Rise of the Phoenix: Act 3

by Dameon Gibbs

  When he awoke, he found that the other team members had arrived, but he had been too soundly asleep to hear them. He had slept about an hour, and the rest had refreshed him; the contorted posture while he was sleeping, not so much. He sat up and was hard pressed to find a place that did not hurt.

  He watched as Edge and his team prepped. The room was brightly lit and large enough for all of them to fit comfortably. Each member had a large black duffle bag on a collapsible table where they unpacked their weapons and other specialized gear.

  What Edge’s team brought with them was amazing, more so because he knew that it was only a fraction of their individual arsenals. Some of it were from their personal collection of weaponry and the rest from other sources. Either way, the inside of the storage unit had become a small armory with grenades, magazines of various sizes, scopes, handguns, boxes of ammunition and C4 devices stacked on the tables like merchandise at a flea market. It was clear that the team was preparing for an all-out battle with a major adversary.

  Doom was checking over his M82A1 SASR or Special Application Scope Rifle. The rifle was superb, the best of its kind, but it was Doom’s skilled hands that made it a truly fearsome weapon. With it, he could pick the wings off a fly over five thousand feet downrange, human targets being correspondingly easier.

  Quake was slipping into a black wetsuit that made him appear three times larger than usual, not that he needed any extra bulk as he was already massively built. Pitch once described him as “standing six foot four, seven foot at the shoulders.”

  Dust was putting on his Kevlar vest while Trick souped up his M-16. To the side, away from everyone else, Edge was stowing his combat knife in its sheath on the lower part of his back underneath his shirt.

  While the others prepared for the mission knowing their respective, well-rehearsed roles, Tucker knew he was going to be improvising. Against the backdrop of constant shifting of materials and the snapping of magazines being rammed home, he attempted to focus on the mission, but he was so out of his element that he was not sure of what measures to take next. He began to wonder if it was even possible to save Ramona, let alone stop the Order since every encounter so far had ended with them barely surviving. What’s going to make this situation any different? Is the rest of Edge’s team different? Will my Intel be of any value?

  Trick yelled out, instinctively asking Trident to bring him the camouflage face paint. There was no response. Tucker watched as all the team stopped and looked about one another in remembrance of their fallen comrade, anger, and determination written upon their faces. Silence filled the storage unit and for ten seconds no one said a word. Then, activity slowly resumed, perhaps more purposeful than before. Tucker was amazed at their ability to absorb the loss and continue undeterred.

  Leaning forward with elbows on his knees, Tucker fanned his HK45 back and forth, still bewildered by where he was and how he had come to be here.

  The memory of Paul, his brother, haunted him, and he had set his life on a course of caution and forethought, not willing to ever suffer like that again because of recklessness. He had cultivated the company of people of integrity who could guide him and help him reason through difficult webs of, not just good and evil, but of multiple conflicting good intentions.

  But now the foundations of so many of his guideposts were crumbling, showing themselves to be hollow and false. He struggled to understand; if he had been so completely deceived, how could he ever again have confidence in his ability to judge people and to separate true from false?

  Ramona. Ramona was true, and that truth would allow him to repair the disarray inside him. But she was gone, taken and in danger, possibly dead already. If he lost her now... He worked desperately to un-think the thought.

  Edge. Edge was also true. He knew how to get Ramona back and whatever Edge needed him to do, he would do. And he would not fail.

  Taking a second or two to examine his weapon, he then looked at the team. He holstered the weapon, stood up and walked towards the prep table.

  Chapter 8

  Pier 32 was once an important part of Baltimore’s shipping industry, but it hadn’t been operational for thirty-four years. Three-quarters of a mile long and a quarter-mile wide, covering over a hundred acres, enormous as it was, it had to be abandoned due to it being too small for modern container ship operations. All that remained were four large, run-down buildings, a few hundred shipping containers and some non-functioning cranes, winches, and other machinery.

  Doom was the first man in and was already in position on the massive crane at the southern edge of the pier. From the operator’s cab, high above the tops of the buildings, he had a full view of the eastern and southern areas of the pier.

  Buildings two and three, identified by large, faded numbers painted on their sides, were about a quarter mile from the crane. Building two ran along the eastern edge of the pier while building three sat a few yards west of building two at a right angle, long side facing south, slightly closer to the crane. Between the nearest corners of the two structures, a relatively new chain-link fence with a lockable gate had been installed, opening into an area about two hundred feet on one side, enclosed on the north and west sides by a wall of containers piled up to the roof of each building.

  From examining satellite photos of the site, building two seemed like the most likely place for the meeting and Doom’s first task was to confirm that. As he looked through his scope at the southern end of the building, he saw that the upper part of the first floor was glass panes that spanned the entire side. Due to decades of build up of grime upon the glass, the interior had become dimly lit. None of his three scope’s modes - optical, night or thermal - produced good images. On thermal, he was able to detect some people, including one who appeared to be sitting. Probably, Ramona, he figured. The wall above showed a large yellow and red heat signature. That’s a lot of heat coming from there. Generators, maybe?

