by Rick Jones
Having lost the keen edge of prudence, his thoughts not completely aware or focused, he neglected to examine the perimeter and never realized that his team had been spotted by those hiding within the trees far beyond the outskirts of the camp. The rebels had moved up behind them, surrounding them in a pincer move, covering them from all sides.
Whereas the sixth sense of his teammates kicked in, his did not until the first volley of bullets stitched across the backs and chests of his teammates, killing them. What was left of his unit formed a wedge-shaped offensive and moved into the stronghold with their weapons raised and firing, picking off the insurgents.
One rebel lifted his weapon, an AK-47, and shot the hostages dead with one pull of the trigger, blood everywhere.
Savage lifted his own weapon with deadly precision and fired, taking out the left side of the rebel’s head in a splash of blood and gore as his body tumbled back into those he just executed, a soft cushion.
And then time seemed to crawl, his world suddenly moving with the slowness of a bad dream. It was surreal, with gunshots going off around him; the waspy hum of bullets flying past him but none finding their mark; the cries and agony of his teammates as they went down. He looked at the victims as they lay dead, their eyes and mouths open at the shock of their mortality.
He had failed them. He failed his team.
He was not sharp while taking point.
And it cost him valuable lives.
When it was over and done with, as he knelt by the bodies, with patches of blood that were not his own glistening off his skin, he dared not look around, did not want to see his dead or dying teammates. In fact, he was waiting for the kill shot, the one bullet that would take him away from all this. But it never came.
The one salvation—just a single bullet—never came.
When he returned to the States he lost his command, sending him deeper into despair. His wife, his job, and now his life, were gone. He had never felt so lost or so alone.
When the commission to work for the Vatican Intelligence presented itself, he saw this as the perfect escape. He’d be worlds away from the problems that had dragged him down. But he soon realized that he could not run far enough. Wherever he went his problems followed and weighed him down even more.
Under the auspices of the Church, however, he believed in his own redemption by taking direction from those who could show him the way of Light. Simple direction! That’s all he wanted. But it seemed to be something well beyond the capability of the Church to grant.
In the end salvation—at least a portion of it—came in the form of a young woman he was sent to dispatch, in order to hide the truth about Eden. Instead he became the fulcrum between sinner and saint, opting to save the woman’s life rather than terminate it. What followed was the self-discovery of a man who found goodness within his own heart rather than the darkness that enveloped it. She made him see the person he once was, someone dedicated to overseeing the deliverance of those who could not defend themselves. And depending on those he dealt with, in the circles who knew him best, it was said that John Savage was a demon to some but an angel to others. What Alyssa Moore did was to open his heart once again, completing him.
But the stain of his command continued to follow him like an embarrassing pall.
“John?”
He opened his eyes. He did not hear Alyssa walk up on him. He feigned a smile.
“What’s the matter?” she asked him. In her hand was a laptop. “John.”
“I’m fine,” he lied.
She took a space on the cot beside him. “John, what’s the matter?” I know you.
At the end of the aisle where she had come from stood Whitaker and two others under his command, Tally-Whackers that were facsimiles of Whitaker, lean and forceful by the nature of their physiques. They were drawing a bead on them.
“It appears that you drew a crowd,” he told her.
When she looked up two of the soldiers left Whitaker’s side. A moment later Whitaker granted her a nod and left, the end of the aisle now empty.
“Security,” she commented.
“Security? That’s what you think?”
She turned to him. “John, what’s the matter?”
He faced her, studied her, noting the beauty of her almond-shaped eyes and the glow of her copper skin. He rested his hand on her forearm. “Sweetheart, I’m fine.”
“No, John, you’re not. Now what’s the matter?”
He hesitated, and then pointed to the location where Whitaker and two of his teammates just stood. “Whitaker,” he said, “and those with him are much more than that. They’re more than just security.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Look. I understand more than anyone that the government has to take certain precautions, especially in matters that require TS clearing—which you and I don’t have, by the way. But these guys are a level up, a covert group for the DOD.”
“The Department of Defense?”
He nodded. “During Gerald Ford’s tenure as president, he terminated the policy to dispatch foreign leaders or political insurgents considered hostile to the sovereignty of the United States. But subsequent leaders saw a need for operatives to promote stability and to maintain an edge over upcoming world powers. Now there have always been black-op groups working for divisional authorities such as the CIA and NSA. But it’s long been rumored that one particular group, the Tally-Whackers, were extremists working under the guise of the DOD and the Joint Chiefs. In most cases the president is unaware of their missions since their assignments are basically promoted behind closed doors—doors even the president does not open.”
“So what are you saying?”
Savage shrugged. Everything at this point was simple speculation, a sixth sense of caution. Or even paranoia. “The Tally-Whackers are an assassination team,” he finally answered. “They go in, kill, and dominate. There’s no mercy. No contrition. No acts of humility. They pull the trigger first and ask questions later.”
“And this is what you think? That they’re here to kill us?”
