by John Sneeden
Bennett’s voice broke the silence a few minutes later. “Nine has arrived safe and sound. Come on down, Ten.”
“Roger that.”
After pulling the safety line back up, Zane lifted his pack and slung it over his shoulders. He placed the radio in his left pocket and put on his gloves. He had done quite a bit of climbing in the mountains of North Carolina, so easing down a knotted rope should be child’s play.
He looped the safety line around his waist, tied it off, then looked around the area one last time to make sure they hadn’t left anything behind. Seeing nothing, he backed up to the edge and began his descent.
He had only taken two steps down when he heard shuffling in the forest nearby. Was it an animal? The trees were teeming with monkeys, but this sound seemed too low to the ground. And, unless he was mistaken, had emanated from somewhere around the tree where the lines were tied off. He squinted but saw no movement.
He was about to resume when he heard it again. It was soft, as though someone or something was trying not to be heard.
Zane carefully pulled the Glock from his pocket and waited. A couple of times he thought he saw something move but then realized it was a shadow. Two minutes passed, and the only sound was a family of monkeys making their way through the canopy about a quarter mile away.
Zane knew he couldn’t wait forever. In fact, if someone was out there, it would be foolish to remain here, exposed on the rim.
After pocketing his gun, he backed down into the fog.
CHAPTER THIRTY
AFTER DESCENDING ABOUT twenty feet, Zane realized it was going to be even easier than he had expected. The rim face was sloped, meaning all he had to do was hang on tightly and walk backwards. He doubted it would take him more than a few minutes to reach the bottom.
His greater concern was the noise he’d heard at the top. Should he have cleared the area first? In the end, he felt as though he’d done the right thing. There were so many sounds in the jungle that you’d never get anywhere if you followed up on each one. Besides, if anyone tampered with the lines, he already had a backup plan—he’d grab the rocky slope and climb down. It was slippery and would likely take time, but he had no doubt he could do it.
Zane soon began to notice more plants. Mounds of moss covered large patches of rock, and tiny plants seemed to spring out of every millimeter of soil. The downside was that the moist flora made it more difficult to step firmly, so he slowed his pace, making sure his foot was firmly in place with each step before pushing off again.
Suddenly, he felt a twitch in the climb line. Was it just the rope sliding into a new rut somewhere at the rim or had someone touched it? The movement had been subtle but distinct. Continuing to hold the line with his left hand, he reached into his pocket with the other and pulled out his flashlight. Perhaps he was still close enough to see if someone was standing at the rim. He turned it on, but the beam simply bounced off the fog.
What now? If someone was tampering with the rope, then it would be folly to try to make it back up to the top. The farther back up he went, the farther he’d fall if something happened. So far, he’d only felt a slight twitch, not yet reason enough to transition to a manual climb.
After pondering his options, he decided to do the only thing that made sense. Returning the flashlight to his pocket, he backed down with as much speed as possible. He began to move so quickly that he bounced off the rock with each step.
Bennett’s voice rose out of the darkness below. “You’re almost home.”
The safety line grew taut, indicating he’d made it to the point at which it needed to be removed. He was almost there.
Two flashlights clicked on, illuminating Zane from below. Taking advantage of the light, he pulled himself up a bit in order to give the line some slack, then he reached down and untied the line.
It happened just seconds later: Zane felt movement in the climbing rope, but before he could react, it was cut loose. He fell, spinning out of control as he went down. He made impact on his side, his shoulder and head landing flush against a boulder. He rolled several times before finally coming to rest on the crater floor.
Pain shot through his body. His shoulder felt as though someone had hit it with a sledgehammer, and his head hurt so badly that he wondered if he’d cracked his skull.
A flashlight bounced toward him. Then legs appeared at his side. “What happened?” It was Bennett.
“The line… someone cut the line,” Zane muttered painfully through clenched teeth.
“Someone what?”
Zane pushed himself up into a sitting position. “We need to get back in the trees.”
Katiya appeared and knelt down next to him. She reached out and pushed his face gently to one side. “You don’t need to go anywhere. You’re bruised pretty badly.”
“Let’s take a look.” Bennett knelt and used a finger to press against his jaw.
Zane pushed the soldier’s hand away and tried to stand. “I’m telling you, we need to get moving… now!”
“Easy does it.” Tocchet pushed him back down. “How do you know the line was cut?”
“Why the heck do you think I’m lying here?”
Tocchet turned. “Someone get me the climb rope.”
Lights began to bounce around the area. About thirty seconds later, Brett approached with one of the lines in hand. “He’s right. Looks like it was cut about three-quarters of the way through, and the rest ripped.”
Zane rose up again. “That’s what I was trying to—”
Before he could finish, a series of rapid pops sounded from above.
Gunfire.
Shots rained down around them. Some rounds chewed through the soil, and others sparked off boulders.
Amanda screamed as others sought cover behind rocks and trunks. Bennett knelt down a few feet away and raised his rifle toward the crater’s rim. He calmly squeezed the trigger, spraying bullets toward the target. After providing some measure of cover, he turned and shouted, “Move it! Get back into the trees… now!”
