P B Obeng

by Vigil (pdf)

  The other three deactivate the roof’s cameras and motion sensors before quickly moving in to observe Al-Khatib’s office through the skylight.

  Major James turns to Blankenchip. “Do we have visual confirmation of the package?”

  “Affirmative,” Blankenchip replies as he peers through his night-vision-enhanced binoculars. “I spot four bogies—three security guards and Al-Khatib.

  “Good.” Major James turns to Conrad. “Do you have the flash-bang grenades?”

  She nods.

  “All right, the package is isolated.” He radios Breslin. “Lights out on my count.”

  “Copy that, Major.”

  The three of them strap on their AN/PVS-5 night-vision goggles in preparation.

  James begins the countdown.

  “We go in on three. One… two… THREE!”

  Breslin cuts power to Al-Khatib’s office and the once brightly lit space is suddenly immersed in darkness. The trio bursts through the skylight with shards of glass dispersing through the air like stardust. Conrad reaches inside her tactical webbing to pull out three flash-bang grenades.

  She hurls them into the midst of the security guards, disorienting them.

  One of the guards draws his Uzi and shoots wildly through the smoke.

  Bul ets ricochet off the wal s and floor, with one of them barely missing Blankenchip’s head. He fires back with his Beretta M92F pistol, wounding 33

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  the guard in his shoulder. Conrad dispatches the second guard by plunging her Night Force knife into his midsection before he can let off a shot. The guard col apses to the floor without an utterance. James shoots Al-Khatib’s last guard in the right flank and leg. After the chaos settles, he turns his pistol-mounted flashlight on Al-Khatib, who takes refuge behind an overturned desk chair.

  “Put your hands up!” James orders.

  Al-Khatib staggers to his feet as he gathers himself. Aside from some coughing from the smoke, he seems otherwise unfazed by the intrusion.

  “So, this is the famed CCI squad? Hanahan and Davis must be getting lax in their recruitment standards,” Al-Khatib says with contempt.

  Not at all pleased with his glib tone, Blankenchip gets right to the point. “Cut the crap, where are the MDP discs?”

  “Now why would I want to give you that information? They have to be worth at least a bil ion dol ars on the black market.”

  “Look, we can do this the hard way or the easy way. The choice is yours,” James says.

  “Way I see it,” Blankenchip chimes in, “he doesn’t have a choice.”

  “I believe you’re right,” Al-Khatib replies, seemingly at ease with his fate.

  He turns to the computer console on his bul et-ridden desk and types in his security password. Thankful y, the computer was still operational.

  The disc tray under the console opens and a rotating array of discs slides out. Al-Khatib removes the tray’s contents and walks toward them.

  “Here are your discs.”

  James grabs the discs from him and hands them to Conrad, keeping his eyes and weapon steady on Al-Khatib. “I want authenticity verification.”

  Conrad inserts the discs into her mini-laptop. Within seconds the analysis program reads the discs to confirm that they are the originals.

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  “They’re legit. All the protocols and countermeasures are present and intact,” she replies.

  “Any copies made?” James inquires.

  “I checked the duplication history and it’s clean. No extra copies were made.”

  “Good.” Major James turns to Al-Khatib. “Now, Mr. Al-Khatib, I think it would be wise of you to come with us without a struggle.”

  Al-Khatib complies with the order. Major James pats him down for any weapons before turning him around. James pins Al-Khatib’s chest to the wal , and places handcuffs on him.

  Conrad radios Breslin. “We’ve obtained the package. We’re heading up.”

  “Copy that,” Breslin replies. “I’ll rendezvous at the extraction point.”

  The quartet leaves by way of the stairwel ; Conrad and Blankenchip lead the way, closely trailed by Al-Khatib and James, who are roughly fifteen feet behind them. The Apache helicopter is in clear view as they reach the rooftop. Just moments before entering the helicopter, Al-Khatib turns to look at James.

  “You honestly thought that I would go this easily?”

