by Rawlin Cash
Fawn switched through the other news stations, all similar angles, and then switched back to Judge Judy. She’d watch the president’s address later. She made more coffee and went out to get the mugs from Dvorkin and Vestergaard.
Dvorkin looked like he was going to say something smart but he couldn’t think of anything.
“I’m not going out for a while,” she told them.
She went inside and opened her laptop. Her credentials were still valid. That was a good sign.
She tried to access the assassination intel, she wanted to go over her decision and see if there was anything she should have done differently, but it was locked.
She also had an incoming encrypted file transfer but couldn’t see who it was from. An anonymous transfer on the government system was rare. The system was internal, used by the intelligence community and DoD. It wasn’t designed to communicate anonymously and its users had no reason to do so.
At least not usually.
She downloaded the data and for some reason, her mind turned to Hunter. He shouldn’t have had access to the system but she knew that wouldn’t stop him. He and she weren’t close. They’d worked together during the cartel crisis, she’d gone to Alaska to bring him in, but they weren’t in the habit of sending each other messages.
She couldn’t think why he’d send her anything, but something told her it was him.
The data was heavily encrypted. She ran it through a decrypter but it didn’t get anywhere. Depending on how it had been hashed, the agency might not be able to read it at all. She transferred the file to a flash drive and deleted it from her account. Unless she was already being monitored, she doubted the transfer would have raised any flags.
She put the flash drive in her purse. She would try and open it on another computer when she had the chance. There were computers available for public use at the library. She didn’t know the key but she had a few phrases she could guess. If the sender wanted her to read it, they might have chosen something easy.
Hunter was still in Mexico. Hale had been keeping tabs on him.
She knew Hale was afraid of him. She wasn’t sure why, but she had a few hunches. She also knew Hale had steadfastly refused to have Hunter killed. In fact, he’d gone out of his way to keep him alive. He’d protected Hunter.
But now he was afraid to call him in and use him.
She knew Hale was holding onto Hunter for something, presumably something big, but this wasn’t it.
Hunter and Hale’s relationship was a closed book to her. A black box. The two men were like wolves circling each other. Hunter was still outside the country and Fawn knew part of the reason was his mistrust of Hale. Hale was a man obsessed with tying up loose ends but he’d repeatedly failed to take steps to neutralize Hunter.
Maybe Hale was afraid that if he tried and failed, Hunter would come for him. She knew there was more to it than that, though. A lot more.
It was a situation she had no access to, and that bothered her. It was dangerous.
And she didn’t understand Hale’s motivation. This was precisely the type of loose end he was so assiduous at avoiding.
Mantis had been Hale’s operation from the beginning. He was the one who pulled together the technology and psychologists and doctors. He secured the black money. He recruited the agents. He personally inducted them into the program and got them to sign the paperwork.
From what she’d been able to glean, Hale had insisted on personally being the one to hand them the contracts and watch them sign.
If the records were accurate, which she knew they might not be, every recruit had been told, in person by Hale, that if they were ever compromised, or if their existence became a liability to the government or the agency, they would be liquidated.
Apparently, Hale had worked personally with the attorney general to draw up a document purporting to have the candidates sign away their constitutional rights, their civil records, their very existence. While such an agreement might not be valid under the law, it was a striking symbol of the commitment the operatives were being asked to make.
The operatives were also told there was an extremely high risk of something going wrong. They were to be subjected to highly speculative enhancement techniques, psychological manipulation, memory interference, hormone treatments, and gene therapy.
Fawn saw transcripts in which Hale told the recruits that in all likelihood, the government itself would be the one to kill them in the end.
Before being named Preying Mantis, the whole project actually had the codename Frankenstein. It had a lot of similarities to the old horror classic. A crackpot inventor intent on building a monster, but careful to preserve for himself the ability to kill the monster when things went wrong.
The kill switch, as it was called, was something the agency had built into a number of previous enhancement programs. It had gone through a number of iterations and had never been as effective as the agency needed it to be. In most cases, if the agency needed to take out its own operatives, even those with a kill switch embedded, an assassin was used.
The first kill switch used by the CIA in an operatives was a small electronic device inserted beneath the skin. It was capable of releasing a lethal poison into the bloodstream. The poison was effective but the device was so easy to remove, all you needed was a knife and a reasonable tolerance for pain, that it was effectively useless. If an operative went off the rails, which was really the only time you needed the kill switch, the first thing he did was cut it out. It was theoretically useful in the situation where a good agent was captured and was going to be tortured for information, but agents had been carrying cyanide capsules for decades and rarely found them necessary.
The agency then experimented with embedding the device deeper and deeper into the operative’s body, into bone, into the spinal column, into an organ, but they were always either removable, or so damaging that any operative subjected to the insertion was physically compromised.
“You try passing these physicals with a piece of shrapnel in your spinal column?” one operative told the readiness team.
