On The Black: (A CIA Thriller)

by Theo Cage

  Trent looked up at the weeping sky and blinked away the rain. “He needs insurance, Rice. That you'll show up when you say you will. So the woman comes with me. And I guarantee I'll show her a better time than you have so far.”

  “You just made up my mind for me, Razer.” Rice lifted the AK47 in Trent’s direction. He looked at his watch. “In fifteen minutes, your boss will be the most discredited bureaucrat in the country. And then he will spend the rest of his life in prison. He had his chance.”

  Rice backed up towards the mini-Hummer when Trent yelled at him.

  “What happened to the Blackhawk?”

  “Check the river.” Trent didn’t respond so Rice climbed into the H3. He pulled out the keys and started the engine, hammered the gas. The truck slew sideways through the heavy mud and iron grass, straightened, and crashed along the edge of the tree line. A quarter of a mile away, Rice braked hard and Razer watched as Britt raced out of the edge of the forest and climbed into the passenger seat. They were out of sight by the time Trent reached for his sat phone.

  CHAPTER 103

  Zulu HQ, Palo Alto, California

  DAVID GOLDBERG LOOKED DOWN from his balcony office at a scene that jarred his senses. Three floors below, in the play zone of their corporate headquarters, filled with colorful couches and neon-fabric pool tables, stood a dozen storm troopers. In reality, they were SWAT agents borrowed from the San Cupertino police department, carrying assault rifles and wearing black helmets. But everyone looking at them was thinking storm troopers.

  In the parking lot, next to BMWs, Porsches and Teslas, was a military Humvee. Zulu was being attached. There were boots on the ground. In the Zulu Building.

  Goldberg rushed to the elevators and hit the M button. This was like a bad dream. A scene from an apocalypse movie.

  Rushing out at the main level, two employees waved him down. Heading towards Goldberg was a man in a dark suit. Suits were rarely seen in Zulu territory. Even their lawyers dressed down on the odd occasion when they had to meet on-site.

  “Mr. Goldberg,” said the suit. “We need to talk.”

  “What's happening?”

  “What's happening is a terrorist alert.”

  “Terrorist?”

  “We need your co-operation,” said Kreegar.

  “Of course.” Goldberg looked around at the dozens of Zulu employees, wondering who on his team could possibly be an enemy of the state.

  “I need your three top technical people. People who know your system inside and out. You have five minutes.”

  Goldberg stared at Kreegar. The man had a scar across the bridge of his nose and a misshapen skull, like he had been blown up and then crudely sewn back together again.

  “Are you the police?”

  “The Government.”

  “Homeland Security?”

  “You're asking too many questions, David. Now we only have four minutes.”

  “Follow me,” said the President of Zulu. He turned back toward the elevator and flashed his access card across a scanner panel. The two of them moved into the elevator. Goldberg had his finger on the button marked with the Zulu logo.

  “Only you,” said Goldberg. “No one else is allowed on.”

  Kreegar glared at Goldberg, then waved the team of SWAT agents back. The door closed, and the elevator car dropped.

  “Now you have 30 seconds to convince me you’re not a terrorist or a foreign or corporate spy,” said Goldberg.

  “My name is Kreegar. I'm the Director for a security agency.”

  “CIA?”

  “No.”

  “OK. And why do you need access to our data?”

  “A former agent is holding the US government for ransom over some highly volatile secret files. We believe it's stored in your system and timed to release.”

  “Do you know what we do?” asked Goldberg.

  “You built an app for people to store their personal data.”

  Goldberg shook his head. “We did two billion in sales last year. Angry Birds maybe did a fraction of that at their peak. The Zulu app is just a cover.”

  “Is that why we've dropped about ten feet floors into the ground already?” asked Kreegar.

  “More than that. Companies and governments pay us to protect their corporate assets. Against everything. We are earthquake proof, thermonuclear weapon proof, pulse weapon proof. So, you can see how illogical it would be to protect a company's intellectual property against a Third World War, but then just let some public-sector flunky walk right into the place.” The elevator came to a stop. The silence was complete. They were hundreds of feet below the surface.

