Voyager

by Carl Rackman

  Brad cocked his head at the compliment because ‘rescued’ was a very generous description of the clumsy intervention that had landed him in a coma.

  “This morning they submitted this interim report. They believe the photos are fakes, but they can’t definitely prove it. The problem is we can’t just come out and say they are fake without that proof – it’s just our word against theirs. And right now our word isn’t worth very much compared to Dana Kominsky’s cleavage.”

  Brad understood. “So we need to find out who planted the photos on Voyager and obtain the proof.”

  Ferguson nodded unhappily. “Your mission, Agent Barnes, should you choose to accept it.”

  “I’ll accept if it means I’m back in.”

  “Well, you can start with our mystery girl. You’d better brace yourself for the next part.”

  Brad grimaced. She’d shot him in the head. What could be worse? Yet he felt a perverse excitement at her mention.

  “Do you remember when you picked up the pilot at Liberty? The CBP report mentioned they arrested him based on a tip-off about a foreign intelligence courier. They confirmed the intel came from the FBI New York Field Office. Specifically, that it came from me.” Ferguson shook his head. “I did send a report, but it was non-specific. It came from an intelligence channel via Interpol. But it wasn’t the report that CBP received.

  “It means someone spoofed our intel and made it look as though it originated here. Our mystery data thief compromised our personnel operation – enabling her to assume the identity of Breecker, including her pin codes and passwords – but she must have had expert help hacking the Field Office computers. This was a high-level, professional operation that must’ve been backed by someone with considerable resources.”

  Brad whistled softly. He knew what Ferguson was insinuating. “A foreign government.”

  Ferguson nodded and continued. “The British gave us a transcript of recordings from the crime scene. It was a safe house and wired with sound-activated digital recording. They caught the entire incident on audio.”

  He handed Brad a slim file marked ‘SECRET’.

  Brad saw what might have been his last moments played out in a bleak transcript; the neutral presentation communicated little of the drama of the moment.

  15:19:21 [COM1] What [what] about Ferguson… The Bureau

  15:19:25 [COM2] I spoke to him on the phone. He left me the paperwork to pick up at the front desk. He never saw me. Nobody at the Bureau did. Except you of course

  15:19:39 [COM1] Who [who] are you

  15:19:44 [COM2] Barnes. You’re really a good guy. A real boy scout you know that? I tried to tell you not to come but you’re a stubborn [son of a bitch]. Now I’ve got a chopper to catch and I believe they’re only expecting one passenger. That’s actually a shame [cause] I was beginning to like you. Goodbye, sweetie

  15:19:55 [COM1] No [no] please don’t

  15:19:56 [Indistinct, sound of gunshot]

  Ferguson couldn’t mask a guilty glance at Brad. He knew he had arrived too late in the end. “The transcript continues with some radio talk, but the replies are indistinct.”

  Brad read on.

  15:23:16 [COM2]Sharkfin, this is Mirage

  15:23:18 [COM4][radio: unintelligible]

  15:23:20 [COM2] It’s done. I’ve got it. Threats neutralised. I missed the two civilians, they ran. Over

  15:23:29 [COM4][radio: unintelligible]

  15:23:34 [COM2] Affirm. I can’t waste time chasing them down. I need to get out now. Over

  15:23:40 [COM4][radio: unintelligible]

  15:23:44 [COM2]I’ll be waiting. Don’t be late

  [15:24:33][Transcript ends]

  Brad read the transcript in wonder. Somehow he had a real memory of the second conversation though he had been unconscious at the time. It was something he chose not to dwell on, but the thought still chilled him. More bizarre for him was the pang of excitement rather than fear at the memory of Breecker. Then again, he was probably still emotionally fried from being shot through the head.

  Brad tried to maintain a professional detachment despite the weird cocktail of emotions. “The operative confirms she got something. Clearly the item they were looking for – the missing SD Card.”

