“Venezuela is another story. Your new friend, Hugo, is claiming that he is having mechanical problems. All the while, he’s demanding that the bank credits be transferred,” Bascome explained the delay.
“You get that son of a bitch on the horn, and tell him he doesn’t see a dime until he produces at least ten tankers full of gas, and it had better be the kind we can use. You tell that son of a bitch we know all about what he pulled with Argentina earlier this year. He sent them several tankers full of watered-down gas that wouldn’t burn. We will be checking every tanker before we pay, and he had better live up to his agreement, or I’ll stick a cruise missile up his ass so far there won’t be shit left to identify him with!” the President bellowed, acting out his usual tirade, expecting Bascome to perform miracles.
Jason Combs acted like he was reading a report and didn’t bother to make eye contact after that comment.
“Yes, sir. I’ll work with the State Department on this issue, and we’ll do all we can to insure that Hugo follows through with the contract,” Bascome replied, then made notes in his leather-bound folder.
“Is there anything else I have to handle for you two or can I call it night?” the president asked in a condescending tone.
“Mmmmm…” Jason cleared his throat. “Uh…yes, sir. There are several other issues we need to discuss. One of them is the proposal to nationalize the Internet. The new request is from John Massey over at Homeland Security. He is also proposing amending the Patriot Act to allow for unlimited wiretaps without court authorization.
“He feels strongly that the Federal Court System in most communities has been compromised. He believes there are either actual agents of foreign countries who have compromised employees, or the actual agent is employed directly by the courts. He feels the main area of infiltration has been the court’s computer and communication systems. He has discovered several dozen suspected leaks that have compromised the court’s ability to function properly, and several high profile cases have had their evidence compromised.
“The Supreme Court is the only court at this time using the Kilauea encryption system. Despite an all-out effort to negotiate for a price break from Kilauea Corp, we’ve not been able to get Steven Howard to budge on a nationwide court encryption system.”
“Again, Steven Howard. That man has this country by the balls, and he’s squeezing for all it’s worth. He won’t be happy until he steals every last dime from the American taxpayers. In fact, I want ads running to that effect within forty-eight hours. Be sure to include that damn senator from Georgia, too, what the hell is her name?”
“That would be Senator Bains,” Jason said.
“Make sure that the ad says they are best friends and that she is doing all she can to protect him from Congressional scrutiny.”
“I’ll run it in her district and the major markets across the country,” Jason replied.
“Roger, any ideas how to stop Howard?” the president asked.
“I’d have to think about that, sir. It appears we’ll be stuck with him until he either dies of old age or has a tragic accident,” Roger suggested.
Jason stopped writing and looked at Bascome. Was he suggesting that they somehow arrange to have Howard killed? The three sat silent for a few moments before the president spoke.
“I doubt we could get that lucky. We’ll need to bide our time and see what presents itself. In the meantime, let’s start having our union friends picket his factories and offices. Let’s also start having the unions harass his employees. You know, start pressing to unionize his work force. If we can’t shut him up, let’s do all we can to make his life a living hell. Be sure to have the media cover every little protest. Hey, do you think we might be able to get protests started overseas, as well? Let’s check into that.”
Starks stopped for a moment and when neither Bascome nor Combs interjected, he continued. “Okay, put anything we didn’t get to in the morning briefing paper. I’m out of here. You guys should try and get some sleep sometime,” the president stated. He stood and headed for the door of the Oval Office.
Combs, thinking he was being cute, looked at Bascome and said, “Sleep is highly overrated.”
CHAPTER FIVE
“What took you so long?” Tom asked when Ron finally showed back at the hotel late in the afternoon.
“Sorry about that. There’s been a slight change of plans, and it took all day to confirm what they wanted us to do,” Ron explained.
“Oh, like what?” Tom asked. “I didn’t get any messages.”