  “So here's what happens next. I may be the founder of this organization, but from this point on, I am useless to you. When we designed security, we assumed an attacker might kidnap or threaten me. So I have no further access. None at all. You, on the other hand, have been x-rayed, biologically sniffed, DNA sampled and thoroughly researched. Let's take a look.” On the screen, scrolled several blocks of content and imagery.

  “George Kreegar. Here's your CV. We can skip that. Director to the CIA ten years ago. That's where I recognize you.

  Carrying a Glock 29, Full magazine. Here's the x-ray picture. Cleaned and recently oiled I see. No badge or ID. Interesting. Three credit cards. Credit score of 720. Not bad for a swivel-servant. Addresses from cell phone. Ex-wife in Nevada, a son at West Point.

  Cholesterol looks good. Blood pressure is a bit high. And I'd have your prostate checked. Your PSA is up since your last checkup.

  And lastly, Cortisol. Your stress hormones are slightly elevated. But I don’t have to tell you that. Are you George Kreegar?”

  “What do you want me to say?” said Kreegar.

  “We're monitoring your brain waves. This is more than an elevator car. It's more like the world's most expensive MRI machine. It is 99.999% accurate at detecting dishonesty, right in the originating area of your neocortex. We own a patent on it.”

  “Yes,” said Kreegar, deeply angered no one on his team had prepared him for this. “I'm George Kreegar.”

  “Now we’re getting somewhere. By the way, no guns Mr. Kreegar.”

  Goldberg flipped open a disposal tray and held it for the director. Kreegar placed the Glock inside and rubbed his chin.

  “You'll get it back. Now, what was it you wanted?” asked Goldberg.

  “A confirmation. An agent called Burroughs Rice claims to have secret documents stored in your database.”

  “Do you have a warrant?” asked Goldberg, then laughed. “That's an old joke down here. But let me tell you what will happen if you openly discuss this facility with anyone else or reveal information. We have pulled all the data off your phone, all your contacts, email and text records. We used that to confirm your identity. But, on the other hand, as they say, now we know where you live. In every sense.”

  Kreegar glared at Goldberg. “And I know where you live as well, David.”

  Goldberg blinked, his smile gone. “Sign on the screen right here to approve us storing your records in the vault. And then we can go and make the inquiry.”

  CHAPTER 104

  Ohio River Scenic Byway

  RICE SAT BEHIND THE WHEEL of the black H3 the two dead marines used to get access to the nature reserve. He and Britt had just left Razer and his team behind in the open field.

  They had come to a standoff. Rice had Razer in his sights, and the soldiers had been ordered not to shoot the ex-agent. They threatened the woman and then Rice made it clear if a single shot was fired, Razer would go first and then several marines would follow. Last stand at Corydon field. Rice felt it had all gone too smoothly. Something was missing.

  “How long is it going to take for them to figure out we lied about the dead man switch?” asked Rice.

  “Never,” said Britt. “How can they prove anything?”

  “This company, Zulu? Where is their head office?”

  “They're American. Probably California.”

  �
��That's not good. I was hoping the Ukraine. Or Canada. They're probably parachuting onto Zulu's roof right now. Locking the place down for National Security.”

  Britt turned to him, about to ask something. But there was no point. She had seen what these men were capable of. She could guess the rest.

  “We don't have much time.”

  “And this truck could have a GPS locator mounted somewhere which explains why they didn't seem overly upset we were leaving.”

  They were on two-lane blacktop, heading east to Old Highway 135. Rice couldn't see a visual tail. There was no vehicle on the road behind them. And he guessed Razer only had a budget for one helicopter. So far, anyway.

  Ten minutes later they came to the Ohio River Scenic Byway, a two-lane creeping through the forest and crop land just north of the Kentucky border. Rice stopped and ran his fingers through his hair. They were still dressed in partial camo and muddy pants, looking like soldiers on active duty. Off in the distance he could see a farmhouse across a field. There was nothing else to see. Two ribbons of asphalt and dust, a series of telephone poles marching off to the horizon and fields full of grain. And a lone hitchhiker.