Tocchet and Katiya each grabbed one of Zane’s arms in an effort to lift him, but he waved them off. With a loud grunt, he rolled over and climbed to his feet.
More gunshots echoed from above. One bullet impacted close by, causing Tocchet to pivot and loose a barrage of return fire. His movements were fluid. Green Beret fluid, Zane thought.
After suppressing the gunmen, Tocchet turned back to Zane. “Here.” The soldier placed an arm around him. This time Zane didn’t stop him.
Katiya did likewise, but a figure appeared and pushed her aside. Osak. Zane had almost forgotten about the boy. He must have climbed down on his own. Once everyone was in place, the three moved forward into the trees.
Zane rolled his head toward Katiya. “Please make sure Amanda is okay.”
She nodded then ran ahead.
After traveling about a hundred yards, Tocchet and Osak set Zane up against a tree at the edge of the clearing. Brett, Artur, and Wilson were already fanned out, making sure no other attackers waited in the woods.
“Where’s Rod?” Zane asked.
As if on cue, Bennett jogged into view. “We’re safe for the time being,” he said, kneeling next to Zane. “Have no idea where that came from.”
Now that Bennett had arrived, Tocchet left to join the others walking the perimeter.
Zane leaned his head back against the tree, wincing in pain. “That has to be the Chinese.”
“That seems likely,” Bennett said.
“I guess we all knew they could be out here,” Zane said. “I just didn’t expect full engagement this early.” He looked at Bennett. “How many do you think there were?”
“A lot,” the soldier said. “I counted at least ten muzzle flashes on the rim.
“I didn’t want to do this.” Zane reached over and pulled his pack closer. “But it’s time to get Ross to send in backup. If you saw ten, then that means there could be fifteen or twenty… maybe even more.”
Zane
fished around in his pack for a moment then pulled the phone out. He frowned as he touched something along the edge. “What the…”
Bennett stepped closer, illuminating the phone with his light. “What is it?”
Zane held the phone at an angle so the Green Beret could see it. The side of the device was crushed, undoubtedly due to the impact with the boulder.
Just to be sure, he pressed the power button. Seconds passed, but the screen remained dark. After letting out a long sigh, he tossed the phone aside and turned toward Bennett. “Looks like we’re on our own.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Joint Base Anacostia-Bolling
Washington, DC
THIRTY-ONE-YEAR-old Defense Intelligence Agency (DIA) officer Russell “Russ” Grimes yawned as he lifted the glass carafe and delivered a stream of coffee into his Washington Nationals mug. A lifelong caffeine addict, Grimes generally made the break-room pilgrimage five times prior to lunch and three times after. He then capped off the day with a can of Red Bull on the Metro.
It therefore came as no surprise that colleagues referred to him as the “Jack Russell” of national intelligence, a man of boundless energy who had the heart rate of a caffeinated hummingbird. In fact, some believed it was the caffeine that enabled him to maintain such long hours in the office. Others said it was his insatiable desire to hunt down the enemy.
“Well, well, if it isn’t lover boy. So how was the big date?” Grimes didn’t even have to turn around to recognize the speaker as his chubby coworker Sam Howard.
Grimes wasn’t the least bit surprised at the question. He knew he’d get the third degree after he and his date, Rachel Wickham, had run into Sam and his buddies at a watering hole near Dupont Circle the night before.
“Unspeakably bad,” Grimes said, dumping the usual into his coffee, two packets of sugar and a dash of cream.
“Huh? You gotta be kidding me. That chick was hot. What happened?”
Grimes lifted his hand and rubbed his thumb against his index finger.
Sam nodded slowly. “Gold digger, eh?”
“Of the highest order,” Grimes said, running a hand through his mop of brown hair.
“Well, she must be a dumb gold digger, because Renegades isn’t exactly pricey.”
“Oh, that was only the beginning… the proverbial warm-up.” Grimes set the carafe back in the coffeemaker before turning to face Sam. “Take a guess where we wound up for dinner.”
Sam thought for a moment then shrugged. “Haven’t a clue.”
“Victor.”
Sam’s eyes widened. “Good grief. I need to talk to HR. You must be making a helluva lot more than—”
“I’m not. Trust me.” Grimes took a quick sip of coffee then held up a finger. “But that isn’t all. After paying my triple-digit bill at Victor, she insisted we catch the end of the Caps game… lower level.”
Sam laughed. “This girl knows how to work it.”
“She’s a professional. Ended up paying some clown outside the Verizon Center a hundred bucks for a period and a half of hockey.”
“Well, please tell me she made all that spending worth your—”
Grimes shook his head and raised an eyebrow. “You apparently weren’t listening very well. It’s all about the money, chief.”
“You at least got some nice tonsil hockey at the end of the night, didn’t you?”
“You kidding? She might as well have had a chastity belt wrapped around her face.” Grimes looked at the ground and shook his head. “She told me she didn’t like to kiss on the first date.”
Sam burst into laughter. “But of course she likes to consume on the first date. Look, just tell her it’s a trip to the Smithsonian on your second date.”
“There isn’t going to be a second date,” Grimes insisted. He walked toward the door and held up his cup. “Anyway, got to run. Time to go catch some bad guys. Gonna be a good way to get the looming financial crisis off my mind.”