“The boss asked to me to deliver it,” Ron stated. “The Feds have decided to let the Israelis pick up our friend rather than us getting involved with both the Feds and the Israelis. The boss says we’re to sit tight until we see what develops. If they manage to collect our friend, we’ll move on to the main man, the cell leader. Unfortunately, we’re gonna have to kill some time while we wait to see what happens. It probably won’t be more than a day or two before we know.”
“So, what? We get a tour of Kilauea Corp’s Israeli headquarters and check out the zoo?” Tom asked sarcastically, doing his best not to scream. This was his mission, and he didn’t like sharing any part of command, especially with a clown like Ron. But what really pissed him off was this hurry up and wait crap.
“Yeah, sure, and we’ll grab some dinner on the way,” Ron understood Tom’s frustration all too well. He hated the waiting game, too. To take the team’s mind off the wait, he took them to dinner at an extremely ritzy and expensive French restaurant. They were treated to the absolute best that Kilauea Corp’s credit card could buy. Finally, seven courses and eight bottles of wine later, dinner ended, and the team rolled themselves out to the Suburban and poured themselves in. It was ten o’clock.
“I guess the tour is off until tomorrow?” Tom asked snidely.
Ron started the SUV and drove out of the parking lot.
“Hell, no!” Ron shot back as if startled by the suggestion. “This is the perfect time to do the tour. Most of the day shift has gone home, and the best part of the office is just getting their work day started. You get to have front row seats for tonight’s games.”
“Games?” Tom asked.
“It’s not every night that you get to watch the Israelis demonstrate why they are the most feared military in the Middle East,” Ron stated. He was clearly excited by the chance to watch the Israelis in action.
“How are we going to do that?” Tom asked.
“We get all the satellite channels in the employee lounge. Just wait and see,” Ron assured him.
“You watch the Israelis?” Steve asked, having overheard the conversation from the back seat. The rest of the team fell silent, waiting to hear what Ron had to say.
“No, that wouldn’t be fair or friendly. We watch everyone. It’s very lucrative for the company. Uncle Sam pays very well.” Ron paused ever so briefly before he added, “That’s not for broadcast.” Everyone nodded understanding.
“But how can you do that without them finding out?” Pam asked.
“We are Kilauea Corp. We’ve built the computers and the satellites that most countries use. How do you think we do it? You can keep that to yourself, too, okay? They can’t find us because we’re in so deep they think we are the system. Oh, yeah, we are!”
“Steven Howard is a real genius, like Einstein. We’re a good twenty years ahead of the other guys, and we just keep upgrading. If Howard wanted to, he could control the world. We’re lucky as hell he’s a very decent man and more honest than Honest Abe ever thought of being,” Ron gushed, speaking about the man he worked for and his computers.
“Does that mean Kilauea is in the U.S. computers, too?” asked Mike.
“Kilauea makes the computer encryption systems for almost everyone on the planet. Anyone who doesn’t use the Kilauea systems uses outdated systems and under-powered protection programs, or they use the net. Any way they do it, they are wide open to anyone who knows how and where to look. Who do you
think thought up Carnivore for NSA and Mindmeld for DOD? Steven Howard, that’s who.”
“Mindmeld?” asked Alex. The rest of the team turned their heads in unison to listen, not having heard of that one before.
“Did I say that? I was just kidding. That’s not for broadcast, either,” Ron smirked at Tom, who rolled his eyes.
“So that’s how the boss can claim to have the best intelligence in the world. I’d thought he had an in with the CIA or NSA,” Tom stated.
“Well, in a way we do; we work for them and yet, we don’t work for them, understand? It’s a crazy world, and it keeps getting crazier. One side asks us to spy for them. Then the other asks us to spy for them. We turn them both down and charge outrageous fees to teach the computer geeks from both sides how to hack some of the minor systems of the other, and we’re considered a valuable asset by both. In the meantime, we save the best stuff for the good old US of A, which only we know how to use. You pick the alphabet agency, and I’ve worked with them in my capacity as Middle East Liaison over the last two years. It’s been one agency after another doing, you know, ah…field training.
