  “We should be in and out of the target building quickly. Sharpie, you’ll stay street side and provide overwatch. If the police show up, they’ll most likely ticket the vehicle and leave,” said Steven.

  “What if they don’t?” asked Sharpie.

  “Call a cab and have it meet us a few streets away. Control can deal with the car,” said Steven, pulling the SUV onto the curb.

  They exited in unison, clipping the MP-7s to custom-stitched anchor points under their mid-waist-length jackets. The weapons’ suppressors were partially visible below the jackets, but wouldn’t attract attention from a distance. With their weapons and backpacks in place, they strode onto Rue Voltaire, scanning the doorways and windows for anything out of place. Sharpie crossed the street and headed toward a recessed stone porch that would give him a view of the intersection and the street in front of 4 Rue Voltaire.

  Steven led the rest of the team down the left sidewalk, passing a small neighborhood store with a red awning featuring “tabacs” and “journaux” in white letters. Some things are the same everywhere. He left the dark storefront behind, sliding next to a tightly manicured row of thick, leafless bushes. Streetlights suspended by electric lines between the apartment buildings cast an orangish glow on their approach.

  He read the building numbers as they passed several walkways cutting through the barren hedge wall, quickly surmising that the next five-story building on the left contained their targets.

  “Sharpie, this is Nomad. Radio check,” Steven whispered into the microphone hidden in his collar.

  “I read you Lima Charlie. Street level is quiet,” said Sharpie.

  “Copy. We’re making our approach to the outer door,” said Steven.

  “Understood. See you in a few minutes,” replied the former Delta Force officer.

  Steven turned onto the paver walkway leading to the building, peering into the shuttered windows above. Satisfied that they’d arrived undetected by anyone in the windows, he motioned for Bugs to take care of the door. The entry was a surprisingly unsecure, thick wooden door. Within thirty seconds, Bugs had picked the lock, holding the door open for Steven and Slash.

  Once inside, he rapidly paced the long foyer and assessed the building’s layout, determining that it consisted of a central hallway on each floor. Based on the number of balconies observed outside, he guessed that each side of the hallway contained four apartments. He had no idea if 3A faced the street or the back of the building. A stairwell entrance and a single elevator door were located in a small lobby in the middle of the foyer.

  “We’re inside. Everything is clear,” he said, getting a quick response from their lookout.

  He unclipped the MP-7 from the jacket’s interior hitch and extended the telescoping stock before opening the heavy, fireproof stairwell door.
Electric wall sconces lighted the marble stairs, adding to the luxurious feel of the well-appointed Lausanne apartment building. Not the kind of place you’d expect to find ISIS extremists, but certainly the last place Swiss authorities would think to look. Fortunately for the Swiss, they weren’t the only ones looking.

  When they reached the third floor, Steven paused at the door.

  “If we can pick the lock quietly and breach, we’ll go with that option. If not, we’ll make some noise. I’ll make that assessment at the door. This is a no-flashbang, dynamic entry. I go first and peel right. Slash goes left. Bugs gets inside and follows whoever has to clear another room. We don’t know the layout. Clear?” he said.

  The two men nodded, and Steven opened the door, peeking into the warmly lit hallway. All clear. He turned left and walked swiftly to the first door on the street side of the hallway. 3E. He shook his head and pointed toward the other side of the elevator lobby, following Slash and Bugs down the long hallway to the last door on the opposing side. 3A.

  Slash crouched to the left of the door, covering the offset entry across the hallway, while Bugs scanned the door with a military-grade, handheld metal detector. He ran the black device up and down the crease of the door, trying to uncover any internal locking mechanisms, like a deadbolt or floor-mounted security jam. He stopped two-thirds of the way up the door, two feet above the deadbolt. Bugs shrugged his shoulders and shook his head. They’d have to make some noise. The question was how much?

  Steven leaned in and whispered in Bug’s ear. “Small charge on doorknob and slide bolt. We don’t have time to get hung up on the door.”

  Bugs nodded and started preparing small, pre-wired charges while Steven passed the information to Sharpie. The likelihood of a neighbor calling the police was about to climb exponentially. When Bugs finished planting the charges, they double-checked their weapons and edged away from the door before Steven counted down from three with his fingers. When the last finger disappeared, Bugs remote detonated the “door poppers,” initiating their attack.

  Steven pushed the scorched door open, immediately scanning for targets in a ninety-degree arc to the right. He was oblivious to anything that didn’t resemble a human being, his eyes lining up a head in the MP-7’s Zeiss reflex sight. A single trigger squeeze sprayed the wall dark red as he shifted the sight to a man seated at a table in front of a flat-screen computer monitor. His second bullet punctured the next man’s forehead, knocking his limp body off the chair. He never heard the two suppressed bullets fired by Slash into the targets he’d seen in his peripheral vision.

  “Clear,” Steven hissed, after walking past his two targets and searching the gourmet kitchen.

  “Bedrooms clear,” said Slash from somewhere in the apartment, as Bugs shut the damaged front door.

  Steven widened his focus, taking in the room. The two men he had killed had been working at computer stations, which seemed at odds with Control’s target details. Had they hit the wrong flat? No. This was obviously not a friendly gathering of Lausanne’s citizens. The computer gear was sophisticated, bordering intelligence grade. He counted four stations, plus two mobile servers and an uninterrupted power source. With his foot, he turned the closest man’s head to examine his face. Dark skin. Dark hair. Cropped beard. Looked Arab enough.

  “Nomad, you need to see this,” said Slash, poking his head out of the closest bedroom.