  Ferguson nodded. “It was the only item specified in the bogus intel report.”

  “Where’s the file copy of the report?”

  Ferguson looked uneasy. “There was no file copy of the report. It must have been sent remotely.”

  “Okay. Where can we take it from here?”

  “Firstly, the perps were unknown to us, but they had unprecedented access to our personnel records. Secondly, the operation was of a highly developed nature. Spoofed e-mails and phones, hacked security alerts and insider knowledge of secure government systems. They had fake vehicles, a helicopter, and they inserted themselves seamlessly into the law enforcement operation.

  “Everything about it says it’s an espionage attack on this country, which is escalating with the release of this material and destabilising us at a critical moment during a change of administration.”

  Brad didn’t reply. He was wrestling with something that had bothered him from the beginning. “Sir, it doesn’t add up to me.”

  Ferguson gave him an ironic look. “At present, not much does.”

  “No, I mean, why were the perps trying to cover their tracks? Woolf thinks they planted the photos on Voyager. In that case if NASA had hidden the photos, it would’ve worked better for the conspirators.”

  Ferguson frowned. “How so?”

  Brad continued, thinking aloud. “If they released the original forgeries then NASA would be caught cold. The government couldn’t have plausibly denied the existence of the photos if the perps had evidence the signal arrived from the spacecraft when it did. The federal government would be caught red-handed hiding material that was clearly in the public interest.

  “But instead, they took a huge risk. They torched NASA’s copies and killed everyone on the government side who knew about it through a complex infiltration operation. It doesn’t make sense.”

  The phone on the desk rang again. Ferguson answered it on speaker.

  “Sir, there’s a call from a Mr Josephson from Caltech. He wants to speak to you about the Queens incident.”

  He caught Brad’s eye. “Put him through.”

  “Mr Ferguson, with Mr Barnes, I believe. I have something to tell you.” The voice was calm, measured, with a slight British inflection.

  “Who is this?”

  “Agent Ferguson, please listen and try to understand. I cannot speak for long. I am risking much to speak to you.”

  “Okay, Mr Josephson. What do you want to tell me?” He signalled a winding motion with his outstretched finger for Barnes to record and trace.

  “There’s no point trying to trace the call, Agent Ferguson. You’re wasting your time and mine.”

  Ferguson looked around alarmed. “Are you watching us?”

  “Please, Mr Ferguson.”

  Ferguson pulled a ‘what the hell’ face at Brad, who shrugged in return.

  “Fine. Please continue, Mr Josephson.”

  “Very well. I know who took the SD card you’re looking for. I know who she was working for, and I know what they intend to do.”

  None of that information was in the public arena. Ferguson tensed. “You have my full attention.”

  “I can show you who the woman is, but only if you promise to give her amnesty.”

  Ferguson’s almost choked. “Have you lost your mind? She killed our people!”

  “Yes, Mr Ferguson, but she also works on behalf of your government. Her name is Agent Mirage, and she works for the Supra program.”

  “What’s the Supra program?” Ferguson shot Brad a quizzical glance. Brad shrugged again in response.

  “I remind you I don’t have long, Mr Ferguson. Supra is a covert operation that was once part of the US Army’s genetic super soldier experiments. It was s
ubcontracted to a non-governmental group who still hire their highly-questionable services to numerous organisations around the world, including your own government. I believe Ms Mirage has developed something of a conscience about Supra’s activities in recent months.”

  “What, you mean she might come in?”

  “Agent Ferguson, you can expect an e-mail in the next few minutes. There’s a general location map reference of your target. I shall also provide the encryption algorithm, which you will need in order to track the codes and frequencies for her personal communications and implanted location chip. This will reveal her precise GPS location. If you can locate her, you should be able to assume local control of her mission. I’d expect her to be reasonably agreeable in coming with you at that point.”

  Brad felt his heart pounding. She was within his reach – a tantalising prospect.

  Ferguson scrambled for his computer mouse.