  Rice rolled up to the young man standing on the shoulder. “Where are you headed?” asked Rice.

  “Clarksville,” he said.

  “Can you drive?”

  “You want me to? Sure.”

  Rice got out of the truck and ushered the younger man into the front seat. The hitchhiker was expecting to see Rice get back in. Instead he was surprised to see Britt get out of the passenger seat.

  “We're both on military exercises,” said Rice. “We have to march cross country. If I leave my truck here, Team Blue will have an easy a clue to our whereabouts.”

  “OK,” said the hitchhiker.

  “Which we don't want.”

  “I get it!”

  “So drive to New Albany and leave the truck on the main drag, keys under the passenger seat. Can you do that?”

  “Happy to, man.”

  “If you screw up, the Marines will come looking for you. I wouldn't advise it. And stay to the speed limit.”

  The hitchhiker gave Rice a sloppy salute. Rice hit the side of the truck and waved as the kid drove off.

  “I was growing attached to that truck,” said Britt.

  “Not as roomy as I thought. It's like a real Hummer someone washed and it shrunk three sizes.” They both headed west, away from the road, in the direction of the farmhouse. The grain was waist high and still wet from the recent rain.

  Rice pulled the sat phone off the clip on his jacket and hit the power button. He dialed Grace and waited.

  “We'll be delayed,” he said. “Wait there. I’ll call you in thirty.” Then he shut off the phone again and returned it to the clip.

  “This tactic has about a thirty percent chance of being successful.”

  “Yeah, but think about the exercise we're getting,” said Britt.

  “I guess we'll be on satellite coverage now. We've moved up in the world.”

  “My parents would be proud.”

  “The pictures taking by a KH9 satellite aren't contiguous. They’re capable of a shot about every thirty seconds or so. If we're lucky, they won’t be scanning our area or they'll see the hitchhiker disappear and assume we picked him up. Or, if we're not, they'll take a shot just at the point where we're standing on the road as he drives off. One way or the other, we'll know soon enough.”

  They kept plowing through the grain field, their eyes on the old farmhouse.

  “If they know the Zulu idea was a fake, what will they do?” asked Britt.

  “They might just bring in the troops. There's no protection here. It would be over quickly.”

  Britt stopped. Rice turned to her. “It might be a good idea to split up. Less dangerous for you. Throw away the gun and just turn yourself in at the first opportunity.”

  “Think you can make it without me?” she asked.

  “Britt…”

  “Hah. I knew it.”

  “So go.”

  “I can't now.”

  “Why?”

  “I feel like I'd be deserting you.”

  “We should keep moving then.”

  “Not until you tell me.”

  Rice looked up at the sky. The low cloud was heavy with dread and close enough to touch. He grabbed her hand and pulled her forward. Then he told her.

  CHAPTER 105

  OPERATION KINDERGARTEN

  NO ONE REMEMBERS where the exact number one thousand came from.

  And no one gave this particular detail a lot of thought. Such as: What would be required in terms of commitment to fulfill that kind of a horrific promise? Which department would take the mission? Because no one believed it would ever come to that. In their most drug-induced imagination. Ever.

  Kill one thousand children.

  What a monstrous idea.

  And maybe there was something about the scale of the threat that caught people’s imaginations; convinced them slaying anything less than that many toddlers would lack the awful power of ten times ten times ten.

  Strategists believed the message to the other side had to be pure and simple. And the exact number was part of the plan. The magic number one thousand also carried a subtle reference to a well-known Muslim belief: martyrs would go to heaven and enjoy the delights of a dozen virgins for a thousand years. It was always a thousand. Never an eternity, as if that number was too hard to imagine. All devout Muslims knew the promise - although the statement never appears once in the Muslim Holy Scripture, the Koran.

  Which proves marketing trumps dogma any day of the week.

