Targeted Killing

by Rick Jones

  “Standard procedures are in place for a reason,” countered Cooper. “They work. And it’ll work this time. Hayden is as good as dead.”

  “He better be,” said the senator. “I want his body dropped in the ocean somewhere between Malta and Sicily. Somewhere deep where he’ll never be found.”

  “Don’t make this personal.”

  Another hammering of the senator’s fist against the desktop. “Damn it, Coop, this man cannot get the chance to open his mouth to anyone who will listen.”

  “Don’t you think he would’ve by now—to someone—after learning that he was being targeted in order to save himself?”

  “And that’s what bothers me most,” said Rhames. Deep inside the senator knew that Kimball was making a personal statement. He was clearly spelling out his actions to the senator that he was going to bring this war of carnage to the senator’s door in D.C. Once there, then he would make a final statement of his own, probably with a bullet to the head.

  Senator Rhames was already beginning to feel the pressure. Kimball Hayden was an unstoppable machine who could kill with all the wooden emotions of a tree stump. More so, he would take his show on the road because he felt entitled to do so, after realizing that the senator was the one backing the hit. He was sure that Kimball Hayden felt entitled to return the favor.

  Rhames closed his eyes.

  “Senator.” It was Cooper from the screen. “Everything all right?”

  The senator opened his eyes. “Find him, Coop. I think he knows I sanctioned the targeted killing . . .” He let his words hang. Then: “Just . . . find him.” Then he killed the feed.

  The senator fell back into his seat and sat completely idle as if caught in the grip of paralytic terror. Kimball Hayden had now become the hunter, and those within the Special Activities Division his prey.

  Senator Rhames knew he couldn’t call upon the protection of the Secret Service without divulging the reason why, which was the illegal sanctioning of a U.S. political hit and its subsequent cover-up. Nor could he explain his actions for the upcoming event of the Malta bombing, an act of terrorism, though he believed it to be an act for the greater good.

  After a long moment of thought, the senator reached into the drawer of his desk, pulled out a Desert Eagle 50-caliber, and sat it on top of his desk. Powerful enough to stop a bull in its tracks, he considered. But was it enough to stop a man like Kimball Hayden?

  He continued to sit there, staring at the gleam of its barrel.

  And he continued to wonder.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  The Situation Room

  Washington, D.C.

  Early Morning Hours

  When Shepherd One touched down at the Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport, Father Auciello and Cardinal Calcagno were duly greeted by members of the staff, then transported in an armored SUV through a White House checkpoint.

  Both men were escorted through the hallways and metal detectors, both clean as expected, and headed for the Situation Room where President Burroughs and company awaited them.

  Beside Burroughs sat the ruling heads of his national security team that included the seven members of the Joint Chiefs: the Army Chief of staff, the chief of naval operations, the Air Force chief of staff, the commandant of the Marine Corps., the chief of the National Guard Bureau, and the chairman and vice chairman of the Joint Chiefs. Also present for this session was the attorney general, secretary of state, and the directors of the NSA, DIA and FBI.

  As soon as the door closed softly behind the Vatican emissaries, President Burroughs got to his feet, the man fully dressed in a neatly pressed suit, then indicated the two vacant chairs to his left, as an invitation to take the seats.

  Cardinal Calcagno was carrying a relatively thick file, whereas Father Auciello was holding an electronic tablet that was much larger and thicker than any of the market versions.

  “It’s truly an honor, Mr. President,” said Calcagno, sitting. “I see we have a full house today.”

  President Burroughs went around the room introducing his staff to the clerics. Then: “The delicate matter at hand,” stated Burroughs, “you said was of national security.”

  The cardinal nodded. “Do you know a man by the name of Kimball Hayden?”

  The president appeared to think this over carefully before answering. “Can’t say that I do. No.”

  “But you do know Senator Cartwright and the circumstances surrounding his death many years ago.”

  Burroughs nodded. “Of course. He was murdered—presumably—during a robbery. Why?”

  Cardinal Calcagno reached into his file and grabbed the dossier that had been appropriated from CIA computer archives, and proffered them to the president. In the upper left hand corner of the first document was the CIA seal, the record itself stamped as TS. It was obvious to Burroughs that the file was CIA property.

  Burroughs held up the first page of the dossier. “You mind telling me how you came about this personal file, which happens to be the property of the Central Intelligence Agency? You do know that front-door intrusion to CIA classified information is a violation of the Intelligence Accord, correct?”

  “We understand that, Mr. President,” stated the cardinal evenly. “But before you come to a conclusion as to whether or not our conduct in this matter was unjust, I must outline the reasons behind the appropriation of the data we offer you. Then you can make your judgment.”

  President Burroughs looked at the man on the top page of the photo: Kimball Hayden. “Go on,” he said.

  “The photo of the man you see before you,” began Father Auciello. “is the man who assassinated Senator John Cartwright several years ago under the direction of the United States government. He was a wetwork operative working under the direct orders from members of the United States Senate and a Joint Chief.”