  “Copy all,” Doom announced to the team. “Location is confirmed. Move out!”

  “This is Pitch. Dust and I are at building two in three mikes.”

  “This Hawk, three mikes to building three. No tangos, yet.”

  “Quake here. One device set. Taking longer without light. Planting three more. Ten mikes.”

  A small device next to Doom blinked with red dots showing the team’s movements.

  “Edge here. Moving to entrance.”

  He and Tucker had been waiting in a parking garage a few blocks away. They began walking to the pier, leaving their communications gear in the car. The expectation was that they were going to be checked thoroughly for any weapons or electronics, so it was not worth trying to sneak in. The only thing Edge carried was a small wafer-thin device the size of a quarter, a device that registered his location on Doom’s scanner.

  The pier was unlit and showed no sign of activity. A long-unused guard shack stood by a gate labeled ‘No Trespassing,’ which hung from a single hinge and was pushed wide open. Tucker and Edge walked through the gate noticing the fresh tire marks, indicating the increase in recent traffic flow.

  Both men wore jeans, t-shirts, and a light coat. Tucker had come accustomed to wearing his suit that he felt ill-prepared without it. And not knowing what lay ahead did not help his situation.

  Edge, on the other hand, did not mind the casual attire; what left him feeling unprepared was his lack of his sidearm, boot knife, throwing knife, and other such hardware that he usually brought to such meetings.

  They walked south along the western edge of the pier. It was a relatively narrow roadway, buildings, and stacks of shipping containers hid Tucker and Edge from Doom’s line of sight. Edge took note of everything he could see, matching it to the surveillance photos Tucker had provided.

  As Tucker walked down the length of the pier, he read the company names on the containers, some of which had gone out of business long before he became an analyst.

  This ain’t nothing but an over-sized junkyard. I wonder if there’s anything ins
ide these containers? He thought as he passed them. He paid attention to all manner of irrelevant things because whenever his thoughts wandered to Ramona or Winford, his anxiety would begin to spiral out of control. There I go again. Edge knows what he is doing. This is work. This is what I do for a living. Just relax, he confided in himself.

  A car turned the corner ahead and approached them. Tucker noted that it was a simple, nondescript, standard-issue sedan, probably borrowed from the CIA.

  “Here we go,” Tucker said, his voice tense.

  “Remember, they need to know everything we know. They can’t afford to leave any loose ends. They are not going to kill us right away,” Edge responded.

  “Oh, I’m so relieved that the Grim Reaper’s been told to take a number for better service,” Tucker responded nervously. Edge reached into his jacket pocket, broke the tracking device in half and dropped the pieces behind his leg so the oncoming car would not notice.

  Doom saw the red dot corresponding to Edge disappear from his screen. That was the signal. “Okay team, the package has been picked up. Get moving.”

  With the car on the move, Doom zoomed out his scope as the car came around the corner of building three and proceeded through the gate. Two armed men in tactical suits closed and locked the gate then moved to each side of the car as it came to a halt. “Package has arrived at its destination; double time it people,” he encouraged. “The show’s about to begin.”

  ۞۞۞۞

  Gravel crunching under its wheels, the car came to a slow stop by a pair of truck-sized sliding wooden doors that served as the entrance to building two. The two guards who had closed the gate opened the car doors for Tucker and Edge.

  “Why, thank you, Alfred. I’ll have my usual brandy in the study,” Edge remarked, calmly exiting the car as if he was not escorted into a hostile situation.

  The soldier replied by making a show of switching off his safety. Edge just rolled his eyes and muttered, “Creative.”

  Tucker exited the car and hurried towards the wooden door, knowing Ramon was just inside it, but the large soldier next to him ordered him to wait as it open. Seconds ticked by and Tucker glared at the door as if willing it to open. A loud bang from behind the door startled Tucker, and the guard snickered. A second bang followed, and the doors finally lurched open. The guard grabbed Tucker and shoved him through the opening.

  Just inside the doors was a partition which they were directed to the right and down a few steps to the main floor. The building was an old post-and-beam wood structure, and the entire back half of the building was a boat house, providing indoor mooring for small to medium-sized boats when needed.

  The rest of the floor was largely open, containing nothing except for an area where large wooden crates stood piled on top of one another, covered with dust and cobwebs, and a stairway to the second floor in the far corner. What illumination there was came from rows of dim incandescent bulbs under large metal shades that hung from the ceiling every dozen feet. Dust in the air was so thick that the light came down in shimmering cones; reminding Edge of a scene from an old gangster film.

  As they rounded the end of the partition, they found themselves facing Ramona’s abductors. Winford was wearing a navy pinstripe suit, very high end, and to his right was Keeast, standing relaxed and expressionless in a dark gray suit. Farther back, Ramona was tied to a chair nearly a foot from the water’s edge, with a soldier in full Order armor standing next to her. Ramona’s head hung down as if unconscious and her shirt had been ripped open.

  Seeing her motionless in the chair caused Tucker's heart to stop, but then he noticed her move slightly and knew she was alive, at least. It was very evident that she had been roughed up, and he felt his rage began to rise but by looking at Romana, he had to remind himself to stay in control, following Edge’s lead, and focusing on Winford.