Sam lifted his cup in return. “Jack Russell is on the prowl! Have fun.”
Grimes couldn’t help but laugh at what had happened. He should have known better. When the black-haired beauty had approached him at a wedding reception two weeks ago, he’d heard the alarm bells going off as soon as she name-dropped and flashed the expensive jewelry. He had no one to blame but himself.
Then again, could he really blame himself for taking a shot? Rachel was a stunner, and if it had somehow worked out, he’d have been the envy of every red-blooded single man in DC. Besides, his DIA salary could afford one hit like that. Just not two. Next weekend it would be the old standby, cheap beer and a night out with the guys.
After rounding a corner, Grimes entered the cavernous nerve center of the DIA. The room was a maze of cubicles, most of which were already occupied by the early arrivers. Three of the room’s walls were adorned with a special soundproof buffer. The fourth was a floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the Potomac. Grimes, a senior officer, was fortunate to occupy a cubicle that looked out over the river.
As he neared his seat, the red-haired girl in the cubicle next to his leaned back and looked at him. “Good morning, Russ!”
“Morning, Claudia,” he replied with a nod.
“Sorry I can’t talk right now,” she said in a raised voice, turning back to her computer. “Too much work.”
As usual, her voice was irritatingly loud, the product of her long-standing iPod addiction. Grimes had seriously wondered if she ever turned the thing off. He’d once joked to colleagues that she’d had the buds surgically attached to her ear canal.
Grimes looked across the river before sitting down. A Boeing 777 descended gracefully toward the tarmac at Reagan National, its wings moving gently back and forth. The big bird eventually settled on the runway, its rear wheels hitting with a jolt, followed by the front. Even from this distance, he could see the wing flaps slowing the plane as it cruised toward the terminal.
He smiled. It never got old.
Grimes finally turned, plunked down in his seat, and unlocked his screen saver. As he waited for the system to go through its protocols, he took another sip of coffee and thought about the new task he’d been assigned. It was something he’d never done before, and he was only doing it now because the two people usually responsible for it were both on vacation. He didn’t anticipate any problems though. The software would do most of the work for him.
Grimes double-clicked on the program icon. It was called Sweeper, the DIA’s newest tool in what Grimes referred to as World War III, the battle for global electronic supremacy. Sweeper was the most powerful etool of its kind, able to scan email and other communications for suspicious keywords or contacts. What separated it from similar software was its ability to find links between literally trillions of pieces of information, unwinding confusing trails that would take thousands of man-hours if attempted manually.
A login screen appeared, and Grimes entered his sixteen-digit password and answered three random security questions. His fingers moved without hesitation, snapping across the keys like a concert pianist.
His task was to search through all communications of individuals associated with hundreds of ongoing operations throughout the US intelligence community. The purpose was two-fold: make sure no one associated with those missions was working for the enemy, and make sure the enemy hadn’t somehow penetrated communications networks. The ultimate goal was to ensure the integrity of each mission.
The manual Grimes had read the night before recommended analyzing a half dozen operations at a time, so Grimes checked off the first six that came up and pressed Start. A box appeared, and inside it a series of numbers began to spin, indicating the amount of data being processed. Simultaneously, a green bar filled from left to right.
While Sweeper did its work, Grimes grabbed his Nationals cup and swiveled around in his chair. The early-morning sun reflected off of the blue waters of the Potomac. Several outboards raced by along the near shore, while a tourist cruise boat chugged
in the opposite direction.
He took a long sip of coffee and allowed his mind to chew over the events from the night before. How much longer would he be single? A part of him enjoyed the dating game, the excitement of meeting new women, but the years seemed to be passing at hypersonic speed now. And the older he got, the smaller the pool of potential mates. In his midtwenties he’d laughed at his parents’ concern that he wasn’t involved in a serious relationship. But he wasn’t laughing anymore. In fact, while he was reluctant to admit it, he’d truly been hoping that Rachel would turn out to be more than a pretty face.
A loud ding caused Grimes to stiffen. It was too early for Sweeper to have finished. Based on everything he’d read, an analysis of six operations should take anywhere from fifteen to twenty minutes.
He spun his chair around and scooted closer to the monitor. A box had appeared in the center of the screen. Leaning closer, he read the information displayed.
Mission Name: Operation Green Beacon
Location: South America
Mission Objective: Classified - Access Denied
Agency: Classified - Access Denied
Contact: Director of the CIA
Comments: Issues of Concern Detected
Operation Green Beacon? He wasn’t familiar with it, but that wasn’t surprising. What was surprising was that it had denied him access to any further information. Grimes had the second-highest level of clearance in the government. Theoretically the only missions he didn’t have clearance for were ones that could only be seen by fewer than five eyes, including the President and the DNI. Those were the blackest of black ops. Soot black, he called them.
Grimes clicked on Issues of Concern Detected. His cursor transitioned to an hourglass as the software retrieved the requested information. Seconds later, an email account was referenced on the screen. He glanced at the details displayed. The account seemed innocuous enough, having been established using a major ISP right here in the US. So far nothing seemed out of the ordinary.
