It was going to be a tough job, a nearly impossible job considering who they were going up against—their own fellow soldiers. But it was necessary. He just hoped they could keep military casualties to a minimum. He was hoping that many of the units would simply stand down. He had every intention of letting them know who was attacking them and making the offer. The grumblings among service members was growing, many if not most already uncomfortable with their new roll. He like many other Special Forces had called bullshit on the new regime and went on vacation, most with the permission of their commanding officers, his own telling him a fifth column was needed outside of the new command structure just in case.
He and others like Dawson were that fifth column.
And soon they’d find out just how strong that column was.
“Got them!”
Skerritt turned to see Chip Turner enter the room waving a laptop in his hand. “Got what?”
“White House, Pentagon, Fort Myer. You name it. Blueprints showing all the fiber optic, copper, satellite, cellular, microwave—you name it, I’ve got it.”
Skerritt’s eyebrows shot up. “How the hell did you manage that?”
“I reached out to my buddy at the Pentagon. He pulled all the data, marched out of the building, handed it off to me then said he’s picking up his family and heading into the mountains until he’s heard things are sane again.”
Skerritt’s lips pursed as he nodded in appreciation. “A good man. Print out the plans for our three main targets. We’ll split into six squads, one for each of the target’s communications, one for each of the target’s personnel. Preliminary intel seems to suggest an awful lot of private security, those Raven bastards we dealt with in Iraq. I don’t want to be killing American soldiers unless absolutely necessary, but I won’t hesitate to put these wannabes down and down hard. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” said Turner, the rest nodding. “Let’s just hope there’s more than this”—he motioned to those gathered—“when we’re ready to take action.”
Skerritt smiled. “There will be. Trust me.”
Akwesasne Reserve, New York
“Who the hell are you?”
Kane’s shoulders sank as he realized they had been spotted coming ashore. The Akwesasne Reserve straddled the Canadian and US border and was an ideal way for smugglers and criminals to gain access to either country.
And today one CIA agent, one Chinese exile, and two Delta Force operators had taken advantage.
Kane decided to tell the truth. “I’m CIA, she’s Chinese Special Forces, and they’re Delta Force.”
The old man lowered his shotgun. “What’s your business here?”
“I’m sure you’re aware of what’s going on south of here.”
The old man nodded, turning away from them and shuffling up the embankment toward what looked like a single-room cabin, a thin twirl of smoke rising from a stone chimney. “I’m Mohawk. I don’t care what’s going on down in your country.” He paused, looking over his shoulder. “Are you American or Canadian?”
“American.”
He nodded, continuing up the slope as they followed, their gear unloaded from the boat they had rented on the Canadian side, those operating it more than happy to take cold hard cash to fire them across the river in a cigarette boat. Kane had no doubt the boat, already halfway back across the river, was used nightly to smuggle cigarettes into Canada.
And worse.
But today the criminals had been of use, and assuming this man didn’t turn them in, they just might get across the border safely, their op only hours away from starting.
“American? And a Chinese? Well, I’m not going to hold that against you. You can’t help where you were born.”
Niner looked back at Kane, grinning. “I like him,” he whispered.
“You here to do something about that mess in Washington?”
“And if we were?”
“I’d give you a good proper meal and wish you well.”
Kane eyed a shiny new Ford F-250 XL with crew cab. “What we could use is a good ride.”
The old man stopped, looking over at the shiny new 2014 model. He reached in his pocket. “They gave me it to keep quiet. I don’t even know how to drive.” He tossed the keys to Dawson who happened to be closest. “Try to return it in one piece. With a few bullet holes in it if possible. That would make for some good stories around the campfire.”
Kane laughed. “You’re a good man, sir. We appreciate it.”
The man batted his hand over his shoulder, already heading into his cabin. “Stew’s already on the stove. Come get some before you leave.”
Dawson climbed into the truck, starting it up and checking the fuel tank as they loaded their gear in the back. He gave the thumbs up.
“Shall we?” asked Kane, motioning toward the cabin.
“Absofrackinlutely,” said Niner. “I’m starved.”
Dawson turned off the truck, climbing down and following Niner. “Me too. Just don’t ask what’s in the stew.”
Niner stopped, turning around. “What do you mean?”
Dawson nodded toward several small animal skins hanging from the front porch. “Do you see any cows around here?”
Niner shrugged. “I could eat the ass end of a moose right now I’m so hungry.”
Kane winked at Fang. “You just might be.”
CNN Washington Bureau, Washington, DC
7:53 PM EST
“It looks good.”
Jack Steinbeck looked at the length of the video. Five minutes almost exactly. Nick Dyson had come through, as had Dan their cameraman with disturbing footage of CIA Headquarters in Langley. It was completely surrounded with personnel being escorted out of the building in handcuffs, private security swarming the area. It appeared that military personnel were only outside the gates. It made him hope that when the shit hit the fan, whatever this ‘bring the rain’ initiative was, that the armed forces would stand down instead of fight.
It all depended on how it played out.