  Josephson continued in an unruffled tone. “I may need to contact you again. Do not try to trace or contact me, Mr Ferguson. It’s futile and won’t help your mission. Find Mirage. Talk to her. Bring her in.”

  “Wait. If we can find her so easily, how do we stop these guys from finding her again? Can we deactivate the locator chip?”

  “An electromagnetic pulse will disable it permanently. It’s located in her lower back, I believe. I’m sure she can tell you more. She’s the key to your success, Mr Ferguson. Goodbye.”

  Almost immediately after he hung up there was a ping from Ferguson’s desktop when the e-mail from Josephson appeared.

  Brad’s nerves bunched as he watched Ferguson type in the map grid reference. It came up with a location in northern Mexico in the middle of nowhere. There were also numerous frequencies and channels.

  “Sir, I want this mission,” Brad blurted.

  Ferguson looked at him with incredulity, and then concern. “Brad, I’m sorry. No way. Can you even fly?”

  “Sir, I’m fine. I have to take this.”

  “Brad. You’re way too close. This is the woman who tried to kill you.”

  “Sir, I know it looks wrong, but there’s something there. I saw it again in the transcript. I think she shot me deliberately to incapacitate but not kill. I also think she’s the woman who claimed to be my fiancée in the hospital. You have to let me try. I’m the only person who spent any time at all with her, and I think I know how I can get through to her.”

  “Brad. No. I hear what you’re saying, but you’re not going. It’s just too soon. I need to get a top-level joint operation on this at very short notice. If we can bring her in I’ll feed you in at the interrogation, but you can’t go back in the field. I’m sorry, son.”

  Brad pushed back. “Sir, whoever this Josephson guy is, he’s giving her to us on a plate. We only have this shot. You have to put me in play!”

  Ferguson stroked his moustache and looked critically at Brad. “Lose the crutch. Then I’ll think about it.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Friday, 13th January 2017

  Buena Union, Durango, Mexico

  There were clear skies overhead and the sun beat down on the lightly forested hillside where Mirage was hidden. The woman had concealed herself among the numerous oak trees with a vista following the long, shallow slope towards a scrubby open plain. The sunlight reflected off its pale, reddish soil.

  She was lying prone between two oaks wearing a skintight camouflage bodysuit like a speed skater’s. Over this she wore a baggy, flexible suit made from a sheer material impregnated with tiny cells covering the entire surface. The cells selectively adapted their hue and reflectivity using photochromic sensors. It blended perfectly with any background surrounding them. The power was controlled by a compact, yet powerful, battery unit attached to the small of her back. A blanket of the same material was draped over her shoulders and head further breaking up her silhouette and masking the powerful sniper rifle she pointed down the shallow valley towards a nondescript compound of low buildings. Unless someone physically tripped over her, she was essentially invisible.

  The compound contained the only buildings for about four kilometres around. It was ringed by a white-painted high wall and topped with razor wire and cameras.

  She peered intently through the bulky smart scope attached to the rifle, which was lined up carefully with a small slit aperture in the active camouflage cover. She was zeroed in on a small veranda in front of the main single-storey building towards the centre of the compound.

  Her intel, as usual, was perfect. The present occupier of the house had arrived the previous afternoon fresh from breaking out of one of Mexico’s maximum security prisons. The compound was a carefully maintained bolthole for the man – a nondescript middle-aged Mexican called Jaime Mendoza de Guillén, who happened to be the reigning head of one of Mexico’s most powerful drug cartels.

  She was listening to her mission supervisor through a tiny earpiece operating a discrete frequency-agile burst transmitter. It was as secure as communications could realistically be in the modern electronic age. The voice, when it did come, had an electronic underlay rendering it slightly robotic.

  “Mirage, this is Sharkfin. Over.”

  She keyed twice in response.

  The tinny voice returned immediately. “Intel update, stand by. Over.”