He raised his finger and shook it. “No,” he said. “I think they’re a sanitation crew. But I don’t think they’re here as an execution squad because there’re too many people here with TS clearance, too many brilliant minds. I think they’re here to guard against misappropriation of data. And should this type of data regarding this type of technology get to a third party, to a foreign party, then I think we all become justifiably expendable in their eyes. They’re the pit bulls watching over the hen house.”
She leaned into him. “John, they’re military assets, true. But I think you’re allowing your hackles to rise a bit unnecessarily. I know where you come from and I understand that it’s sometimes difficult for some habits to drop. But these men are on our side. They’re not the deep, dark government agency standing on the sidelines simply waiting to make their next kill because they can.”
He shook his head. “Should information be forwarded improperly to insurgent agencies, the Tally-Whackers will act as the means to stem the hemorrhaging. I’m telling you. We know that O’Connell collects data on an hourly basis and revises his catalogue so that the information is always current. Should there be a compromise of any kind, then the game plan changes. The U.S. government will do anything to protect its assets. Even if it includes summary executions of everyone involved if the single source cannot be detected.” He then leaned back and exhaled, relieving stress.
“John, TS clearance is just that, Top Security Clearance. I’m sure the people here had comprehensive background checks.”
“Background checks can be altered,” he returned abruptly. “In this day and age with computer technology, with hacking capabilities and firewall penetration, anyone can be created in a matter of minutes, Alyssa. It happens all the time.”
She reached over and patted his hand. “John, I need you to help me concentrate on the data I just pulled up regarding the syntax of the ancient script. You’re
not a soldier anymore. So please, settle your senses. We’re here on behalf of the government. They’re here to protect us, not hurt us.”
John reared back. What? You can’t be that naive. And then he took another approach to his thinking, wishing that it must be nice to be living in her world, believing that she was exceptionally safe by his side, no matter her surroundings. He couldn’t help the sentiment of how much she believed in him. And that is what saved him—her trust.
He offered her a practiced smile, leaned forward, and kissed her forehead. “You’re absolutely right,” he told her. But deep inside something addled him, a warning, his sixth sense something inborn rather than a learned trait. It was something he had grown to rely upon—an elevated instinct that got him through numerous missions alive, his body unscathed. But his adoration for Alyssa, his overwhelming need to want her to feel safe by his side, overshadowed everything. With just the slightest hint of reluctance, he said, “You’re right.” He then looked at the laptop in her hand and pointed to it. “So . . . show me what you’ve got.”
Now it was her turn to smile.
CHAPTER NINE
“He knows who we are,” said Whitaker, laying his helmet on top of O’Connell’s desk, which inspired O’Connell to proffer a look of annoyance. Catching the look on O’Connell’s face was not enough for Whitaker to remove his helmet, as he took a seat before the official’s desk. “He knows who we are.”
“Who?”
“Savage.”
“What did he say?”
Whitaker leaned forward. “He knew about the Tally-Whackers. Recognized the emblems.”
“And.”
Whitaker fell back into his seat. “I played it down. Told him there was no such thing.”
“Did he believe you?”
“I doubt it. A guy like Savage, someone who’s been through the ranks and seen a lot of things, heard a lot of things.” He nodded his head. “No, he didn’t believe me.”
O’Connell shrugged. “Does it really matter?”
“It does if he starts talking.”
“Who’s he going to talk to? We’re 2000 feet below sea level.”
“Not now. I’m talking about when he surfaces. The guy doesn’t have TS clearance.”
“He’s a SEAL. He knows how to keep secrets. We can trust him. And we need Ms. Moore. She wouldn’t come unless he was with her. Apparently they’re a team.”
“Look. There’s a high probability that someone on board this ship has the ability to compromise our position with intel—a high probability, which is why my watchdogs are here. You know firsthand what has to be done in order to preserve our station, should we be compromised. We take the data and run. Everyone else becomes expendable to ensure that the compromiser has been taken out.” He pointed to two PC’s on O’Connell’s desk, each one flanking Whitaker’s high-tech helmet. “You got the data?”
O’Connell leaned forward. “You wanna know what I got? I got squat. Absolute . . . squat. And you wanna know why? Because these pinheads we got working for us—these so-called geniuses—can't break a code to decide anything in order to move to the next level. So there’s no intel for anyone to appropriate because we don’t have anything for anyone to appropriate. And that’s why we need Alyssa Moore.” He leaned back into his seat.
“I agree. All I’m saying is once she opens a gateway, then the operation shuts down completely and the assets, all the assets, are to be terminated without prejudice. Those are the orders, Mr. O’Connell, from people who sit behind a bigger desk than you. I’m just here to make sure that you understand that.”
O’Connell’s radar went up. “Do you have orders that supersede mine? Orders I should know about? Maybe from the Joint Chiefs?”