He couldn’t see whoever was behind this initiative actually killing American soldiers unless it was absolutely necessary. He could see them killing the private security, they had been linked to almost every single atrocity across the country.
And there were thousands of them.
It was shocking that there could be what was essentially a paramilitary so large inside the country, hired by the government to replace the law and order apparatus normally provided by civilian authorities.
Terrifying.
“You’ve talked to Stan?”
Dyson nodded. “They’re ready in the control room. We’ll come in at two minutes to eight. You’ll pull your weapon on our Press Officer. I’ll cuff him with these”—he held up a pair of handcuffs with frilly pink fur—“and Stan will load the footage from the memory stick.”
Steinbeck nodded toward the handcuffs. “Care to explain?”
“I’ll take the secret to my damned grave. It was the only pair I could find.”
Steinbeck started to laugh then stopped himself, realizing that if he gave into the nervous energy fueling him he might not be able to stop himself. He looked at his watch. “We better get going.”
Dyson nodded and made the sign of the cross.
“I didn’t know you were Catholic.”
“I’m not. But it can’t hurt, can it?”
Steinbeck shrugged as Dyson stepped into the hallway, Steinbeck saying a silent prayer, asking God to let him see tomorrow.
“The Bunker”, CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia
7:57 PM EST
“I think they found us.”
Leroux pointed at a screen showing various security feeds including one of the elevator entrance to The Bunker. The doors were opening, a team having apparently rappelled down, and the dull rumble of automatic weapons fire was felt through the flooring as their first line of defense opened fire.
Morrison looked at his watch. “It’s almost eight.” He turned to Ton
g. “You’re sure that the three messages are linked?”
She nodded emphatically. “Absolutely sir. All three messages, the ‘2100’, ‘Myer’ and ‘Bring the Rain’ messages were all sent from the same device from Canada. They are the first indicators of the message which sent off a cascade of follow on messages with the same phrase. The 2100 and Myer are never repeated, just the Bring the Rain. It’s as if everyone involved knows where to look to get the other two parts.”
“Okay, we’re assuming the ‘2100’ is nine o’clock tonight. We’re positive the ‘Myer’ is Fort Myer, and we’re pretty much positive Bring the Rain is the signal for everyone to begin whatever they’re going to do at nine o’clock.”
“We’re assuming Eastern Standard Time?” asked Leroux. He shook his head. “It must be. Fort Myer local time.”
“We have to assume that,” said Morrison. “Now the question is what can we do to help?” He motioned toward the security feed showing smoke canisters being deployed by the attackers. “They’ll have a hell of a time getting in here, but that’s an assumption. Now that they’ve found us they might be able to find our links to the outside. I don’t think we can risk waiting any longer.”
“Yes, sir,” said Tong. “I’ve got routines set up to flood Facebook, Twitter and several other social media sites, as well as use the Wireless Emergency Alerts system like you suggested to hit pretty much every cellphone in the country with the equivalent of an Amber Alert directing them to a link where they can watch the video.”
“And the television networks?”
“I’ve accessed the Emergency Broadcast System,” said Leroux. “Everyone in the country is going to see this. Just give the word.”
“Sir!” interrupted Dillard. “You’ve got to see this!” He pointed at the central screen as CNN suddenly appeared, the audio fed through the Operations Center overhead speakers.
“Holy shit!” exclaimed Leroux.
CNN Washington Bureau, Washington, DC
8:00 PM EST
It had only taken seconds and Jack Steinbeck had to admit he remembered little of it. The footage was now playing, an equally shaky Stan Waters taking several stabs at inserting the memory stick while Nick Dyson handcuffed their Press Officer with the furry sex toy he still looked embarrassed about.
But none of that mattered now. They were rolling live, the Press Officer glaring at him, a gag stuffed in his mouth, his chair shoved into the corner. Steinbeck pointed at Dyson.
“Send the message.”
Dyson hit the button, the message already queued, sending the footage and broadcast release to every news wire and network in the world. A grid of monitors showed all the other broadcast networks, and if everything went right, they would hopefully break into their newscasts with the loop now airing showing the President being led away, a red bar across the bottom reading “President Starling Arrested for Sedition!”. The voiceover, done by him, cited their unnamed inside source, then showed CIA Headquarters being occupied.
An idea struck him.
He pointed to one of the interns who stood in shock, her face as pale as her blouse. “Go pull the fire alarm.”
“Wh-what?”
“Pull the alarm. It will fill the stairwells with people and shutdown the elevators. Do it!”
She jumped then ran out, moments later the drone of the alarm sounding. To her credit she returned rather than join the evacuees. “Now go lock all the doors. Get anybody who’s willing to stay to help you barricade them.”
She reached a new shade of pale, but nodded and left. “FOX just picked us up,” said Dyson, pointing at one of the monitors.
He smiled as two more switched over. “ABC and the BBC now.”
‘BRING THE RAIN’ flashed on the screen as text scrolled indicating the known crimes committed by the private security. Steinbeck had been careful to point everything at them and General Thorne, his aim to make the military units question their orders and hopefully stand down during whatever action might be taken.
