Seek and Destroy

by William C. Dietz

After being outsmarted, and very nearly killed inside the Metrocenter Mall, Victoria felt a wide range of emotions including sorrow, shame, and embarrassment. And her commanding officer’s scathing critique of the operation added to her misery. Because, even though she didn’t like or respect Colonel Oxley, she’d been raised to respect authority figures, so his opinion mattered.

  The strength of some emotions had started to fade, but one burned bright. And that was an intense anger directed toward Nathan Hale. The anger could have been corrosive. But for Victoria, it was like the oxygen a fire requires in order to burn.

  Every day was a workday. Not just for Victoria, but for her team, including the soldiers brought in to replace Post and Tarvin. Thanks to the photos Tarvin had taken during the minutes prior to her death, investigators had something to work with. Hale was disguised as a woman. But, by subjecting the images to computer analysis, Victoria’s techs had been able to render an image that they believed to be a good match to Hale’s actual appearance.

  So far, so good. But what was Hale’s actual identity? Victoria had a theory about that. Rather than the home-grown resistance fighter he claimed to be, Victoria thought Hale was a member of the Union’s military-intelligence apparatus. An army officer? Quite possibly.

  The next step was to use facial-recognition software to compare the new image with prewar photos of the country’s military officers. All of which were available thanks to a predisaster Department of Defense database that both sides had copies of.

  It took the computer two minutes and forty-two seconds to produce seven possibles, each graded according to the degree of match. It was tempting to focus on the top three at the expense of the others, but Victoria demanded that the team be more systematic than that.

  The evaluation consumed three days. According to articles from northern publications, three of the possibles had been killed in action. That didn’t mean they were actually dead, however, since the Union’s Intel people could have planted the articles in hopes that the Confederacy would believe them.

  Still, odds were that the reports were accurate. And, since one of the men was being held in a Confederate POW camp and another was African-American, only two candidates remained. One was a captain named Gregory Salazar. The other was a major named Thomas Toby. Both had dark hair, green eyes, and even features. But Victoria had a hunch that Salazar and Hale were one and the same.

  That was a subjective judgment, to say the least, and one she didn’t share. Rather than do so, Victoria ordered the team to look for factors that would help to narrow the choice. And after days of hard work, they found it. Two years earlier, while attending staff college, Salazar had written a paper titled: “The Role of Military Intelligence During a Civil Insurrection.”

  According to the scenario that Salazar and his classmates had been ordered to address, a loosely linked alliance of right-wing hate groups, religious fanatics, and gun nuts had taken control of Texas and Oklahoma, producing a conflict similar to the one that was under way. And the tactics that Salazar put forward bore a strong resemblance to those that Hale was using. That included the creation of a unit designed to target teams like hers!

  Once the focus was on Salazar, the effort to find him began. It turned out that Salazar had been raised in Wichita. And some of his relatives, including his sister, were placed under surveillance. Would Salazar visit her? All they could do was wait and see. But, when the break finally came, it was more a matter of luck than skill.

  There had been a burglary two doors down from what proved to be a Union safe house. And as the police went door to door looking for witnesses, they asked neighbors to provide footage from their security cameras, footage that was dumped into a police database and scanned with facial-recognition software. The computer contained wants and warrants on thousands of people, including one Gregory Salazar. Military intelligence was notified of the “hit,” and that led Victoria’s team to the safe house.

  “Heads up,” Sergeant Fray said. “We have a possible.” Fray was an experienced operative and Tarvin’s replacement. He was sitting behind the steering wheel staring out through the rain-smeared glass.

  Victoria leaned forward. “What have you got?”

  “A car circled the block twice,” Fray answered. “And now it’s back.”

  Victoria felt her pulse quicken. That’s how a pro would play it. Even though Salazar might feel reasonably safe, he’d be wary. So, rather than pull into the driveway right away, he would circle the block, looking for anything out of the ordinary. And Victoria felt confident that there was nothing about the van that would trigger his suspicions. Victoria opened her mike as the car slowed. “Cooper? Do you read me? Over.”

