The Loyal Nine

by Bobby Akart

“Who is this?” asked Giles, pointing to Katie. Not the start she had expected, but she’d roll with it.

  “My name is Katie O’Shea, ma’am. I am part of the executive staff. This is my first morning briefing.”

  “Miss O’Shea, have you been informed of my rules for the conduct of the President’s business during these briefings?” asked Giles.

  “Yes, ma’am. Nothing leaves these four walls. Not ever,” said Katie. The President’s business? Don’t you mean the business of the nation’s security?

  “Good,” said Giles. “Let’s get started.”

  Giles touched on the high points of the Morning Book, rarely engaging in more than a few minutes on any given topic. McDill was mostly silent, taking notes from time to time. Just as Katie thought the meeting was coming to a close, and that she might escape the National Security Advisor’s wrath, Giles thumbed back through the book—opening and flattening it on the table.

  “Finally, let’s address the matter of the Nevada Energy blackout,” said Giles. “Who is responsible for this report?”

  “I am, ma’am,” said Katie, scrambling to organize her meticulously prepared notes on the subject.

  With her head turned down toward the Morning Book, Giles looked over her glasses at Katie, staring at her for several excruciating seconds. She’s sizing me up. Katie didn’t break eye contact.

  “I have read your summation and glanced briefly at your analysis,” said Giles. “You have characterized the Las Vegas attack as terrorism. Further, you have tied this terrorism to a group of cyber hackers working on behalf of one of the oldest and most well-respected unions in America. How long have you been in this position?”

  “Two weeks today, ma’am,” said Katie. “I have been working on this investigation since it occurred.”

  “These are your conclusions?” asked Giles.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Does anyone else have an opinion on O’Shea’s analysis?” asked Giles.

  The room remained silent, everyone finding important documents or pencils to examine. Katie watched Giles survey the room before continuing.

  “Miss O’Shea, the conclusions you have reached are at odds with the initial reports and statements released by Nevada Energy,” said Giles. “A cyberattack is quite a leap from the conclusions reached by the engineers at Nevada Energy, who determined their power generation system was infiltrated by animals.”

  Katie remained silent, letting her continue.

  “You have defined this incident as terrorism,” said Giles. “That’s not a word we use around here unless absolutely necessary. It certainly is not a word the President would feel comfortable using in association with the Culinary Workers Union. I think you may have mischaracterized the nature of the event.”

  “Ma’am, I have conducted a detailed analysis of the events surrounding the blackout,” said Katie. “I feel my job is to provide a detailed, accurate analysis of a threat for your consideration, ma’am. My analysis of the facts accurately leads to the conclusion that the CU 226 acted in concert with a mercenary hacker group called the Zero Day Gamers. Whether the Zero Day Gamers acted as political activists, in the vein of Anonymous, or for hire as a form of cyber mercenary is still unknown,” she said, pausing to catch her breath.

  “The facts in my report are clear. Surveillance footage from the major casinos revealed numerous union personnel, some with ties to the Teamsters in Chicago, enter the building just prior to the blackout. At Caesars Palace, cell phone footage obtained from the Las Vegas Review Journal followed one of these men as he planted exploding smoke devices throughout the casino. The man has been identified as Johnny Bagwell of Chicago, a longtime enforcer of the Teamsters Union.

  “Not to mention the fact that Culinary Union management representatives appeared simultaneously on the floors of more than a dozen major casinos, advising their personnel to leave the premises. Surveillance footage shows that the work interruptions occurred between 8:05 and 8:10 p.m. at every location. I was unable to find a single example of union workers initiating a work stoppage during past power failures,” added Katie.

  Giles finally spoke. “Even if these allegations prove to be true,” said Giles. “How is this terrorism?”

  “CU 226 has been in heated contract negotiations with the major casinos in Nevada,” said Katie. “The negotiations are going poorly for the union. Governor Sandoval is running for the vacant senate seat this fall and he’s actively siding with the casinos in those negotiations.”