Over time, the agency switched to the view that while the kill switches were easily overcome, they were still useful as a psychological restraint on operatives, and as a symbol of their readiness to obey orders. Any operative who hadn’t removed a kill switch, in theory at least, was still willing to take orders.
The agency also began devising new uses for the embedded chips. Releasing a poison turned out not to be the only, or even the best, possible enhancement of an operative. Other substances that reduced the risk of an operative going rogue in the first place were experimented with.
They equipped the next generation of devices with a range of chemicals that could be used to enhance or manipulate an operative’s behavior. They could release truth serums, compliance serums, sedatives, memory inhibitors, as well as pain killers and antibiotics.
If an operative was wounded in the field, they could remotely monitor his heart rate and administer medicines. If he was going to pursue a particularly sensitive objective, they could administer memory inhibitors that would make him less likely to remember details of the mission after the fact. And of course, if an operative was captured, they could always administer cyanide as a last resort.
Fawn knew Hale was hiding something from Hunter. With all those chemicals, it was easy to picture any number of scenarios in which Hale had crossed the line. She knew Hunter had ripped the kill switch out after his last mission. She also knew that Hunter’s last mission wasn’t the one officially listed on his file. The file said it was a hit on the Butcher of Kabul. But there’d been another one. Something Hunter didn’t remember. Fawn didn’t know what it was, but she was beginning to suspect that it had something to do with the reason Hale was so afraid of him.
He was afraid of Hunter remembering it.
And coming for answers.
And maybe revenge.
Fifteen
Hale was in the middle vehicle o
f the cavalcade. In front and behind were police escort vehicles, cruisers and motorcycles.
They were traveling out of DC to a secure location in Maryland where the new president, Jackson’s vice, Gary Walker, would be making his first address to the nation. He’d been sworn in at the capitol while Jackson’s body was still in the building. Then he’d been whisked out to this place, Safe House One, until it was deemed safe to return to the White House.
Hale watched out the window as they sped through intersections and traffic lights. He wasn’t ordinarily afforded this much prestige.
This was how the president traveled.
He looked at his phone. There was a message from NSA Director Fitzpatrick. Fawn would be cleared of any wrongdoing. The report was already complete. It was a good hit and the agency and the government would stand by it. Public sentiment was on their side. If someone shot the president live on national television, all force necessary should be used to respond.
She was in the clear.
Hale was relieved. He needed her. They were in for a hellish few days. He hadn’t been able to sleep all night. Losing the president was bad enough, but what Hale was worried about, terrified of, was that the assassin wasn’t finished.
There’d been an intrusion in the White House during the night. It was not successful. Walker and his wife were not in the building and neither was Emily Jackson. The intruder, a lone gunman, caucasian, had been shot dead by the secret service but not before killing two members of the White House custodial staff.
The guy seemed like a crackpot, not the type who’d have been able to pull off the shooting in the capitol, but it was unnerving nonetheless.
“Coming up to the airfield now, Mr. Director,” the driver said.
Immediately after the shooting, Walker, as well as members of the cabinet and the congressional leadership, were taken to different secure locations around the capital. The locations were codenamed Safe House One, Safe House Two, and so on. Hale was one of the few people alive who knew the location of all of them.
Safe House One was on the west shore of Chesapeake Bay. To maintain secrecy, anyone visiting it had to first go to the Aberdeen Proving Ground, an army facility in Harford County, Maryland, and access the safe house compound through a two-mile-long underground tunnel.
Hale knew that the National Security Advisor, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, and various other cabinet members were also en route. To maintain maximum security, staffs were being kept to a minimum. The president had a few aides present, but Hale and the others wouldn’t be bringing anyone.
The cavalcade drove through the gates of a secret military airfield on the edge of DC and went right onto the runway.
The ordinarily sleepy facility was on high alert. Hale wasn’t the only one who’d be using it. It was alive with guards, flight crews, security teams, and sniffer dogs.
There were eight Sikorsky White Hawks on the runway, some being fueled, and their crews were at the ready. Hale’s SUV pulled up to the first of them and he stepped out into the cool morning air. The breeze felt good on his face. It had been raining. The sky was gray. It was a depressing day but it suited the somber mood.
He got into the helicopter and put on a seat belt. There were a number of other seats but he was the only passenger. After a minute, the engines revved up and the pilot’s voice told him they were taking off.
The helicopter flew out over the bay and kept low enough that he could clearly see the houses and boats along the shoreline. The water looked gray and cold. The first signs of spring were still a ways off.
Less than thirty minutes later, the helicopter was landing at Phillips Army Airfield, its asphalt runway slick with rain.
Hale always thought the Aberdeen Proving Ground, built on the northern tip of Chesapeake Bay in 1917, was a strange place for a presidential safe house. It was built six months after the US entered the First World War and at its peak, housed over twenty-five thousand personnel. While most US munitions at the time were produced by civilian contractors, there were certain weapons the federal government deemed too sensitive to outsource. These included mustard gas, chloropicrin, and phosgene. During the First World War, over ten thousand tons of these toxins were produced, primarily at the Aberdeen Proving Ground, and used to fill artillery shells. The shells were used against Germany by British, French and American troops.