  “Five by five.”

  “He’s about to pull in. Get ready.”

  “Roger that. Over.”

  Cooper and two other operatives had been living in the house for five days, waiting for this moment. Victoria watched the garage door open as the car backed in. A small detail but one that was consistent with her hypothesis. Who, other than a pro, would back in? Thereby making ready to depart in a hurry.

  The headlights went off as the door closed. Victoria held her breath as light appeared in the windows. The interior of the house was lousy with security cameras. Cameras that Salazar could check prior to visiting the house. What the Union operators didn’t realize was that their outgoing feed had been hijacked and replaced with a loop.

  Victoria heard a burb of static, followed by Cooper’s voice. “We have him.”

  Victoria felt a flood of relief. “Search him for weapons, suicide paraphernalia, and trackers. And look everywhere.”

  Cooper sounded hurt. “Of course. We’re on it.”

  Victoria turned to Fray. “Keep a sharp lookout. If you see anything even remotely suspicious, let me know. I’m going in.”

  Corporal Hamad opened the front door for her. According to the official records, the house belonged to a woman named Deborah Lee, although Victoria figured that the safe house was actually the property of the Union government.

  The interior was decorated fifties style, with sixties lamps and brightly colored plastic chairs. Salazar had been stripped and taped into one of them. He sat with his legs spread. It was a psychological ploy for the most part, a way to make him feel vulnerable, but it had practical value as well since there was the possibility that something was hidden in Salazar’s groin. A tech was running her fingers over the surface of his skin, searching for subdural implants.

  “Victoria,” Salazar said conversationally. “This is a surprise. Please excuse me if I don’t get up.”

  Salazar was frightened. Victoria could see it in his eyes. She was about to reply when the tech beat her to it. “Hmm . . . What’s this? An implant, if I’m not mistaken. It’s high up on the inside surface of his left thigh.”

  “Cut it out,” Victoria ordered. “Let’s see what we have.”

  Salazar winced, and blood dripped onto the white rug as the tech made the necessary incision. “Here we go,” the tech said, as she applied pressure to both sides of the cut.

  Victoria watched with interest as a bloody blob popped out and knew that it was either a suicide capsule or a distress beacon. The kind Salazar could activate by squeezing it. But Salazar hadn’t had an opportunity to do so, which meant he was on his own. “Good work,” she said. “Keep looking. There could be a backup.”

  The search continued for another five minutes but with no success. “Patch him up,” Victoria ordered, “and get him dressed. We’re leaving.”

  It took half an hour to transfer Salazar to a Confederate safe house. Three days of interrogation followed. Who did he work for? Who did he work with? And what operations were currently under way? On and on it went but with only limited success. First, because Salazar was one tough cookie. Second, because he answered most of their questions with lies . . . And third, because the Union Underground w
as highly compartmentalized. Odds were that Salazar didn’t know who he was working for, and the only operations Salazar had knowledge of were his own.

  Still, there were bits and pieces that, when combined with other intelligence, might add up to something. Now, as the van drove out into the countryside, Salazar was passed out in his seat. Or was he? It didn’t matter. The shackles on his wrists and ankles would prevent a surprise attack.

  The van cleared the suburbs, passed between green fields, and crossed a bridge. A graveled road led up onto the summit of a hill topped with a cell-phone tower and a scattering of beer cans. A well-known spot, then, a place where the locals could party.

  The persistent cloud cover prevented the air from being warm—but it was a pleasant day by postimpact standards. Cooper got out of the van first. He was wearing a black hood and armed with a suppressed assault rifle. The agent brought the weapon up and fired a burst at the cell tower’s security camera. Maybe the phone company would notify the police, and maybe they wouldn’t. Victoria didn’t care. They’d be gone by the time someone arrived to investigate.

