High Treason

by Sean McFate

“In a former life, maybe,” I said defensively. “I’m a patriot, Jen, first and foremost. I came back to stop Apollo and I’m risking everything doing it. That’s what our country means to me.”

  Jen nodded. “Well, your former employer ain’t. If Russia wanted to leverage the U.S., how would they do it? During the Cold War they threatened us with nuclear annihilation. Now they hire Russian mobsters to smuggle in nukes and employ mercenaries to bury them in American cities. Moscow could secretly blackmail whoever sat in the White House because no politician would ever break the bad news to the American people. Who cares about threatening World War III when you can turn the president into your own sock puppet?”

  She could be right, I thought with a chill. My obsession with Winters had gotten in the way of my judgment. Earlier I assumed Apollo staged the terrorist attack to extort the government into more ten-figure contracts. It never occurred to me that they would go full-on traitor, Winters or not.

  But the facts lined up. Could killing the president be part of the plan, if only a small part? Blaming terrorists was the ruse to distract law enforcement from the bigger mission of smuggling in the nukes and pre-positioning them around the country. There would be no one better than Apollo, with Wagner providing on-the-ground oversight for the Kremlin.

  “America would be fucked,” I concluded with a whisper.

  “Correct, which is why we need to get inside Apollo headquarters and find some evidence. It’s the only way we can turn the FBI and rest of the country around before it’s too late.”

  “So, then . . . you’re not arresting me? We’re working together?” I asked.

  She paused. “Yes.”

  We both sat back, realizing the gravity of her decision. She wanted to save the country, even if it destroyed her career and labeled her a forever terrorist. I liked her.

  “You’re doing the right thing,” I said, but she turned away in anguish. It’s not easy walking away from family, career, a life.

  “Let’s go get the motherfuckers,” she said softly, her voice cracking and her eyes moist.

  “Oh, we’ll get them. We will damn them to the inferno,” I said. I’m coming for you, Winters!

  “We need information. How do we get inside Apollo HQ?”

  It made good sense, but there was a catch. “It would be easier to break into the CIA than Apollo HQ.”

  “Figure it out, Apollo boy,” she said with a teasing smile. “Isn’t that what you said their motto was?”

  “Unofficial motto.”

  “What is their actual motto?”

  “No clue.”

  We drove for a while in silence, both of us thinking. Traffic came to a standstill by the colossal National Basilica, the largest Catholic church in North America. People were praying.

  “Well, we have one advantage,” I said at last.

  “What’s that?”

  “Everyone thinks I’m dead. Again.”

  “Time for a resurrection,” said Jen with a smile.

  Chapter 46

  “I just fired the national security advisor,” said the president, seated at the center of the large table in the Cabinet Room inside the West Wing. Sitting around the table were the principals of the National Security Council and select cabinet members. “I spent last night in a tiny safe room beneath the White House, holed up by the Secret Service. You know why?”

  The room was quiet.

  “Because there was a battle a few hundred yards from my bedroom last night.” The president paused to let the silence do its work. “A battle!” Silence. “And Jackson was surprised! Ignorant advisors have no purpose, and things that have no purpose are replaced.” Silence again. “So, I’m asking you. What happened?”

  They all looked down, avoiding the president’s gaze as he scanned the room.

  “I want answers now!!” shouted the president, pounding the table with both fists, making a few cabinet members wince. “Who did this?!”

  More silence.

  “CIA, who did this?” President Anderson shouted, turning to CIA Director Nancy Holt. She faintly shook her head, knowing better than to engage the president during a rant. “How about FBI, any clue? Homeland Security? DOD? Secret Service? Does anyone have a freakin’ clue?!”

  Finally, an aide in the back spoke up. “Uh, sir. We have no idea who did this.”