  She remained motionless. It took incredible self-control to maintain such physical discipline; something she possessed in abundance. Presently, the call came back.

  “Mirage, the target is in the main building. We believe he will be meeting with Sinaloa hierarchy in the mountains. Look for a convoy of vehicles forming in the yard around 2030 hours. He will be travelling in the Mercedes-Benz SUV. It will be all black with blacked-out windows. We recommend you take the shot before he enters the car. But it’s your call. Over.”

  “Where are the patrols? Over.”

  A pause before the voice replied, “We still have the two patrols at four klicks. Their route is unchanged. Just sit tight. Over.”

  The cartel was operating foot patrols. They were probably high-value foreign mercenaries and not the dumb henchmen popular in Hollywood films. Mendoza paid very well and had good people, if not particularly trustworthy. The source of the intel must have been very close to the drug lord in order to provide such timely and detailed information.

  There were four mercenaries in each group; they walked at a good pace and kept alert. She had observed a senior ranker who drove around in a vehicle to oversee the perimeter operation. She’d also seen several more mercs inside the compound. She was committed to the long-range solution; it could get very messy going in tonight if the shot failed.

  “Mirage, Sharkfin. Update.”

  “Mirage. Go, Sharkfin.”

  “If you take the shot around 2030 hours, both patrols will be within two hundred metres of your position. Over.”

  “How close? Over.”

  “Alpha will be about one hundred eighty metres to your west. Whiskey will be one hundred fifty east, but possibly behind you. Over.”

  She made her decision. “I’m going to make the hit at 2030 hours Zulu. I need my ride standing by on the far side of the ridge at 2045 hours. Acknowledge.”

  There was a pause. “Pickup at 2045. Don’t be late, Mirage. Out.”

  She settled herself again – watching and waiting.

  The time on her wrist-mounted GPS showed 2024 Zulu Time, the standard time notation based on Greenwich. The local time was almost 3:30 in the afternoon and the sun hovered brightly above the shallow valley. This was favourable for her active camouflage as it provided plenty of contrast for the sensors to adapt and offer a near-perfect match to the surrounding terrain. The shadows had grown longer since noon and the light was comfortably behind her now, giving no glare or glints from any of her equipment. It would be a good shot if Mendoza materialised on time.

  She made a final comm check, her voice barely a whisper. The hairline mic gummed to her lower lip picked up the most insubstantial of words. />
  “Sharkfin. Sitrep. Over.”

  “Receiving you, Mirage. Patrol Alpha is two hundred metres to your ten o’clock, inbound. Patrol Whiskey is two hundred fifty metres to your three o’clock.”

  “I want the chopper ready to pick me up as soon as I take the shot. Over.”

  There was a pause. “There will be a delay. We can’t blow the chopper too soon. When the target is down, I’ll send the bird in. You will have about fifteen minutes, Mirage. I can’t give you less than that. Over.”

  “Roger. Mirage out.”

  She concentrated into the rifle’s scope, which was a technological marvel more like a TV camera than a simple optical scope.

  There was definitely some activity. One of the garages had attracted the attention of maybe half a dozen men. It appeared the drug lord’s trip was on.

  She settled on her elbows and knees, letting her limbs naturally assume their most comfortable position. The rifle was perfectly balanced; the action checked time and again. It was zeroed. She had nailed the exact range to the veranda using a laser rangefinder – 703.22 metres precisely.

  It was going to be a clean shot, but she would have to be quick to nail him in the short walk from the veranda to the vehicle. The bullet would take less than a second to traverse the seven hundred metres, so she would need to anticipate his pace and the precise moment he would slow almost to a stop and bow his head when entering the Mercedes SUV. That would be the exact point she would aim to put the bullet, and it would be mission accomplished.

  She breathed slowly, oxygenating her blood, ready to fall into the shooter’s trance-like state at the point of firing.

  “Good afternoon, Mirage.”

  There was something weird about the voice.

  “Go ahead, Sharkfin.”