  Victoria got out of the van and made her way over to the east side of the hill. A farmhouse was visible below, and a party was under way. Two dozen adults and four children could be seen. They looked like ants viewed from above.

  Victoria sensed movement and turned to find that Salazar had arrived. His face was bruised, one eye was swollen shut, and his upper lip was swollen. Torture doesn’t work. That’s what the experts claimed, but Victoria wasn’t so sure. So the beatings had been part of the overall mix, along with sleep deprivation and loud music.

  Salazar’s head was hanging low, so Victoria forced it up. “Look downhill, turd blossom . . . Do you recognize the house?”

  “It’s my sister’s house,” Salazar said thickly.

  “Very good,” Victoria said. “And the people? Who are they?”

  Salazar frowned, winced, and swallowed. “My family.”

  “That’s right . . . We tapped your sister’s phone. Today is your niece’s birthday.”

  A look of horror appeared on Salazar’s face. “You wouldn’t.”

  “Oh, but I would. You killed my family . . . My military family. So I’m going to kill yours. Fair is fair. Look up into the sky. See the drone? It’s armed with a Hellfire missile.”

  “No, please,” Salazar said desperately. “Don’t do it!”

  “Too late,” Victoria said, as the missile struck. A loud boom was heard as the house was transformed into a ball of yellow-orange fire. Pieces of debris soared high into the air, a car performed a backflip, and black smoke billowed up to stain the sky.

  Salazar attacked her then . . . or tried to. But Cooper was ready and kicked the agent behind a knee. Salazar fell into a sobbing heap.

  Victoria felt better. Much better. Her honor had been restored. She smiled. “Load him into the van. Maybe the people in Houston can sweat some more information out of him. Oh, and call 911 . . . Tell them that a house went boom.”

  THE MIDWEST JOINT REGIONAL CORRECTION FACILITY

  FORT LEAVENWORTH, KANSAS

  Mac’s feet were on her bunk, her hands were on the cement floor, and she was doing push-ups. She counted them out. “Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty.” A full set. The first of what would be six sets by the end of the day. To stay in shape? No. To get in better shape. Why? To make progress. To control something if only by a little. Because the JRCF’s jailers dictated everything else, including what Mac ate, when she showered, and with whom she could mix, which was to say no one. Mac had been told that social privileges would come later, after the induction process was over.

  She stood. Her cell consisted of eighty square feet, thirty-five of which were classified as “usable.” The rest was occupied by the bunk, a desk/seat combo, and storage space. There was a window, too, with a magnificent view of a parking lot. Mac sighed. Three weeks down and 205 left to go.

  Mac knew she shouldn’t dwell on the length of her sentence. So to avoid that, she spent a lot of mental time elsewhere. And reading books was a good way to accomplish that. Not just as a means to escape, but as a way to exert control over what would and would not be allowed to enter her head.

  Sit-ups came next. Six hundred a day, and Mac was busy working her way through the first set when the guards came for her. There were two MPs, and both had their game faces on. “Get up,” the tall one ordered. “You’re going for a stroll.”

  Mac got up off the floor. “Where to?”

  “The multi,” the short MP answered. “Multi” being shorthand for the prison’s multipurpose building.

  “What for?”

  “Who the hell knows?” the taller of the two replied. “Maybe they need a hero to mop the floor.”

  That produced a guffaw from the short soldier. “That’s a good one, Hawkins, you’re funny.”

  Mac had heard such comments before and was careful to maintain a straight face. Pushback, no matter how minor, could trigger a hundred subtle forms of revenge. “You know the drill,” Shorty added. “Let’s get on with it.”

  Mac backed up to the bars, stuck her hands through the waist-high hole, and waited for the cuffs to go on. Once she heard the telltale click, Mac took two steps forward. A clanking sound was heard as the door slid open. “Okay,” the tall MP said. “Turn around and step out.”