  President Anderson’s eyes widened, and his mouth pursed as he balled his hands into fists. Holt reflexively looked away, the same way one looks away when a dog is about to run through an airplane propeller. The president unloaded a verbal barrage with spittle flying from his mouth, and the aide withered with each wave of invective. When it was done, the man stood there but his soul had departed.

  “Does anyone else have wisdom to proffer?” asked the president, oozing derision.

  “Yes sir, I do,” Holt said, leaning forward in her chair. Her voice was firm, and this alone got the president’s attention. “The downed enemy chopper . . . I know where it was made and who bought it.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes sir. We haven’t run all the details to ground yet, so it’s premature to conjecture—”

  “Out with it!” demanded the president.

  “Apollo Outcomes,” she blurted. Whispers crescendoed around the table as people reacted.

  “The private military company?” asked the president, not believing it, either. “Our private military company?! We use them in the Middle East, Africa, Asia. Everywhere. If this is true, then why would they bite the hand that feeds them?”

  “I’m not surprised,” huffed Secretary of State Novak. “Apollo is not a private military company—they’re mercenaries on the scale of a big global corporation. And this is what happens when you hire mercenaries, as we have increasingly done for the past quarter century. They got greedy, stupid, and dangerous.”

  Some nodded in agreement while others remained placid. President Anderson turned back to Holt and gestured for her to continue.

  “We don’t have all the details yet,” said Holt, “and we need to be careful about drawing early conclusions.”

  “Concur. Let’s follow the facts and then make decisions,” said FBI director Romero.

  “We’re at war and don’t have time for a committee,” said the president. “We need to make decisions today. What do we know right now?”

  “We know that one of the burning helo wrecks out there is not ours,” said Holt. “It’s an S-97, a next-generation attack helicopter made by Sikorsky in Stratford, Connecticut.”

  “Made in America?” asked the president, his voice high-pitched with incredulity. “You’re telling me our military aviation was shot down by an American-made helicopter?”

  “I didn’t believe it either, until I saw the wreckage,” said General Butler. “The S-97 is not even in production. How could a company buy one? And right under our nose?”

  “Not one. Four,” said Holt. More whispers as people turned to one another in astonishment.

  “Four?” asked the president. “Explain.”

  “Multiple reports from witnesses,” said Holt. “We’re still running it to ground, as I said, and the CIA and FBI are working jointly on the investigation.”

  “We will find the answers. It’s only a matter of time,” added Romero.

  “Good, good,” muttered the president.

  The room fell silent again, in a group ponder.

  “What I don’t understand,” said General Butler, breaking the quiet, “is how Apollo obtained four S-97s without us knowing. The national security implications are severe.”

  “It’s not wise to speculate—” cautioned Holt.

  “Speculate!” interrupted the president. “No more wishy-washiness. I need to know. How did a corporation buy the most advanced attack helicopters in the world before we could, even though we commissioned them? And then use them to blow our helicopters out of the sky a few hundred yards from the White House?”

  “Uh, sir. Well . . .” fumbled Holt, hesitant to offer a hypot
hesis that might prejudice the investigation. They needed to be careful because it was possible a foreign power was manipulating them, causing the U.S. to go to war against itself. Their best weapon at the moment was information, and this depended on a deliberative investigation.

  “It’s possible the S-97s are off-the-books copies made by the manufacturer. Sikorsky is double-dipping,” said one of the president’s political pollsters, who had no background in national security. She shouldn’t even be in the room, thought Holt, except she was a presidential favorite. Holt glared at her, and the woman turned away.

  “Unlikely,” said Romero. “The U.S. government is Sikorsky’s major client, and Sikorsky is owned by Lockheed Martin, one of the biggest defense contractors in the country. I doubt either would risk alienating their primary customer, no matter how much money Apollo shovels at them. No one is richer than the United States of America or buys more military aviation.”

  “Then how?” asked the president, leaning back in his chair.

  “We have agents at Sikorsky and Lockheed right now,” said Romero, holding up his phone. “Their executives are as shocked as we are and deny selling S-97s to anyone. In fact, according to my agents, the executives also didn’t know S-97s were in the field.”