“I know you guys are brand new to the game, but I’m glad you’re here, because the men in black aren’t too reliable; too many bosses, too many agendas,” Ron finally stopped talking for a moment to catch his breath. Everyone sat quietly, thinking about what he had told them.
“Hey, what do you know? We’re here.” Ron turned into a long drive, over three quarters of a kilometer long, which lead to the Kilauea Corp’s building in the suburban Tel Aviv city of Rishon. Here the urban sprawl was thinner, allowing Kilauea to spread a defensive perimeter all the way around its headquarters building. After a couple hundred yards, they arrived at a gatehouse with a large, heavy steel gate. Ron flashed his ID, and they were allowed to enter the compound.
Kilauea Corp’s office tower was an all-glass structure, twenty-four stories tall, with a copper frame erected over the top of the glass skin of the building. Ron explained why as they walked through the parking garage.
“The copper cage over top of the building is designed to disrupt electronic energy waves, thus preventing anyone from eavesdropping through the glass. As a result, the building is dead to outside microwave-based listening devices. The windows also have a special coating, for lack of a better understanding by me, that causes glares and color spikes on any type of recording media. No one can film anything through them. The windows are dampened to reduce vibrations, in case someone figured out a way to actually attach a listening device that utilizes vibrations.”
“That’s quite impressive,” Pam stated.
Steve asked, “How does something like that work?
“I couldn’t tell you,” Ron replied, then added, “I’m just hired muscle like you.”
Each member of the team was issued a visitor’s pass at the main entrance. They rode the elevator to the third sub-level. Ron explained that by inputting his code and inserting his key in the door lock, the elevator register over the door would show that they had ridden the elevator up to the seventeenth floor. It was just a little misdirection in case anyone was trying to track them on foot. With a grin, he stated that only a few people working there had keys that would allow entrance to the sub-floors, indicating that they should feel privileged to enter the Middle Eastern nerve center for the corporation.
Upon exiting the elevator, the team was met by two armed guards seated in a room with metal walls. The elevator door behind them was the only apparent entry point. The two guards were seated in a Plexiglas booth with a pass through, similar to what you might find in an American inner-city convenience store. They checked everyone’s ID a second time, showing each one to a camera mounted on the wall. An electronic wand extended from the opposite wall and gave the team the once over, searching for listening and recording devices, or for any weapons not declared.
Once the guards were satisfied that everyone was authorized and no one was carrying any hidden devices, the rear wall of the room slid to the side with a slight hissing sound. What lay before the team was a fantasy world for nerds.
Ron spread his arms and asked, “So, what do you think of Kilauea Security’s Middle East Command Center?
No one spoke as they checked out the huge room. There were banks of monitors on every wall, with three or four dozen people working in cubicles at terminals and talking over the top of each other into headsets. If the team hadn’t known where they were, this could have passed for a call center anywhere on the planet, filled with telemarketers selling those ever so necessary items like the magic wash cloth, the spray on/wipe off hair removal gel, and a thousand other must have items.
Ron motioned for the others to follow him as he crossed the room to a side anteroom, which required his key for entry. He quickly shepherded the team into the room away from the noise and confusion of the nerve center.
The room was dark as they entered, but as the door closed behind them, a soft twilight glow became apparent. Gradually, the light level increased to soft, white daylight intensity. On the far wall was a bank of four monitors with two rows of comfortable looking recliners in front of them.
Off to the side was a serving table on which sat all sorts of American soda drinks, American beer, fruit juices and even an Israeli beer chilling in trays of crushed ice. The Israeli beer was called the Dancing Camel. It featured a camel in a tutu standing on its rear legs, dancing. Steve wondered if this really was a beer produced in Israel. After all, the Israelis are big wine drinkers due to religious grounds, making hard liquor and beer the odd men out. But Ron assured him that, yes, it was Israeli beer, and it wasn’t half bad. Next to the drinks were plates holding some finger sandwiches and snacks.