  The message, which was carried often and with great seriousness to every level of the Muslim community, was “if Muslim sanctioned terrorists attack American interests causing significant human loss, the U.S. military will immediately retaliate by killing one thousand Muslim children - the offspring of key terrorist leaders worldwide”.

  Operation Kindergarten was the political equivalent of a Doomsday machine. There could be no reversing the command and justice would be violent and swift.

  Rice had never seen an official file refer to Operation Kindergarten. Or a document that can be requested from the U.S. Government. The threat was always verbal. From President to Ayatollah, from agent to agent and ambassador to clerk. But there was no mistaking the intent.

  As much as the leadership of Al-Qaeda hated American values and despised their imperialistic military actions, they never truly believed the U.S. would follow through on Operation Kindergarten.

  Rice remembered first hearing about the plan from Kreegar.

  “The President is asking us to find a way to keep our promise,” he said. “This threat was made at every level. We will never recover our respect if we lack the resolve. We need to react immediately to the bombing of San Francisco.” Three days before their meeting a splinter group from Al-Qaeda claimed responsibility for the deaths of ten thousand civilians living in the area of what was once the Golden Gate bridge.

  Rice looked at the order. “This is about respect? You know what you're asking? No one signed up for this.” He read the document three more times, partly because his brain wouldn't accept it, and partly because he needed to understand precisely what was being promised.

  “Who made this threat?”

  “Embassy personnel. Our agents in the field. We reached out to clerics. Special field meetings with their commanders. The president to their leadership. Always verbal. Never in writing.”

  “And they understood?”

  “Protocol was they repeat the threat back to us. There is no question they understood the threat.”

  “After San Fran, what happened? Was it mentioned by anyone?”

  “Nothing has been said. They don’t believe we’ll follow through. We’re too weak.”

  Rice stared at the Top Secret document. He was reluctant to ask who would be assigned the mission.

  “Forget your world, Rice. It
doesn't exist anymore. Imagine the future. Your summer home in Maine has effectively been burnt to the ground. All the friends you know are gone. Your brother’s children are dead; the American way of life a distant dream. That is what they want. They want us trampled into the ground and they will die in the millions to make that happen.

  “And we won't fight back. Not the way we need to. They will sacrifice everything to end our civilization. They will blow their bodies to atoms. Their teeth and their bones will be the shrapnel that turns your wife into a red mist. They only care about one thing.

  “I'm 100% right. And what are we doing right now? Americans are watching TV. We don't have a chance against them.

  “But you? You can do something. You can show them we keep our word. Always. That's the only deterrent against the next attack, and the next, and the one after that. You are our only hope.”

  “But what kind of threat is this to make?” Rice said.

  “Something they understand. Something they have done.”

  Rice looked at Kreegar in a new light. What a dangerous looking human, this destroyer of worlds.

  “Have their children gone into hiding?” Rice asked, instantly afraid of the answer.

  “Our intel says no. They are laughing at our weakness.”

  Rice stared at the piece of paper. He wanted to act; he wanted revenge against a cowardly act. He would do anything for his country. But now he was being told by his superior it was his duty to kill hundreds of innocent children.

  CHAPTER 106

  Logan Farmhouse, Ohio River Scenic Byway

  THE FARMHOUSE WAS WELL-MAINTAINED, ancient clapboard neatly painted, new PVC window frames probably installed within the last two years, a broad porch with fresh cedar stain. Hanging from two baskets above the steps up to the porch, recently watered sprays of Alyssums.

  Rice and Britt stepped across the deck, listening for movement inside. Rice knew houses breathed; they had a presence that reflected the life going on inside. Every sound, every motion, communicated something. A radio turned to a particular station, or a stereo playing a CD conveyed a specific emotion; nostalgia, excitement, drama, sorrow. The sounds of activity - cooking, power tools, a vacuum cleaner, a chainsaw - these all meant something. In this case, neither of them could hear or see any signs of life inside. Although something about the yard and the time of day told them someone was home.