  “Maybe Apollo stole them?” asked the deputy national security advisor.

  “A good question,” replied Romero. “However, our agents confirmed all known S-97s are accounted for and in their hangars. All of them.”

  People all started speaking at once, offering theories. However, Holt sat very still. President Anderson noticed her silence and gestured for the room to quiet down.

  “Nancy, what do you think?” asked the president.

  “It’s possible Apollo stole the plans and sold them to a hostile foreign power, who then fabricated the aircraft for Apollo offshore,” said Holt. “They probably modified them to outperform our best aviation. Maybe they even anticipated battling Task Force 160.” The Special Mission Unit helicopters last night were part of Task Force 160.

  The room was quiet again. The more everyone thought, the worse the implications became. Finally, General Butler broke the spell. “I might be a dumb old grunt at the end of the day, but there are only two things I want to know. Why the hell is Apollo Outcomes killin’ our boys? And when can I take them out?” He leaned over to the president. “It’ll all be over by COB, I promise. Just give the word.”

  The president nodded, his expression darkening. Others in the room nodded too.

  The attorney general raised his hand and spoke. “Sir, I would counsel holding off on the military option until the investigation is complete. Apollo Outcomes is a U.S. company and undoubtedly has citizens in it. Killing them without a trial would be illegal. Remember the siege at Waco, Texas in 1993. We must observe their rights.”

  President Anderson’s hands formed fists again, and the General’s expression looked like he had smelled something rancid.

  “The people at Apollo Outcomes forfeited their rights when they declared war on the United States of America,” said the president, suppressing his rage. “I swore an oath to protect the Constitution, and that means against enemies foreign and domestic. I will do what is required to uphold my oath. Do you understand me?”

  “Sir, you are considering the extrajudicial killing of American citizens. Even if they are domestic terrorists, we must respect their rights because we are a rule-of-law society,” said the attorney general with delicacy.

  “What do you want me to do? Sit back and let them get away with war as they tie everything up in court for years, all to be dismissed on some technicality? Is this what our society has come to: endless legal proceedings while corporations murder our troops and get away with it? You think Americans will stand for it? You think I will?” President Anderson leaned forward so he could look the attorney general in the eye, and spoke in a hiss. “Understand me. I will risk impeachment before I let our country travel down that perverse road.”

  General Butler nodded, and so did Novak. Romero looked pale.

  “It’s called ‘lawfare,’” said Holt. “Enemies both foreign and domestic attempt to tie us up in our own legal system while they exploit us. Russia and China do it. So do many others.”

  “So might Apollo Outcomes,” said Butler. He looked angry, not only because he had lost troops but because they were killed by a Frankenstein corporation that the Pentagon helped create.

  “Sometimes you got to break the law to achieve justice,” said the president.

  “Breaking the law to enforce the law is not justice, Mr. President. It’s tyranny. The time for military action has not yet come,” argued the attorney general. President Anderson’s eyes grew wide with impatience, and General Butler looked like he wanted to stuff the lawyer into the room’s fireplace and light a match.

  “There is another reason to slow-go the military response,” intervened Holt. President Anderson whipped around to face her, surprised. “We don’t know how deep this goes yet, sir. We don’t know if Apollo is holding some sort of bargaining collateral—”

  “‘Bargaining collateral’?” interrupted the president. “What’s that mean exactly?”

  “Blackmail,” said Romero. “They could have something locked away so that if they are attacked, we get hurt. If they had the gumption to attack our choppers on the Mall last night, then they were probably prepared for the blowback.”

  The president leaned forward, both elbows on the table, and looked vexed.

  “What could they possibly do?” asked General Butler. “I mean, really, we are a superpower and they are just a corporation. We can squash them like an Alabama fire ant.”