Whitaker pointed to the PC’s. “You just get your data, chief. And never mind about my duties. They’re set in stone.” Whitaker stood up, grabbed his helmet, and offered O’Connell a wink that seemed somewhat vulgar and sarcastic in nature. “You just get the data,” he repeated, and left the room.
O’Connell’s chest deflated. Now he knew. Reading between the lines with Whitaker wasn’t all too difficult. The Tally-Whackers weren’t here acting as mere scarecrows to keep the masses in line. They were here because they were assassins. Once the intel was gathered, it would then be relayed to the TS community at Area 51 where the best scientific minds in the world would begin to reverse engineer the data for the explicit use in military applications.
. . . It had always been about the military . . .
And now it all came together, the communication with Deputy Director of Defense Daniel McCord and his standoffish demeanor, and how he had to coerce the man into sending a DSRV for a quick escape, should the tremors prove too volatile for the marine terrace to handle.
You son of a bitch, he thought.
McCord wasn’t sending the sub for him. He was sending it for the Tally-Whackers. And since this particular sub sat eight, it was enough to hold Whitaker’s entire team. Everyone else was apparently expendable, guaranteeing that there would be no misappropriation of data when the intel was delivered directly into McCord’s hand by Whitaker and not by him. When it was delivered, the U.S. would hold a prime advantage over world powers with no competition in sight.
O’Connell shook his head. Over a lifetime of twenty-plus years he had served the DOD well. And then he sighed. I guess you’re only as good as your last mission.
He leaned over, switched off the PC’s, and grabbed the flash drive. Although information was stark and minimal at best—at least until Alyssa provides them with an opening—he had choices to make, morally. People, innocent people, who believed that they were working on behalf of a government that supported and protected them, was also a government that would betray them for the sake of remaining on top of the world’s pinnacle.
O’Connell continued to stare at the flash drive. Brilliant minds, he considered. Good people—their lives coming to a close. And there was no doubt in his mind that the staging area would be made to look like an accident, and the Mexican government would be summarily informed that all data was lost during the catastrophe, the ship now gone, perhaps by the errant hand of a scientist who inadvertently set off a chain reaction of destruction.
Deception was the key to success here. It was done all the time. Even with our own allies.
Son of a bitch, he thought once more. But this time the voice in his head was far angrier.
McCord, it seemed, was against him. Not personally, but on a level strictly based on national security when lives meant little.
Now that he was caught within the crosshairs he began to consider his options. No doubt Whitaker would be watching him like the proverbial hawk. So he had to be careful. But somehow, some way, he needed to get to John Savage and commit to an alliance.
He stood and looked around at the corrugated walls and ceiling. And he listened to the stress of the water that continuously pressed against them. When he walked out of his chamber and into the sub’s bay area, he stared at the opening, at the surface of the water. No sub—at least not yet. In his discussion with McCord, the defense secretary promised him a sub, and a sub he’ll get, but only until Whitaker had firm control of the data. Only then would it be sent.
O’Connell closed his eyes and chastised himself: You stupid son of a bitch. You, of all people, should have known better.
When he entered the Umbilical and made his way along the walkway with every intention to create an unlikely alliance, his mind clung to a couple of points.
First: Where are you, John Savage?
Secondly, but with much graver importance: Beware the Tally-Whackers.
#
After his talk with O’Connell, Whitaker made his way back to a sequestered area set aside just for the Tally-Whackers. The room was small and spartan, the only amenities being a desk, a PC, and a bank of monitors that watched certain areas of the ship.
After removing his helmet and unslinging his assault weapon, he placed them next to th
e desk and took a seat, his hand reaching out and turning on the main monitor, a 21” screen. After typing in a series of commands, he was finally connected to the Deputy Secretary of Defense, Daniel McCord.
“It’s about time,” he said. “You’re late.”
Whitaker sat back in his chair and allowed his shoulders to slump in leisure. “I’m here, ain’t I?”
“What’ve you got?”
“I just spoke with O’Connell,” he said. “According to him, he has next to nothing.”
McCord could be seen chewing on his lower lip, the man obviously musing. “And what about Ms. Moore?”
“She’s doing what she can.”
“It’s not like we have a whole lot of time on this,” he told him. “The region is highly unstable. Who knows how long that marine terrace you’re sitting on will hold.”
“It’ll hold.”
“Just make sure that you stay on top of things. The people I have to answer to do not have the patience that I do. And if they bend my ear, Whitaker, then I’ll bend yours until they bleed. Is that clear?”
Whitaker knew that agencies often overlapped each other and worked in collusion to achieve the means. In this case it was a CIA deep-cover operative who reported carefully construed information to the president and his staff, culling away deep-rooted issues that even the top-seated administer was not privy to. Whitaker answered to McCord, McCord answered to a CIA black-op senior, and so on. Intelligence always had a specific chain of command for specific agendas.
“That ship holds a goldmine of intel,” said McCord. “I need Moore to breach an opening wide enough for our people to access enough data that would enable us to harness and manipulate pure energy. Once done, the military application of such technology would be unlimited.”