  The president literally appeared stunned. “You’re telling me . . . that Senator Cartwright’s murder was a planned hit by certain U.S. principals in the Senate?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m telling you,” returned Auciello. “And that man in the photo before you, Kimball Hayden, is the one who carried out the operation.”

  The president looked over the faces of his staff. This bombshell hit them all, this sudden revelation like a stunning blow to the Solar Plexus that seemed to knock the wind out of them.

  “And you have proof of this right here in these files?” asked Burroughs.

  “Taken directly from the hardcopy file which had been transferred electronically to the CIA library, as of two days ago. And a file appropriated by the SIV.”

  What Burroughs had before him was unquestionable. The United States government had sanctioned a hit on a United States senator, then wove a fictional tale to cover up the truth. Burroughs was feeling nothing, the man muted emotionally. Then: “Why are you telling me this?” he asked.

  “That man in the photo,” said the cardinal, “is a prized asset of the Vatican . . . And he’s recently become the subject of a targeted killing by the CIA’s Special Activities Division. As soon as it had been learned by certain political principals that he was still alive when they believed him dead years ago, an order of termination had been created. In fact, Hayden’s empty grave lies in Arlington, a posthumous burial with a hollow casket as homage to his services to his country.”

  “You’re giving sanctuary to a known assassin?” Burroughs asked the cardinal.

  “No,” said Cardinal Calcagno with little inflection to the measure of his voice. “We’re giving him the chance of seeking redemption for the actions of his past. You see, Mr. President, Kimball Hayden has been spending the past several years trying to exorcise the demons that your government so aptly instilled in him.”

  Burroughs went through the file page by page, learning about this man Kimball Hayden. The secret he held was damning, especially at a time when the culture of the nation was mistrusting their current government. In his mind he understood the nature of the hit, knew that a cover
-up was needed in order to keep a devastating secret from resurrecting.

  Burroughs, however, appeared to be at moral crossroads. Though he understood the reason behind the measure, he disagreed with the initial order that sanctioned the termination of a reigning politician.

  “This man,” began the cardinal, “who seeks salvation in the Light of our Lord, is not to be harmed in any way. The Vatican respectfully requests that you call off your team.” There was a beat before Calcagno continued: “His past is his shame,” he added. “One he would like to forget rather than expose. So please, let Kimball Hayden find his way to Redemption in peace.”

  “If he’s being labeled as a targeted killing, Cardinal, I assure you I know nothing about this, which means it’s under the ruling of a black operation by the CIA, if the Special Activities is involved. I’m assuming in Rome or the Vatican?”

  The cardinal nodded. “In Malta.”

  Burroughs continued to pour over the reports quickly. A recognizable name came up often, a man who had become ingrained as an institution as much as the institution itself. “If what you say is true about these documents,” he hesitated, choosing his words carefully, words he knew would pain him deeply. “If this is true, then you’re bringing to light the fact that it was Senator Rhames who conscripted this man Kimball Hayden to murder Senator Cartwright.”

  “It appears, Mr. President, that Senator Rhames is a man of great ambition, but also one with little or no moral compass to guide him.”

  “And you have additional evidence to back this up?”

  The cardinal nodded. Then he handed the floor to Father Auciello.

  Father Auciello leaned forward in his seat. “Mr. President, please understand that Pope John Paul the Third is a deep admirer of you and your administration, that’s the first thing I need to press upon you. Secondly, what is about to be said is not to be construed as a threat by any means. But it is to be understood that the Vatican cannot allow the United States to put forward missions of mass destruction to promote certain agendas.”

  “The assassination of Senator Cartwright is hardly an agenda to promote mass destruction,” he proffered.

  “I’m not talking about Senator Cartwright, Mr. President. I’m talking about Senator Rhames.”

  President Burroughs appeared genuinely perplexed.

  “What do you know about ‘Operation Incite’?” Father Auciello asked him.

  President Burroughs was feeling rather small about the lack of knowledge regarding matters put before him. The political landscape had changed dramatically over the past two decades, with said changes calling for additional agencies to lead the charge against terrorism and homegrown insurgencies. Since the growth of the agencies had become too numerous and the manpower too great for one person to command, intel leaders were recruited to head the agencies for the good of the nation. However, given these freedoms to act without direct contact from the commander in chief, certain protocols and procedures had to be followed properly. Should wayward officers and operators go beyond those parameters, then the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence, or the SSCI, would conduct necessary investigations to ensure that these organizations were doing their job properly, especially the CIA.

  “I’m afraid, Father, I know nothing. Certain operations come under the banner of black operations, you understand this.”

  “I do.”

  “Then you understand that some missions are strictly operated where the Commander in Chief is on a need-to-know basis only, since these missions are too great in numbers for one man to govern.”

  “I understand, Mr. President. But Operation Incite is more than just a mission sanctioned by the principals of the United States government.” Father Auciello paused for a moment. “It’s also an act of terrorism.”

  “You mind repeating that, Father,” said Burroughs.

  “Mr. President, we have our own team in Malta right now. The Vatican Knights. Your team in Malta, the Special Activities Division, is acting upon the orders of Senator Rhames to promote an agenda for what he believes to be for the greater good of the nation. Evidence reflects, however, that the achievement of the higher good is to come by way of the detonation of explosive devices, killing more than one hundred people during the height of the Santa Marija holy festival.”