“CBS and NBC,” whispered Dyson. “And there’s MSNBC.”
“It’s working,” said Steinbeck as he collapsed in his chair, the video already on its second loop.
“They’re here,” said Pete, pointing to a camera they had set up in the main entrance. “Splicing it in now.”
The screen split showing their loop on the left and live footage of the private security forces arriving at their broadcast center with ‘CNN UNDER ATTACK!” emblazoned across the top of the screen.
“Under attack?” asked Steinbeck.
“All I could think of,” replied Pete with a shrug of his shoulders. “It’s true, isn’t it?”
Steinbeck nodded slightly. “Unfortunately.” The building wasn’t high and they were only on the fourth floor. It wouldn’t take long, even with the security team forced to use the stairwell. He pointed at the cameraman in the far corner. “You keep shooting for as long as you can. Once they’re in the room step away from the camera and put your hands up. Move around the edge of the room. I want to let them try to figure out how to shut it off.” He pointed at Pete. “Can you have everything go dark, but keep broadcasting?”
He smiled. “Absolutely.”
The young intern burst into the room nearly giving Steinbeck a heart attack. “They’re at the doors!” she cried, tears flowing down her face. “Oh my God! They’re at the doors!”
Steinbeck rose, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Go to your desk and sit down. Put your hands up and do whatever they say.”
She nodded, her entire body trembling as she went to the door. Then she did something Steinbeck hadn’t expected. She closed then locked it, turning back to face the room. “I want to stay.”
He smiled, understanding perfectly. This was history and she wanted to be a reporter. This was probably the biggest story to ever be told in his lifetime and he hoped there would never be one bigger. They were fighting back, doing what the press was supposed to do. It reminded him of the good old days when he was younger and reporters actually dug for information, reported the news rather than commented on it. He had missed it, had missed the feeling, and now that he remembered what it was like to get that scoop, to make a difference in the world, he regretted all those years wasted on sensationalism.
“There they are,” said the cameraman, motioning with his head as he aimed the camera at the window. Steinbeck looked and saw half a dozen heavily armed men rushing toward the booth. He glanced at the grid of monitors and breathed a sigh of relief, every single monitor now showing their broadcast.
“It’s time,” he said, nodding to Pete. Pete hit several buttons and all the monitors went dark, the control boards dimming to a dull glow almost lost as Steinbeck flicked the switches turning all the overhead lights on.
Gunfire tore through the lock, the glass of the door shattering, the intern crying out as he grabbed her, pushing her behind him.
“Shutdown the broadcast immediately!” shouted the first to enter, a handgun held high, pointing directly at Steinbeck.
Steinbeck nodded toward the monitors. “Already done.”
Three more men entered the room with submachine guns, what type Steinbeck had no clue, guns not his specialty. All he knew was they looked menacing and the men holding them looked trigger happy. The man who had spoken had a finger to his ear, obviously communicating with somebody.
His lip curled then he pistol whipped Steinbeck. He collapsed to the floor, the world fading as he fought to remain conscious. The intern’s scream brought him back as she dropped behind him, grabbing him as she tried to pull him upright.
“Shut down the broadcast, now!”
Nobody said anything as Steinbeck struggled back to his feet. “Don’t you realize what you’re doing is wrong?” he said, his head throbbing. “Don’t you realize that this is America? That civilian authority must be restored?”
“It’s civilian authority that got us into this mess in the first place,” replied the man, pressing a finger to his ear a
gain. “What? We’re on camera?” He looked and spotted the camera in the corner, rage smearing his face. “I’ll take care of it.” He stepped back, raising his weapon. “Open fire.”
The last thing Steinbeck experienced beyond the searing pain of several gunshots were the struggles of the young intern, trapped under him when he collapsed, until she too was silenced by a single gunshot.
“The Bunker”, CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia
8:13 PM EST
“Holy shit!”
It was Dillard who broke the silence, the only other sounds gasps and sobs, the room filled with the entire team, no one sleeping for the next shift. This was happening now, in the next few hours, and there would be no time for rest.
Leroux dropped into his chair, unable to believe what had just happened. An entire CNN crew murdered on the air, live. Now the domestic television sources were quickly changing to test signals or dead air, but the foreign sources were all playing the footage. He quickly fed some keywords into his computer and sucked in a deep breath.
“Sir, that broadcast is trending worldwide including the hashtag #bringtherain. Hundreds of thousands have already seen or read about what just happened. At that rate it will be millions in the next hour, tens of millions if not more before the nine o’clock deadline.”
Morrison sat down himself, his expression solemn, the dull thuds of gunfire still felt through the floor panels from outside. He looked at Tong. “Can you add that broadcast to ours?”
“Doing it now, sir.” They waiting in silence, nobody saying anything as they watched the foreign news broadcasts and the security footage of the battle raging just beyond the doors.
Death to America (A Special Agent Dylan Kane Thriller, Book #4) Page 23