  Al-Khatib taps on one of the cuff links on his shirt, detonating the micro-explosives within the lining of it.

  The explosion’s force hurls Conrad and Blankenchip into the side of the helicopter. Their ears ring so loud they can’t even hear each other.

  Blankenchip struggles to get to his feet as Conrad tries to make out any body through the thick smoke from the explosion. Her goggles were more of a hindrance than a help. She rips them off to get a better view and turns to see James lying lifeless on the ground just a few feet from her, his body burned to a nearly unrecognizable degree. She rushes to his side and starts to perform vigorous chest compressions, trying to bring him back.

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  Ultimately, her effort proves fruitless.

  Breslin yel s at Blankenchip to get on the helicopter. He nods and runs to gather Conrad.

  “We gotta go!” Blankenchip says as he pul s her away from James’s body.

  “But we can’t just leave him!”

  “He’s dead, Alicia,” Blankenchip says coldly. “PJ knew the risks when he signed up. Now let’s get the hell outta here!”

  Blankenchip forceful y yanks her away from James’s body. As he does so, James’s dog tag is ripped from his neck as Conrad clutches onto it.

  * * *

  Conrad Residence

  Silver Spring, Maryland

  “Get up, Alicia,” are the words Conrad hears as she’s woken from her dream by her younger brother Cameron.

  “What happened?” Conrad mutters as she shakes off the effects of sleep.

  “You were screaming.”

  “I was?” She’s still slightly disorientated.

  “You were having a nightmare, Alicia.” Cameron’s concern for his sister is evident in his voice.

  Even though he’s seventeen years younger than his sister, he takes it upon himself to assume the dual roles of watchful brother and man of the house. It’s an unnecessary burden, but nonetheless he’s chosen to accept it.

  “I guess I was,” Conrad says, now settling down from being jolted 36

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  out of her dream state.

  He glances at the digital clock on her bedstand.

  “It’s 12:45. Didn’t you say you had a meeting at two?”

  “Yeah, but what are you doing home so early? I thought you had

  AAU practice?”

  Playing competitive basketball has been in the Conrads’ blood for years. Their father, John Conrad, was an All-American during his high school years. Conrad herself was also an All-American at Springbrook High School, so it’s only natural that Cameron would follow suit. He’s been playing on the AAU team since he started middle school. He’s pretty good too, averaging sixteen points, ten rebounds, and five assists per game. Just like his big sister was, he was highly sought after by dozens of Division I colleges.

  “We ended an hour early,” Cameron answers. “I called and left a message on your phone for a ride.”

  Conrad picks up her cell phone from the bed stand and looks at the screen to see that she indeed missed Cameron’s call. She puts her head in her hand.

  “I’m sorry, Cam. I was at a meeting this morning, and I crashed as soon as I got home.”

  Cameron has sadly grown accustomed to being let down by his older sister. It always seems that affairs of work always take precedence over family for his sister. At least, that’s what it felt like to him.

  “I figured as much.”

  The young man exits the room, leaving Conrad alone.
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  Chapter Seven

  Small Talk

  Underground Parking Garage

  Sublevel One

  The Pentagon

  The drive back to the Pentagon is not as bad as the morning commute.

  Noticeably absent is the high traffic volume of rush hour, which gives Conrad plenty of time to arrive in the sublevel parking lot. After providing the guard with her credentials, she parks her SUV between a midsized sedan and a red Hummer. She heads toward the elevator.

  Thankfully, it doesn’t take long for the elevator to arrive after Conrad presses the up button. It stops on the next floor. The doors open to Cynthia Fighting Bull waiting just outside.

  Dressed in a suit jacket and long trouser ensemble, Fighting Bull looks a tad more polished than the file photo Conrad had previously seen.

  “Hello, Captain,” Fighting Bull says.

  “Hi,” Conrad replies, reacting slowly to the greeting. “Agent Fighting Bull, right?”