  “So?” asked Giles. She’s trying to throw me off.

  “There is both a political component and a social component,” said Katie, noticing that she had near complete command of the room—on day one.

  “The accepted definition of terrorism includes the use of force against persons or property with the intent to coerce another in furtherance of political or social objectives. The political and social objectives component of the definition has been used repeatedly in defining militia and so-called sovereign citizens in this country as threats to the internal security of the United States—as terrorists. I’m sure you are familiar with the report by DHS entitled National Threat Assessment for Domestic Extremism.”

  “I’m familiar with the report,” snapped Giles. “And I don’t disagree with its premise. What direct, substantiated evidence do you have that this hacker group was hired by any of the unions?”

  “The investigation is ongoing,” said Katie.

  Giles immediately exploited the only weakness in Katie’s analysis.

  “Until you do, this report stays out of the morning briefing, is that clear?” stated Giles.

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Katie.

  She felt defeated. The Las Vegas incident was an important topic for this briefing, because it revealed the vulnerability of the nation’s power grid to cyberattack—political factors aside. Katie gathered her notes and filtered out of the room with the other members of the briefing staff. A member of the secret service approached her just outside of the conference room, pulling her aside.

  “NSA Giles has requested to speak with you. Please come with me,” said the agent.

  Day one—and done.

  Katie walked next to the agent and turned into a small conference room, where Giles stood with her assistant. The agent backed out of the space and closed the door.

  “I know how you were appointed to this position,” said Giles. “I have known John Morgan since my days in the Clinton administration.”

  The National Security Advisor let the words sink in before continuing.

  “There is nothing wrong with your analysis—but the report could seriously damage the people who support the President.”

  “I understand that, ma’am, but—” Katie started.

  Giles held up her hand to stop her.

  “Katie, you can have a very bright future within this administration and others in the future,” said Giles. “But you must be cognizant of the political ramifications of your conclusions. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, ma’am, but I thought the contents of my report, as contained in the Morning Book and discussed within the morning briefings, would stay within the confines of the Situation Room.”

  “Are you kidding me?” laughed Giles, producing a business card from her suit jacket pocket. “More than half the people in that room dislike the President, and they loathe me even more, including McDill. Carol Stannard is my assistant, and this is her card. Contacting her is like contacting me. As this particular investigation progresses, you keep me abreast directly—via Carol.”

  Stannard, the tall, pixie-cut brown-haired woman standing behind Giles, nodded at her with a severe smile.

  “Katie, do you understand what the term plausible deniability means?” asked Giles.

  “What you don’t know can’t hurt you—or be tied to you,” said Katie O’Shea, Irishwoman.

  Giles and her assistant began laughing.

  “You are going to do very well in Washington, Katie O’Sh
ea,” said Giles, lightly patting her on the shoulder. “Welcome to the team.”

  Chapter 52

  April 18, 2016

  100 Beacon

  Boston, Massachusetts

  Sarge and Julia huddled around the coffee bar, fixing a pair of mocha lattes. Patriots’ Day gave both of them a rare day off from their careers, and an opportunity to focus on their “other life.” A life shared by a close circle of friends. He suspected they would be called into action soon. The signs were obvious. America was on the edge of a dangerous cliff. Like all of the great civilizations before her, the United States was at risk of a sudden, rapid collapse.

  “Bringing everyone together was long overdue,” said Julia. “Besides, the Great Hall feels more like a home today.”

  “Julia, Julia,” shouted Penny Quinn, running up to her and giving her a hug. “You have on pink jammers with puppies all over!”

  After the attack inside the Boston Common, he vowed to gather the group as he’d discussed with Donald Quinn. While it represented an opportunity for everyone to review the state of world affairs and give an update on their preparations, it was first and foremost a social occasion. The group did not come together often enough, which seemed at odds with their common purpose. They were closely linked by powerful forces, entrusted with a greater purpose.

  Sarge turned his attention to the elevator doors, which had opened to discharge Donald and Susan Quinn and their daughters. They carried brown-paper-covered packages concealing artwork.