  “For what achievement?” Burroughs asked.

  “To gain military air bases in Malta after a staged event by the United States government,” he told him. “The detonations to achieve this effect are set to go off this afternoon in Malta, only a few hours from now.”

  “And you can undoubtedly prove this to me right now to my satisfaction?”

  “I can.” Father Auciello tapped the point of his finger against the screen of the tablet, bringing up an audio feed. “What you’re about to hear, Mr. President, is one of your CIA in-field operatives, a man by the name of Chesney Bates—you also have his file before you—and our man, Kimball Hayden, discuss Incite.” He tapped the PLAY switch, and the play-button began to scroll along the bottom of the screen as voices sounded off.

  BATES: You’re Kimball Hayden. You’re the object of the targeted killing.

  KIMBALL: Then you know what I’m capable of doing to you.

  A beat:

  KIMBALL: You know about the targeted killing, yes?

  A beat:

  KIMBALL: Out loud.

  BATES: Yes

  KIMBALL: Where is their Base Command?

  BATES: They’re at the Excelsior Hotel. I don’t know where.

  KIMBALL: How many?

  BATES: I don’t know.

  KIMBALL: Who’s their team commander?

  BATES: A man by the name of Cooper.

  KIMBALL: First name?

  BATES: I don’t know. We go by call signs and last names.

  KIMBALL: You’re doing well, Mr. Bates. Keep it up.

  BATES: Are you going to kill me?

  KIMBALL: Tell me about Operation Incite.

  BATES: I just know that I was to provide explosive devices to a field operation team.

  KIMBALL: Cooper’s team?

  BATES: I guess.

  There was the sound a brief scuffle.

  BATES: Yes! . . . Some big guy picked them up.

  KIMBALL: A roid freak? A guy that’s juiced? Maybe walked with a limp?

  BATES: That’s the guy.

  A pause:

  BATES: Please don’t kill me.

  KIMBALL: As long as you give me what I need, Mr. Bates, my war is not with you, I assure you. Now tell me about Incite.

  A sigh. Then:

  BATES: It’s an operation spearheaded by Senator Rhames in order to coerce the Malta government to lease the air bases to the United States. This would give the U.S. an air advantage to locations in the Middle East and Northern Africa, since our relationship with Turkey is somewhat strained . . . And further relationships with them questionable.

  KIMBALL: It’s all about military placement?

  BATES: Yes.

  KIMBALL: And the necessity of the explosive devices?

  BATES: Three devices. Three separate points at one location for positive effect. Once the devices go off, more than one hundred people will be killed in the blast. Red-herring chat rooms have been created to indicate ISIS.

  KIMBALL: So the explosives go off killing more than a hundred people, ISIS gets blamed, then Rhames comes in with a proposal promising future national security to Malta against future terrorist actions, if they lease the airfields to the United States.

  BATES: That’s exactly right.

  KIMBALL: The bombs. Where are they?

  A moment of silence.

  KIMBALL: You’ve been doing fine up to this point, Mr. Bates. Don’t fail me now. Where are they?

  Another pause.

  KIMBALL: Tell me, Mr. Bates, where are they?

  BATES: If I tell you, are you going to kill me?

  KIMBALL: Let’s put it this way. I’ll kill you if you don’t. And that’s a promise.

  The
sound of someone sobbing.

  KIMBALL: Where are they, Mr. Bates?

  BATES: Inside the St. John’s Co-Cathedral.

  KIMBALL: Where inside the Cathedral?

  BATES: Three devices. One beneath the altar. One beneath the pew in the tenth row. One beneath the pew in the twentieth row.

  KIMBALL: Specific times of detonation?

  BATES: Twelve fifteen. At the height of the Mass. They’re to be placed one hour ahead of time.

  KIMBALL: Remotely active?

  BATES: Only if the time-fuses fail to ignite the Semtex.

  KIMBALL: Semtex. Any other devices?

  BATES: No. There are no others.

  KIMBALL: If you’re lying about that, Mr. Bates, you know that your lifespan will be quite short. You understand this, correct?

  BATES: I do.

  Then there was the rustling sound.

  KIMBALL: You guys get all that?

  Father Auciello shut off the tablet and waited for a response from the president.

  “From our man to your man,” said Burroughs.

  “Yes, sir.”

  He turned to his intel community whom he believed would be instrumental in the cause to protect American interests inside its borders, since the original statement by the Vatican was potential dangers to the U.S. of maintaining dominance. But it wasn’t what Burroughs expected. The United States was the one leading the crusade against terrorism, not promoting it. But unbridled ambitions had twisted that faith. The threat to national security here was being manufactured by one of their own with Senator Rhames spearheading an act of terrorism. Should the world community suspect this, then the credibility of the United States would fall deeply in the eyes of their administrations, crippling the nation.

  Now that everything specified had been elevated to a completely different level, President Burroughs realized that this covert operation came under the jurisdiction of the CIA. He picked up the phone. “Patch me through to Director Butrose at his home, please.”