  “We don’t have time for show and tell. We’re out of here in five seconds,” said Steven.

  “This crew has all kinds of sophisticated surveillance gear. Wireless bugs, cameras, laser microphones, personal bug kits—this wasn’t an ISIS hit team,” said Slash.

  “Our work is done here. Bugs, lead us out,” he said, pausing to transmit to Sharpie. “Four targets terminated. The team is on the way out. Keep an eye out for the possible fifth.”

  Slash stood in front of the couch where his two targets sat, their lifeless eyes staring at the ceiling.

  “This guy looks about as ISIS as Bob Hope,” said Slash, nodding at a balding, grey-haired man wearing a navy blue suit and wire-rim glasses. “I think you should call this in.”

  “We don’t have time for that right now. Fuck, for all we know, this guy might have been their contact in the city. Some kind of banker. Let’s go,” he said, emphasizing the last part.

  Slash followed him out without saying a word. When they reached the ground-level foyer, Sharpie called them over the radio.

  “Nomad, this is Sharpie. I have one Middle Eastern-looking gentleman holding two take-out bags walking toward the intersection of Floreal and Voltaire from the south. Hold in position.”

  “Copy that,” he said, taking up a hidden position in the foyer with his team.

  “He’s turning in your direction,” whispered Sharpie.

  “Can you take him out? I need you in the Range Rover, ready to pick us up at the intersection in ten seconds, or we’re going to be running from the police,” said Steven.

  “You want me to drop him on the street?” asked Sharpie.

  Slash started to protest, but Steven held out a finger, silencing him.

  “We’ll toss him in the bushes on the way out. Mission accomplished,” said Steven.

  “Don’t you want to know who these people are?” asked Slash.

  “Not really,” said Steven. “I’m not being paid to gather intelligence, and neither are you. Drop him, Sharpie.”

  After Sharpie reported “target eliminated,” they left the building and crossed the road, heaving the body over a waist-high hedge lining the sidewalk. Sirens wailed in the distance as they drove south on Avenue Frederic-Cesar-de-la-Harpe—toward their marina. Slash spoke up for the first time since they left the apartment building.

  “Did anyone check the Semtex for a buried detonator?” he said.

  “That was the first thing I did when we staged the gear in the SUV,” said Bugs.

  “Guys, I know this one stinks a little, but it doesn’t stink that bad,” said Steven.

  “This one reeks, brother. You just wait and see. I don’t know who we iced back there, but they sure as shit weren’t preparing to attack the peace conference. Might have been spying on it, but that’s it,” said Slash. “One way or the other, Control got their shit wrong—or they purposely gave us the wrong shit. Neither scenario works for me.”

  Bugs stared at Steven with a neutral face.

  “What do you think?” asked Steven.

  “I think I might have another look at that Semtex before the boat gets too far in the harbor,” said Bugs.

  Chapter 27

  February 10, 2016

  73 Tremont

  Boston, Massachusetts

  John Morgan sipped coffee as he glanced at the headlines scrolling across the television monitor in his office. His thoughts were interrupted by an intercom buzz from his assistant, Malcolm Lowe.

  “Yes, Malcolm,” said Morgan.

  “Sir, Miss O’Shea on the line for you,” replied Lowe.

  Morgan pushed the phone’s speaker button without acknowledging Lowe and gruffly took the call.

  “Good morning, Miss O’Shea,” said Morgan.

  “Good morning, Mr. Morgan,” said Katie. “As requested, I have a synopsis of the Switzerland matter, which I will be providing to DNI Clapper this morning.”

  “Go ahead with your summary.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Katie. “Sir, the security team assigned to the Lausanne peace talks was notified of a potential ISIS terror cell. Active intelligence suggested this cell was prepared to initiate an attack on the Iranian delegation to the talks on the opening night of negotiations.”

  “Continue, Miss O’Shea.”

  “Sir, Langley notified the team through their customary channels of the imminent attack and the team responded accordingly. However, there was a problem,” said Katie.

  Morgan was stoic. “Get to the point, Miss O’Shea.”

  “Mr. Morgan, the information passed on by the CIA was flawed,” s
aid Katie. “They did not encounter an ISIS operation, but rather eliminated a deep-cover Mossad surveillance team and a senior Israeli diplomat.”

  Morgan was not surprised by this revelation. The peace talks needed to fail with a resulting escalation of hostilities between the participants. The death of the Israeli diplomat was collateral damage but enhanced the effectiveness of the operation.

  “What else will your report reveal?” asked Morgan.

  “Swiss officials are incredulous, especially with the Israelis,” said Katie. “The entire European Union delegation has condemned the attack but has also sternly objected to the espionage activities of Mossad during a peace conference such as this one. Likewise, the Iranian delegation has rebuked the Mossad operation and returned to Tehran. Tensions have intensified after the Israelis formally accused Tehran of sponsoring the attack. I have just received word that a Sa’ar 5-class corvette has fired upon and destroyed a coastal radar site near Chabahar on the coast of the Gulf of Oman.”

  You see, Walter Cabot, this is why you should trust my judgment. The Sa’ar 5 fleet was built for the Israeli navy by Huntington Ingalls Industries, which Morgan helped Cabot purchase. Morgan would be sure to inform Walter Cabot of this ancillary benefit to the Lausanne operation. War had always been a lucrative business for the United States. Keeping the weapons factories and high-tech plants fully operational not only created jobs but generated valuable exports for the economy. War had little to do with one adversary versus another. War had everything to do with who got the biggest part of the Defense Department’s lucrative pie.

  Chapter 28

  February 10, 2016

  The Hack House

  Binney Street