Androcide (Intel 1 Book 5) Page 9

  22

  Mission Failure

  “They’ve rigged a rope-ladder,” said Lopez, his face grave before the security footage. “It’ll be soon.”

  Houston rolled a chair up beside him, placing her hand on his shoulder. “The worm?”

  He opened another window on the screen. “Bug’s fast. 90% coverage of the LAN-connected drives.”

  “That’ll have to do.”

  “We’re shut out here. Hardline’s dead, and the place is shielded. No frequencies getting through. All this data’s gotta get out the old-fashioned way.”

  Zaringhalam stood behind them, shaking his head. “Who is this Angel? The code is brilliant. It has spread like fire through their network, copying everything. And many of these drives have been recently erased—my guess is right before we came. They didn’t have time for a secure erase, but the worm is resurrecting all the deleted files as well.”

  “I hope you’ll get to meet her someday,” said Houston. Lopez brandished the thumb drive. She walked over and grabbed it. “Meanwhile, this little stick might hold all the goods on Nemesis and her worldwide network.” Houston removed a short knife from her combat boot and inserted the drive in its place. “We lost her, so it’s all we have from this mission, which is going south very fast. Priority one: get this stick out of the country.”

  “The charges?” asked Lopez.

  Houston nodded. “They’re set. Proximity trigger on the timers. Nemesis isn’t coming back here after today.”

  The commander of the Seal team jogged into the main room, shaking his head. Sweat and dirt stained his face. “Doesn’t look good. They blew the back exit. Debris has us trapped in good. Tried to dig through, but it’s half a day’s work at least.”

  “We don’t have half an hour,” said Houston.

  Another soldier slapped his firearm. “Then we give them one hell of a party before we go.”

  “No,” said Lopez. “We’ve got to be smarter than that. Getting killed doesn’t further our mission. The information will die with us.”

  Houston stepped toward the elevator, the sounds of Iranian troops echoing down the shaft as they descended.

  “He’s right. We play for time. Engage only if they discover the stick. This is going to be a PR bonanza for them. They’re praying they can take us alive, believe me. Let’s make it easy for them.”

  The commander glowered. “We have very specific orders, and they are not to be taken alive.”

  “And I’m running this mission,” she said. “Those orders assumed a mission failure. We still have a shot to avoid that. We have the data. We’re going to do everything in our power to get it out of Iran. Even if it means some personal humiliation. Or worse.”

  “Fuck that,” said the other soldier.

  Houston glared at him. “Don’t make it personal, Sergeant. There’s a bigger goal.”

  “Then what about the nation?” he asked. “They’ll parade us in front of the whole damn world! Talking a lot of damage. Your stick worth it?”

  “It likely is,” said Lopez.

  Heavy impacts came from the elevator cab, boots on metal. Shouts in Farsi burst from the shaft.

  “Won’t matter,” said Houston. “We won’t let it get that far. Escape is viable only in the next few hours, during transfer. Before they stick us into separate dungeon cells. Stay alert.”

  The soldier shook his head. “And how are we going to control the situation once they bag us?”

  Houston grimaced. “We aren’t out of options yet.”

  Lopez locked eyes with her. “A little divine intervention wouldn’t hurt.”

  Iranian soldiers leapt into the cab from the opening in the ceiling, their boots slamming steel reverberating through the room. The first exited in combat readiness, aiming weapons at them and shouting. Houston raised her arms into the air and glared at the Seal team. They scowled, placing their weapons on the ground and hands in the air.

  She returned her gaze to the onrushing troops. Their eyes were wary, fearful, yet determined. Sweat glistened on their faces. One came to a stop a foot from her, his weapon aimed at her face.

  Houston smiled. “Howdy, boys.”

  “Have we re-established contact?” The voice of President York was cold and matched her hard expression on the large flatscreen.

  “No,” said Savas, his fingers scraping through his gray hair. “Not since they entered the bunker.” He locked eyes with the image on the screen. “With the satellite data, troop movements around the monument, we’ve got to assume the mission’s compromised.”

  “Compromised. What does that mean, exactly?”

  Rebecca Cohen spoke. “We don’t know. Transmissions were interrupted underground. It must be shielded. Maybe scrambled. Protocol demanded contact every hour. Someone would have left the bunker to send a signal. It’s been silent. We conclude they couldn’t.”

  The president bowed her head. “Then the chatter on NSA intercepts might be correct. They’ve been captured.”

  “The probability’s growing, yes,” said Savas.

  “You understand what this means, John.” No one answered. “It’s not just the end of INTEL 1, possibly of my presidency. It means Iran and Nemesis will have a new freedom and leverage across the world. Our efforts will be shut down.” The president shook her head. “I think Mirnateghi’s played us. She’s been one step ahead of you since Bilderberg. This whole thing was one long setup.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Cohen. “We’ve made progress. We’ve damaged her network. She had nowhere else to go. She was trapped!”

  “And what do they say about cornered beasts, agent Cohen?”

  “We’re not abandoning ship yet, Ms. President,” said Savas.

  “Noise out of Tehran is there’s going to be an international example made,” said York. “Your people, some of them anyway, must be alive. And they’re going to break them, make them confess to the world. It will be a spectacle. We’ve signed their death warrants, and worse.”

  Savas looked at Cohen, her face pale and hard. His voice was raw. “Yes, Ms. President. If it gets that far.”

  “If? What options are left?”

  “There’s no room for failure in this mission. You made that clear. In the event of capture of the strike team, the plan dictates a final secondary team operation.”

  “Carter rescue mission in the desert, 2.0?”

  “Rescue is only one of the options—only when viable.”

  York’s eyes burned on the screen.