After the Second World War, the Army Chemical Corp used the facility to conduct classified medical studies on the effect of chemical weapons on live soldiers. Between 1955 and 1975, over seven thousand soldiers were exposed to more than two-hundred-fifty chemical warfare agents, and the effects were studied. Among the chemicals tested were Agent VX, sarin, carbamate pesticides, mustard agent, atripine, scopolamine, 2-PAM chloride, Agent Orange, and Agent Orange Plus. Additionally, psychoactive agents including LSD, PCP, cannabis and Agent BZ were tested.
The entire facility had been on the Environmental Protection Agency’s list of most hazardous waste sites since 1985. Virtually all the land contained contaminants including napalm and white phosphorus. Numerous abandoned buildings were contaminated. Water contaminants also affected all rivers, streams and wetlands on the facility’s thirteen thousand acres.
A lot of it had been remediated but it was still toxic, the last place a president was likely to be, and that, Hale supposed, was its prime advantage.
He took his phone and briefcase from the helicopter and was shuttled from the airfield into the proving ground proper. Inside the main fence was a low, concrete bunker. Inside the bunker was an elevator but before Hale could enter it, he was subjected to a rigorous search including metal detectors, an x-ray scan, and chemical analysis.
He was then escorted by two soldiers to the elevator. He entered alone.
It took him down fifty feet to a concrete, underground tunnel where he had to wait for a twenty second security delay before the doors opened. When it did, more soldiers and secret service personnel were waiting. Two secret service agents brought him to an ordinary golf cart which ferried him the two miles to the other end of the tunnel. He then took another elevator back to the surface. It released him inside a compound. It was close to the shore and he could smell the water. It was his first time there. It wasn’t as bad as he’d imagined. He could see the water between the trees, and guard posts and fencing along the perimeter.
The area was forested.
The buildings were camouflaged with bushes, grass and artificial trees to avoid detection from the air.
“Welcome to Safe House One, sir,” the ranking secret service agent said.
Hale nodded and they took him along a wooden walkway through the forest to the main building of the complex. It was a lodge with a log roof and thick, stone walls. Hale knew the granite walls were reinforced with steel and concrete and at places were more than six feet thick.
It reminded him of a ski resort he often visited in Quebec. He’d also heard it compared to Hitler’s Wolfsschanze, or wolf’s lair, in the Polish forests of the eastern front.
Inside, it was a lot like a ski lodge with rustic logs, a large stone fireplace, and small windows through the thick walls that gave it a cavelike feeling.
Hale was in the great hall. There were comfortable leather seats and couches around the huge fireplace, a bar with no one behind it, some bookshelves with leather bound tomes, and a lot of portraits of dead presidents.
The fire was burning nicely and Hale was drawn to it.
“We’re a little short-handed,” the secret service agent said. “You can help yourself to the bar. There’s also coffee and some pastries. If you need anything, let us know, but we’re operating on a high threat protocol.”
Hale nodded. That meant there’d be no chef or kitchen staff, no hot meals, no housekeeping. Personnel on site was being kept to what was essential to the task at hand. Comfort was not a priority.
“Can you take me to the president?” Hale said.
The agent nodded and escorted Hale through the great
hall and down a corridor that led to a number of offices. Most were empty but the last had two agents standing outside. One of the agents knocked and the president’s voice told them to enter.
Hale entered the room and held out his hand to shake Walker’s.
“Mr. President,” he said.
“Hale,” Walker said. “Jesus Christ. They’ve been ferrying me around all night. I haven’t even seen my wife.”
“I’ll look into that right away, sir.”
“And get me to the White House, will you? This scuttling around is undignified.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I know they have their security protocols, but I have a nation to get to grips with.”
“We’ll get you back to the White House very shortly, sir.”
“I wanted to do this address from the Oval Office.”
Walker looked at his watch. There were a few hours before it was scheduled.
“I don’t think that will be possible,” Hale said.
Walker grimaced. “What do you know about this intruder?” he said.
“I’ll get a report for you. As far as we know he was acting alone. He was caucasian. He killed two caterers.”
“Who the fuck was he?”
“Looks like a crackpot. He frequented fringe chatrooms online. Had a basement full of weapons. You know the type.”
“Any connection to the assassination?”
“We don’t know for certain, but so far the assessment is that it’s highly unlikely. We think he was inspired by the attack but unconnected to it.”
“So a copycat?”
“We think so, sir.”
“He was smart enough to get into the White House,” Walker said.
Hale swallowed.
“Correct, sir,” he said.
Walker looked at him pointedly. It wasn’t good. Security appeared to be in a shambles. An assassination at the capitol. A crack pot in the White House. Hale wondered if his tenure at the helm of the agency could survive this.
“My top priority is to be back in the capital as soon as possible,” Walker said.