  With an MP on either side of her, Mac was escorted outside for the short walk to the multi. It housed food service, medical/dental, and the prison’s administrative offices. Mac figured she had been summoned for inoculations or something. But that theory went out the window as the MPs led her into the administrative area of the building. Her attorney was still fighting to get her sentence reduced. Or so he claimed. Had something gone wrong? Were they going to tell her that? Mac felt the first stirrings of fear.

  They hadn’t gone far when Mac was handed off to a couple of men in civilian clothes. Criminal investigators? That was her best guess. They led Mac to a door marked COMMANDER. Holy shit! She was going in front of the man . . . or the woman, as the case might be. And that was a bad thing.

  One of the agents opened the door for her, and the other one told Mac to enter. No words were spoken as they hustled her through an empty waiting room and past a middle-aged receptionist. The door to the office was open, and the room was empty. “Have a seat,” one of the agents said. “You might have to wait for a while.”

  The comment proved to be prophetic. Fifteen interminable minutes passed as Mac sat and waited for what? There was no way to know. But eventually she heard the sound of voices, followed by a commotion out in the hall, and movement behind her. “Remove her cuffs,” a female voice ordered. “And wait outside.”

  Mac felt the handcuffs come off and turned to see that a lieutenant colonel was standing a few feet away. The woman nodded. “I’m Commander Omada . . . It was nice to meet you.” And with that, she was gone.

  Mac was still trying to make sense of the comment when President Samuel Sloan entered the office. He grinned. “Hi, Mac . . . It’s good to see you.”

  Mac was both dumbfounded and embarrassed by the prison outfit. She came to her feet. “What are you doing here?”

  “I wanted to deliver the news myself,” Sloan told her. “I pardoned you.”

  Mac couldn’t believe her ears. “You what?”

  “I pardoned you effective 0800 this morning, and I promoted you to major.”

  “No,” Mac said. “You can’t! You shouldn’t. Don’t you understand? People will believe that the gossip is true! The scandal will bring you down.”

  Sloan smiled. “You look pretty when you’re worried. Of course, you look pretty the rest of the time, too.”

  “It’s not a joke,” Mac said emphatically. “The country needs you.”

  “And they need you,” Sloan countered. “Putting one of our most promising officers in the slammer
for refusing an order from a man with severe PTSD was just plain stupid. And that’s what I’ll tell the press. A version of it, anyway. More than that, I’m going to announce the creation of a new cavalry battalion called Mac’s Marauders! It will consist of military prisoners chosen by you. There will be a tremendous ruckus at first . . . But after the dust settles, people will love it! You’ll have to deliver, though, or it could bring me down.”

  Mac’s head was spinning. “But what about the rumors?”

  Sloan’s expression hardened. “I will challenge the press to produce a single photo, or a credible individual, who witnessed any sort of romantic activity between us—and tell them to shut the hell up until they do. Unfortunately, that means I won’t be able to take you to dinner, ply you with alcohol, and seduce you as quickly as I had hoped to.”

  Mac smiled in spite of herself. “That’s how it was going to play out?”

  “Of course,” Sloan replied. “I’m irresistible.”

  Mac laughed. “We’ll see about that . . . After you leave office.”

  Sloan’s eyes were locked with hers. “You promise?”

  “I promise.”

  Sloan forced a smile. “Good. That’s settled then. A supply sergeant has a full set of uniforms waiting for you. Put one on and get ready . . . You and General Brady will join me at the press conference.”

  Sloan left after that, and Mac was led to a nearby office, where a supply sergeant was waiting for her. She was fortysomething and sporting a buzz cut. “Good morning, ma’am. Please remove what you’re wearing—and put your camos on. Let’s see how you look.”

  Mac did as she was told. She’d lost a couple of pounds while in prison, but the camos fit well. So well that she knew they’d been tailored. Someone wanted her to look sharp. Sloan? Or one of his handlers? None of whom were likely to support the president’s initiative.

  Mac could imagine the kind of objections they’d have. Why buy trouble? Don’t you have enough of it already? And the obvious answer was yes, he sure as hell did.