  “You don’t have to be so formal. Just call me Cynthia.”

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  “OK, just call me… Captain.”

  At first, the young CIA agent looks at Conrad as if she has lost her mind. Then, a smile creeps up the corners of Conrad’s lips. Finally coming to the realization that Conrad is attempting to be humorous, Fighting Bull starts to smile. They stare at each other with comical looks on their faces before chuckling.

  “Just kidding,” Conrad finally relents. “Call me Alicia.”

  “So, when did you hear about all of this?”

  “This morning, as a matter of fact.”

  “Yep, that’s our government for you, always the model of timeliness.

  I found out about it on the way back from an assignment.”

  “So, how long have you been in the CIA?” Conrad asks.

  “This is my fourth year. You saw my file, right?”

  “Yeah, but I’m just trying to make small talk.”

  “An annoying yet necessary nuance of social interaction,” Fighting Bull comments.

  Conrad is thrown by her statement. “What’s that?”

  “Small talk; it’s one of those things we just feel compelled to engage in once we meet new people,” she answers. “It’s our way of making an awkward situation less awkward.”

  Conrad looks at Fighting Bull quizzically. “Psych major in college, right?”

  “Actually it was one of my minors,” she answers. “So, Captain, how does it feel to become the most powerful black woman in America since Condoleezza Rice?”

  “Or Oprah Winfrey?” Conrad says without missing a beat.

  Fighting Bull laughs. “Including her.”

  Conrad pauses for a moment to ponder Fighting Bull’s comment.

  Growing up, she never truly viewed the world through the lens of race.

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  Her father was biracial and her mother was Ghanaian, but it wasn’t something that she dwelled on. She knows who she is ethnically, but hasn’t allowed that fact to dictate her life. “You know what, though, I never really thought of it that way.”

  The elevator finally arrives on the lobby level where the remaining members wait. The two women introduce themselves to the rest of the group.

  Conrad walks over to greet Morrison. “Agent Morrison, nice to meet you.”

  He grasps her hand. “The pleasure is all mine, Captain.”

  She turns to her old colleague, Blankenchip. They acknowledge each other in a way that only old army buddies can.

  “Glad to see you haven’t hit the retirement home yet, Aaron.”

  “I can still run circles around your considerable ass, you stupid broad,” Blankenchip utters. “Nice hair, by the way. You sure that’s AR-670 approved?” referring to Conrad’s dreadlocks which she had recently begun growing. He gladly points out that her hairstyle is not Army regulation approved.

  “It is now,” Conrad snaps back.

  Meanwhile, the two youngest members of the team get acquainted.

  “Cynthia Fighting Bull,” she says as she stretches out her right hand to greet Arrowhawk.

  Arrowhawk takes her hand. “John.”

  “Good to meet you.”

  “The pleasure’s all mine. Believe me.”

  “I know,” she replies assuredly.

  Fighting Bull’s confident response is a surprise to Arrowhawk.

  Normally, his charm elicits a giggle and a blush from the opposite sex.

  Fighting Bull’s cocksure attitude is new territory for him.

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  Within a few moments, Hanahan arrives with a tall, thin, blond-

  haired man with gray streaks on his temples.

  “Good afternoon, everyone. I believe you all know me. To my

  right here is Chandler Ramsey; he’s the NSA’s Director of Operational Planning and Programming. He’ll also be serving as your operations officer.”

  Conrad interjects, “But I thought we’d be reporting directly to you.”

  “Being the Secretary of Defense is tough enough; I can’t take on the extra duty of serving as your operations officer. Don’t worry, I hand-picked him for the job myself.”

  “I see,” Conrad replies in a tone that belies her lack of enthusiasm for Hanahan’s choice.

  Ramsey finally speaks up. “I have to say that it’s a tremendous honor to be involved with such an accomplished and talented group. I look forward to working with you all.”