  “They could dump classified information on the internet, like WikiLeaks. Or release politically compromising footage like sex tapes to foment a debilitating scandal. They may have a trove of government secrets that they can sell to our enemies. Goodness knows we read them into enough secrets,” said Romero.

  “Don’t forget, General, we used them to do our dirtiest work for years. What they know and could release to the worldwide media . . .” Holt sucked in a breath. “Well, let’s just say that not all weapons fire bullets.”

  “It would be goddamned devasting!” said the president, pounding the table with his fist. A few cabinet members jumped. Some began wondering if Apollo had dirt on POTUS.

  “It’s a negotiation insurance policy, in case we come after them,” concluded Romero.

  The general laughed. “Who cares? We are the U-S of A. Ultimately, what’s a corporation going to do to us? File a lawsuit?” He turned toward the attorney general with a mocking grin. “We’re at war. Who. Cares.”

  “We should,” said Romero.

  “And why is that?” said the general.

  President Anderson was watching the conversation like a tennis match.

  “Because they may have nukes,” said Holt, chilling the room. “A few days ago, we received intelligence about loose nukes on U.S. soil and we assumed it was a phony or a terrorist group. We’re still chasing down leads, but the trail is suspiciously well concealed.”

  “It’s true,” said Romero. “It might not be a terrorist group after all, but a false flag operation run by someone very sophisticated, we think Apollo. If so, those nukes are probably hidden in several U.S. cities by now. That would give Apollo substantial bargaining collateral.”

  The general’s nostrils flared. “What are you implying?” he asked, leaning forward in his chair. “That Apollo also tried to assassinate the president and got the vice president instead? That they’re prepared to nuke American cities? Connect the dots for me.”

  “Yes, be specific,” said the president. His earlier bravado had transformed into genuine concern.

  Holt cleared her throat. “All I’m saying is this: We move against them, then they could move against us, and it could involve mushroom clouds. We need to get smart about Apollo first, and then make our move. If my theory is correct, Apollo has spent a great deal of ti
me planning this and has anticipated our responses. Few outsiders know our systems and playbooks better than Apollo. Hell, we’ve all hired them. This makes us extremely vulnerable, and it’s not the time to shoot from the hip. Instead, we need to take careful aim, like a sniper. One shot, one kill.”

  The general nodded. Everyone else in the room was frozen.

  President Anderson turned to Holt. “Out with it, Nancy. I know that look. You’re holding something back.” All eyes turned to her.

  “There is an additional possibility, Mr. President, and one we cannot ignore,” she said. “Apollo may have a new client.”

  “Who?” asked Romero.

  “Russia.”

  The room let out a collective gasp.

  “The Russians?” exclaimed the general, shifting in his seat uncomfortably.

  “Follow the facts,” said Holt. “Radiological teams have confirmed trace amounts of weapons-grade material were smuggled through New York Container Terminal on Staten Island. The Russian mafia facilitated the smuggling. Last night, someone hit a safe house used by the Wagner Group, a Russian mercenary company, in McLean, Virginia.”

  “But we used to hire Apollo to kill Wagner in Ukraine and Syria,” said the general, perplexed.

  “They’re mercenaries, general. They’ll work for anyone,” said Novak with disdain.

  “We cannot ignore the possibility that Apollo, Wagner, and the Russian mob may have all been hired by the Kremlin to pre-position WMD in our major cities.”

  President Anderson turned white. No one spoke.

  “That’s why we need to proceed with care, Mr. President,” said Holt.

  “Buuuuuullshit!” said the general, nearly leaping out of his chair. “We need to move against Apollo now, before the situation gets worse. What are the Russians going to do to us if we take out an American company? Declare war?” He scoffed. “No, of course not. And let’s take out Wagner, while we’re at it. Russian mercenaries operating on American soil? In the nation’s capital?!” The general calmed himself down and spoke slowly in his Southern drawl. “Mr. President, this is a clear and present danger, if there ever was one.”