  “Tucker, Sergeant Pierce, I’m glad you were able to make it,” said Winford as the pair was stopped at a safe distance. Neither man acknowledged the greeting.

  “Director, what the hell’s going here?” demanded Tucker.

  “Ah, seeking to understand, as usual. Even when the things that matter to you most are in the balance,” Winford tossed his head in the general direction of Ramona, “Your first instinct is to get to the truth. I often did worry about you, afraid that if you didn't take the time for yourself that you'd work yourself to death. I'm genuinely sorry to see that it might come to that,” Winford went on, like a concerned mentor.

  “I thought of bringing you in, Tucker. You were such a good analyst that I thought you might be a possible recruit, and I see now that was mistaken. I never expected you to be so persistent and to go so deeply into the case. I thought you would do a routine job, hand it off to some of my agents and it would end there.”

  “So why didn’t you just do that?” Tucker asked. “Give it to one of your agents? Could have saved yourself a load of trouble.”

  “Arrogance,” Edge chuckled, answering Tucker’s question. “The old man thought he was untouchable and that a pencil pusher and one lonely grunt would not be able to hinder his plan.”

  Winford spoke patronizingly, “Don’t flatter yourself, Sergeant. You haven't amounted to more than an annoying gnat. But I did underestimate Tucker’s drive.”

  Tucker pushed on through the attempted deflection. “Why on earth would someone in your position get mixed up in all this: The Order, killing Gamze, destroying the missile facility, attacking Miami? How could you kill all those innocent people?”

  “And where is the boy?” Edge snapped, adding to the barrage of questions. The briefest flash of surprise showed in Winford's eyes; with Tucker focused on other things, Edge caught it, and it revealed to him that the Order did not have the boy either.

  “Don’t worry about the boy. He’s being taken care of as we speak,” Winford bluffed, resuming the facade of control. Edge wanted to press the matter, but the primary mission was getting Ramona.

  Taking a few steps forward with hands clasped behind his back, Winford took turns looking both men in the eyes. “As for your other questions, Tucker, you must understand first off, that you've achieved a glimpse or two into what is much, much more than a few simple ops. Your little snapshots are far short of the big picture.

  “The Order is an organization, a movement, that is going to restore national greatness by destroying the institutions that corrupt us. Gamze? He was a foolish old man who believed that we were going to get ourselves bogged down in his tiny little hometown squabble. However, we did have some common ground in our views of governments as being corrupt and with that I was able to bring him on board.”

  He paused, walking back to Keeast. “Global Trust helped to fund all you see here, as well as what we plan to do in the future, and the business at the missile facility was that whole “no loose ends” part of the job we do.”

  “So who exactly is the enemy that your 'Order' seeks to rid us of, Director?” Edge asked.

  Winford started coughing. Keeast went to him, but the Director just waved him off. He wiped his mouth with his handkerchief as he asked, “Have you ever heard of Tria Mau?”

  “No, should I?” responded Tucker, wearily.

  “Tria Mau translates as Camp Blood. Camp Blood made Son Tay look like the Ritz-Carlton. More men died there than in any other camp during the war. It was so well-hidden that nobody in Washington even knew it was there. During my stay at Trai Mau, that bunch of power mongers referred to as National Command Authority ordered the use of an experimental chemical on a location close to the camp where a high-level target was rumored to be staying. The long-term effects of it were not known, and I doubt they cared.

  “They laid down enough of the stuff that even three klicks away in Trai Mau it was in the air in dangerous concentrations for days. After we had been ‘rescued’,” Winford used his fingers to signify quotes, “the government ordered us not to mention what happened to the press or even family. The only help we received was silence, bought b
y medals. In the years since, one after another one of us has died from the effects, principally various cancers. I am the last and my hour grows close. They did not rescue us from that camp; they simply prolonged our deaths.”

  “Sounds like a relatively ordinary case of friendly fire to me. I don't see how it justifies the revenge spree you've been on,” Edge commented.

  “This is not about revenge. This is about governments being able to sweep things under the rug.” He paused to take a puff on his inhaler.

  “And yet you lead an organization where an unpleasant, anonymous death is part of the job description, and the only recognition is a nameless star on a wall that the public hardly ever sees. Why is it suddenly immoral because it happened to you?” Edge asked.

  Winford’s tone became sharp, impatient with those who were too dense to see his logic. “It isn’t about what happened to me. It’s about the evil that comes when people are so complacent that the government becomes an entity unto itself, unaccountable to and unquestioned by the so-called voting public. The genius of the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution is that they were created by men who had suffered tyranny first-hand and who gave the people the means to take control of who should rule them and how they should be ruled. These days, John Q. Citizen rarely sees the need to get involved unless things affect them directly and unpleasantly, usually financially. Perspective has been lost,” Winford summarized, becoming more fervent as he spoke. “We have the most ‘free’ country in the world, but we are still bedeviled by special interests that whine about oppression and persecution when they don’t have things exactly their way. The Order of the Phoenix will restore that perspective!”