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  Chapter Eight

  Meet the Press

  Pentagon Press Room

  The pressroom is packed to the brim with reporters, bloggers, and correspondents. Those who arrived just minutes late were relegated to standing in the back. News outlets from every medium are eager to get the chance to see the debut of America’s new superhuman defense initiative.

  Pentagon Press Secretary Dana Person walks into the room, followed closely by Hanahan, Ramsey, and the rest of the team. A crescendo of camera flashes erupts as they take the stage. Those reporters fortunate enough to have seats available to them sit down as Person takes to the podium.

  “Welcome, ladies and gentleman. We appreciate you all coming out to this press conference.” Person shifts her tone of voice. “As we all know we live in dangerous times, and they’re made even more perilous with the emergence of unlawful superhumans. Our founding fathers could never have foreseen these imminent threats to our national security.

  Consequently, we have created our own superhuman defense deterrent: Vigil. At this moment, I’d like to introduce Secretary Hanahan to 42

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  discuss the initiative.”

  Person retreats from the podium as Hanahan steps forward with a pat to Person’s shoulder. A few camera bulbs flash as he pulls out note cards from the inner pocket of his sport coat. He puts on his bifocal glasses and adjusts the microphone to his height before speaking.

  “Thanks. As Dana just said, we live in perilous times. Humans are no longer human, they’re superhuman. And terrorism is no longer terrorism, it’s super-terrorism.”

  Hanahan clears his throat. “In the face of these impending threats, we have taken the preemptive step of forming our own superhuman defense initiative. Individuals from the military and several federal agencies have been recruited to create the core of the team.”

  Hanahan points to each Vigil team member individually and

  names them. They nod or raise their hands in acknowledgement when their names are called. Mild applause accompanies each individual’s introduction.

  Hanahan continues, “I would like to praise the interagency

  cooperation that’s gone into forming this team. Who’d ever think that government could actually get things done for once?”

  His comment elicits a few chuckles from the audience.

  “All right, enough of my bad jokes. I’m free to answer questions.”

  ABC news corres
pondent Brian Dawson raises his hand.

  “Yes, Brian.”

  “Mr. Secretary, we’re in a financial slowdown right now. At this moment the country is running a thirty-trillion-dollar deficit. Where are you getting the funds to pay for all this, and is it even necessary?”

  “We’re being funded through a separate revenue stream.” Hanahan turns to Ramsey for confirmation of what he’s said. Ramsey nods in agreement.

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  “As for necessity, it’s very necessary. We can’t have what occurred in Minneapolis to ever happen again.”

  “With all due respect sir,” Dawson responds, “that was an isolated event. The superhuman community, by some census figures, is about 3 percent of the total US population and about 1 percent globally. Are they a credible enough threat to warrant such a vast initiative?”

  “One percent of over 7 billion is still a lot of people, Brian. Look, what happened in Minneapolis was the superhuman equivalent of 9-11.

  It’s my duty, and this Department’s duty to defend this nation against any present and potential threats. That includes superhuman threats, and we have recruited the personnel who can do the job.”

  Hanahan again looks sternly into the crowd. “Next question,” he says, as if daring any of them to challenge him again.

  After an awkward pause that almost seems like an eternity, Luke Matthews from CBS raises his hand. Hanahan points to him.

  “Mr. Secretary, aren’t you afraid of escalation?” he inquires. “With the deployment of our own superhuman initiative, what’s to keep China, North Korea, or Russia from responding in kind?”

  “That’s just speculation, Luke,” Hanahan says dismissively.

  “It happened with the development of the nuclear weapon. Initially only two nations had it, and now it’s mushroomed to several dozen. Mr.

  Secretary, is America willing to start a superhuman arms race?”

  “Look, you’re simply being an alarmist. We don’t have silos full of superhumans waiting to be deployed. Other nations are free to do as they please, but our policy is one of preemption rather than reaction.

  Vigil will be a deterrent to any outside superhuman threat to this country. Period. Next question?”

  In the farthest reaches of the press room, Mavis Nixon of NPR