  “What are we looking at here?” asked Sarge, taking two of the parcels.

  “We felt the need to upgrade your décor, Sarge,” said Susan. “This room is in dire need of some artwork.” Great, the obligatory fox and hunt images.

  “When everyone arrives, you can open your gift,” said Donald.

  “What time do you expect Steven?” asked Donald.

  Before Sarge could answer, Steven and Katie appeared, appropriately dressed for once. Having Donald and Susan’s children present put them all on their best behavior.

  “Right here DQ—reporting for duty,” said Steven. “After coffee, of course.”

  Steven made his way to the Keurig machine, glancing at the brown packages. “What are those?”

  “We got Sarge a gift for the loft,” said Donald. “We’ll give it to him when the others get here. How’s the Miss Behavin’?”

  “I took her out two weeks ago,” said Steven. “Did Sarge tell you what I saw?”

  “Only the highlights,” said Donald. “Have you guys seen any news reports or other confirmations of the Russians’ activity?”

  “This sort of thing doesn’t find its way across the AP wires,” said Julia. “My contact at the Washington Free Beacon emailed me his piece on what he was able to learn from his contacts at the Pentagon. According to his sources, two intelligence-gathering vessels have entered the area. One, the Viktor Leonov, continued to Havana and has been detected in the Gulf of Mexico. The other ship, the Nikolay Chiker, has been seen on numerous occasions off the coast of Georgia and the Carolinas.”

  “The Beacon’s sources are correct,” said Katie. “The Leonov—one of eight Vishnya-class intelligence ships—is outfitted with a lot of high-tech electronics. It is the ultimate long-range spy ship. Based in Cuba, the Leonov can easily patrol the Gulf and snoop on CENTCOM in Tampa or intercept phone calls from soldiers in the Fort Hood area. The Chiker is a glorified tugboat that accompanies the Leonov in a support role. It has the capability to lift submarines out of the water for repair.”

  “Are the Russians attempting to reignite the Cold War?” asked Donald.

  “It could be a way of throwing their military capabilities in our face, similar to their repeated testing of our air defenses on the West Coast,” said Katie. “There is something interesting about the Leonov deployment. The CIA is convinced that the Vasiliy Tatishchev intelligence vessel was part of the Russian flotilla observed sailing south along the boundary of our coastal waters recently. The Tatishchev was recently retrofitted to be Russia’s most advanced electronic intercept ship. Based upon intelligence reports, the Tatishchev circles the waters from D.C. to our Naval Submarine Base at Kings Bay, Georgia.”

  “What’s your hunch?” asked Sarge.

  “The Tatishchev is stalking our nuclear subs,” said Katie.

  “Because they don’t want us to know their own subs are right in our backyard,” said Steven. “This explains the presence of the Chiker. There are some serious Russki sharks circling our waters.”

  “Mommy,” squealed the girls in unison. “It’s Steeeeeven.”

  They ran to Steven, who put his coffee down to absorb the full-on assault of little girl hugs.

  “He has this effect on women, big and small,” said Sarge.

  Katie nodded in agreement.

  “Ladies, today is Patriots’ Day. Why are you wearing pink and not the good old red, white and blue?” asked Steven, holding each of their arms over their heads as they pirouetted.

  “Because we are pretty in pink,” said Rebecca.

  “Hello, Suzie Q,” said Steven, releasing Susan’s daughters.

  “Good morning, Steven,” said Susan. “Nice to see that you dressed appropriately. Sarge was worried.”

  “For good reason,” said Steven.

  The digital keypad next to the elevator doors flashed. Only eight other people had the necessary security code to access the three upper floors of 100 Beacon, and six of them were inside his residence. He waited for his final two guests to step out of the elevator.

  “Look at this homeless guy I found on the sidewalk.” Brad laughed. “I think he might be working undercover for Homeland.”

  Brad hugged J.J. around the shoulders as the two men entered the Great Hall.