“Hey, feel free to help yourselves to the food and drinks,” Ron told them, but no one bothered. They were still full after the wonderful French meal.
“Go ahead and take a seat. The show should be starting anytime now,” Ron suggested. “Once the Israelis are in position and they receive the operational go, then the live feed will kick in and we’ll be able to follow their ten man strike team as they capture David Ashrawl. The target is in the town of Nablus in the West Bank. He’s hiding out in a building right next door to the al-Aqsa Martyrs Brigade Headquarters building,” Ron stated, sitting down in the last row behind the team.
“The target is used as guest quarters by the Brigade,” Ron explained. “The informants pinpointed that location early this morning, and the Israelis decided to move on it tonight. The headquarters building next door is heavily defended, but the guest quarters, not so much.
“The Israelis are going in using whisper quiet helicopter gunships. They’ll use them to suppress any fire from the headquarters building by firing several rockets into the building prior to the strike team rappelling down to the roof of the guest house. The strike team will then breach the roof via a stairway at the rear of the guest house, while the gunships continue to suppress enemy fire in the headquarters and the surrounding buildings.
“Once the strike team has entered the building,” Ron stated, “they will do a quick search for Ashrawl then bring him back to the chopper where they will load him up.
“Once they’ve lifted off and are headed for home, two choppers will remain behind to limit the possible back-sniping that the Palestinians love to do during the final phase of an extraction. Yeah, those guys like to take shots at you as you’re leaving while you have your back to them,” Ron explained, sounding like he had been part of the planning team.
“So, do you get paid extra to plan their attacks for them?” Alex asked.
“It sounds like a scene from some Hollywood movie,” Groomwald said.
“Maybe I should ask for a consulting fee,” Ron deadpanned. “Okay, here we go.” The room lights automatically dimmed as the screen flickered to life.
“We’ll be watching the feed from a geo-sat that has been re-tasked to give us, or rather the guys in Washington, a clear view of the operation. If we’re lu
cky, we’ll get some views from the gunships themselves. The Israelis like to have actual footage from the battle to study for future training.” The clock on the wall showed it was just after eleven thirty at night.
CHAPTER SIX
“It is time to go!” Ahmed yelled, bursting through the door of the bedroom where Ashrawl was sleeping. It was just after eleven thirty, local time. Ashrawl took several moments to push the sleep away before asking, “What is happening?”
“No questions! Hurry and get dressed, it is time to go!” Ahmed yelled again, giving Ashrawl a withering gaze while he loaded Ashrawl’s luggage into his arms.
“I need my black suitcase. Where’s my luggage?” Ashrawl asked, pulling on his pants as he looked around the room for his shirt and shoes.
“I have your luggage. Now, move it before they arrive and you end up dead!” Ahmed shouted. He stepped into the hallway, looking both ways before heading to the stairs.
“Are the Israelis here?” Ashrawl called out as he slipped his shoes on and stumbled after Ahmed.
“Shut up! Follow me, quickly,” Ahmed turned and walked briskly down the hall, Ashrawl’s luggage tucked under one arm. When he reached the stairs, he threw open the door banging it loudly against the wall. He gave a fleeting glance back to be sure his charge was following, then bounded down the stairs as quickly as he could.
Ashrawl stumbled down the hallway, trying to slip his shirt on and run at the same time. A look of terror was etched upon his face.
At the bottom of the stairs, Ahmed was waiting for Ashrawl. He held up his hand for him to stop. Slowly, Ahmed opened the door and peeked into the dark parking garage. Several moments passed as he listened closely for any sound that should not be there. With his patience low and his fear high, Ashrawl started to speak. Before he could do more than draw a breath, Ahmed turned and cut him off with a look that could have killed.
Reprisal!- The Gauntlet Page 4