  “Hi, guys,” said Julia as she greeted them both with a hug. “J.J., have you lost some weight? You look great.”

  “He’s got a new girlfriend,” said Susan. “Right, J.J.?”

  J.J. turned noticeably red from embarrassment. Sarge knew it was hard for him to be the center of attention when it came to personal matters.

  “We’re just good friends,” said J.J. “Her name is Sabina. I first met her in the hospital at JBB. We ran into each other recently and hit it off.”

  Brad slapped J.J. on the back and grinned. “Another one bites the dust, which leaves just me and Steven in the single category.”

  On cue, Steven and Katie stepped into the open.

  “You spoke too soon, my friend,” said J.J. “It appears your counterpart has met his match.”

  “Do I need to find Brad a special friend?” asked Katie. “Maybe a nice girl out of the counterintelligence corps.”

  “Forget it, I hear Brad has trust issues,” said Sarge. “Right, Brad? You wanna tell everyone about your visit from DHS?”

  “First things first,” started Brad. “My love life is fine, thank you very much. Second, no spies, please. My motto is question everything; trust no one—but you guys, of course. I don’t need a spy in my bed or my head.”

  “Okay,” said Susan. “No more coffee for Brad. It’s good to see you.”

  “Are we all here?” asked J.J.

  He glanced around the room and waved at Penny and Rebecca, who were stationed in front of the televisions.

  “Not yet,” replied Susan. “Abbie had a campaign appearance at the annual Patriots’ Day breakfast in Lexington. After her speech, she was going to head this way ahead of the marathon traffic.”

  “How did her campaign staff clear her schedule for the day?” asked Julia.

  “Abbie told her staff she would be holding an all-day private fundraiser,” said Sarge. “I forgot to mention it to everyone. Let’s break out the checkbooks and bribe her campaign manager to leave us alone for the day.”

  “I knew it,” said Steven. “Subterfuge.”

  “C’mon, you cheap bastard,” said Katie, smacking Steven hard in the chest. “You never spend any money on me. At least help Abbie get ree
lected.”

  “I spend money on you when we go out,” said Steven.

  “No, you don’t, because we never go out,” replied Katie. “You just sweet-talk me into the sack.”

  “Katie!” exclaimed Susan, pointing in the direction of the girls.

  “No more diversions,” said Sarge. “Checks, please, but keep them below twenty seven hundred.”

  Sarge gathered up the checks. The contributions were largely symbolic as both a show of loyalty and an excuse to commandeer Abbie for the day. Sarge’s phone buzzed, notifying him of a text message.

  “I just received a text from Abbie,” said Sarge. “She’ll be here shortly. Her security team insists on escorting her up the elevator, but then they’ll ride down and wait outside. Unavoidable at her level. Why don’t we all gather in the study until I can send them back downstairs? How does that sound?”

  “Okay by us,” said Penny.

  Everyone laughed at the unhampered audacity of a child.

  “No, girls,” said Donald. “You guys stay here. We have some adult things to discuss. Sound good?”

  “Okay, Daddy,” said their daughters.

  Sarge politely herded everyone towards the study, watching curiously as the Quinns gathered up the brown-wrapped packages. Julia stayed with Sarge to greet Abbie. Was she playing hostess or guarding her turf?

  The elevator opened, and one of the dark-suited members of her security team entered, followed by Abbie and the female member of the detachment. While in Washington, Abbie was provided around-the-clock security. When members returned to their home districts, they were on their own. Her father had arranged twenty-four-hour security—most likely the best in the business from Aegis.

  “Hey, guys,” said Abbie. She reached out to hug Julia before embracing Sarge. “Where is everybody?”

  “We locked them in a closet with Steven,” said Julia. “May the strongest survive.”

  “Abbie,” Rebecca squealed.

  “It’s Senator Abbie, goofy,” corrected Penny. “Hi, Senator Abbie. Becca doesn’t understand politics like I do.”

  “Well, Penny, you probably understand politics better than most people,” whispered Abbie, kneeling down to hug Penny.