  “The secondary team is still in play,” finished Savas.

  “Our entire geopolitical strategy is at risk,” said York. “I hope this mission was worth the coming sacrifice.”

  “They’re my people, Elaine. We’ll do what we have to.”

  “I want to know any changes, any updates. Use the red line.” He nodded but her dark expression remained unchanged. “We’re going to have a lot to answer for.”

  The connection closed and the screen darkened. The cavernous room was silent but for the hum of the machinery around them.

  Cohen didn’t look at Savas, staring forward at the cold mug of coffee in front of her. A rainbow from skin oils danced on the surface under the glare of the fluorescent lighting.

  “John, you can’t—”

  “Rebecca! This is bigger than us.”

  “We’ve been through too much! I don’t care what York or anyone else says, you can’t!” She walked up to him and glared. He avoided her stare. “And even if you did, so what? Angel won’t! There is no way in hell she’s going to order the execution of our team. No way!”

  “You’re so sure about that?”

  “Of course I’m sure! I’ve known Angel through too much. Fire and blood. You tell her to do that and she’ll flip you the damn bird, go in herself and drag them out of the Iranian dungeons!”

  Savas smiled. “Yes,” he said, opening a secure communications link. “That’s exactly what I’m counting on.”

  23


  Demagogue

  Elaine York struggled to compartmentalize. Ten minutes before, she’d left a situation room, briefed remotely on the catastrophic failure of the INTEL 1 mission in Tehran. A failure likely to doom her re-election campaign when the Iranians made it public. Ignoring that ticking bomb, she wrestled her mind to that very campaign in a meeting with her political advisors. Winning was critical. Losing could mean a setback in the broad effort to end the Bilderberg threat. And her opponent—his administration could mean an end to a great many things.

  “I just don’t understand this polling. It’s like the rules of politics, of human behavior are suspended!”

  She paced the Oval Office. Her two closest campaign staff, chief Greg Evans and media strategist Nina Raf, sat across from the presidential desk, watching their Chief Executive rant. They could not meet her eye.

  “For every minor misstep we make, some less-than-stellar, or, God forbid, misspoken phrase, we lose measurable standing. Meanwhile, this...man can attack minorities, disparage women, even refuse to play by any norms of financial transparency. With every ignorant and bigoted thing he says, he gains! His numbers go up.” She whipped around, trying to stare an answer or solution out of her advisors. “Your job is to explain this. Stop this. Defeat this. And you are failing!”

  Evans cleared his throat. “Ms. President, we are in unprecedented political times. There is a pent-up resentment against a woman holding power. We’ve got to call it what it is. Many voted for you four years ago, overcoming biases for a historical moment. But it only made things worse when the usual problems in the nation remained only partly addressed.”

  “Usual problems?” shouted York. Evans shrunk into his chair. “Does this country forget what happened? That the survival of our democracy was up in the air? That Anonymous had crippled the country by sabotaging the digital world? That there was a military coup that nearly led to a civil war? And that it was that female in the Oval Office who stood up to that coup? That she won?”

  Raf shook her head. “Memories are short, but it’s worse than that, Elaine. Those were dark days. Confusing times. Suite’s clever. His white nationalist attack dog Brennem put the blame for the crises at your feet. There’s no lie they won’t tell. Truth, consistency isn’t the point. Pushing buttons is. They make up a reality many are desperate to hear. That’s why every lie stains your reputation. Half the nation thinks you started the conflict now, that the military was trying to stop you. They’ve enlisted enough former soldiers who turned on you to give it credibility.”

  York shook her head. “Documented facts on this corrupt tycoon—fraud, civil rights violations, audio tapes that would have ended careers, proof of his monstrosity—nothing hurts him.”

  “It’s hard to understand,” said Evans. “But we have to accept this truth: facts, reason, evidence, consistency—none of this matters to his base. They treat Suite like a cult leader. A true, charismatic demagogue.”

  “He’s taking his cues right out of the 1930s playbook,” said Raf. “The chaos and economic damage from the crisis has many suffering. You know that. Combined with the deep misogynistic vein running through society—women haven’t even been full citizens, able to vote, one hundred years—it’s political napalm.”

  Evans cut in. “Exactly. Then you find a group the nation distrusts, is afraid of, and shape an entire platform around it. Use fear to drum up support. Use fear and blame to create simplistic problems and solutions. It was Jews and Communists once. Now it’s Mexicans and Muslims.”

  “I can’t believe this is America.” York sat down in her chair behind the Resolute desk, drumming her fingers. “You know this wood came from a boat? British Royal Navy. Frozen in place, trapped in the ice at the North Pole.” Her aids glanced between each other. “A challenge like this from some normal politician I could accept. But from this bigoted demagogue, this con man and liar and ignoramus—this is the nastiest political beating I’ve had in my life.”

  “We feel a lot of the strategy, the focus, is from Brennem. What he did with the white nationalist supporters—”

  “Bigots,” said York. “Stop normalizing them with euphemisms.”

  Evans swallowed. “He took the fringe to mainstream despite blatant bigotry—that’s a political genius of a very high kind. His documentary films show he believes in a world clash of civilizations between the US, the Islamic world, and Asia. He’s a fanatic. But he’s organized. Suite doesn’t have the discipline for this campaign. He’s too much a narcissistic playboy.”

  “Whoever is shaping this strategy,” said Raf, “the bottom line is it’s working very, very well.”

  “We still have a significant lead in the polls,” said York. “Most forecast us winning with high confidence.”

  “There’s that, at least,” sighed Evans.

  Raf leaned forward. “I would like to play devil’s advocate, Ms. President.”

  York glared at her. “You would challenge this narrative?”

  “Yes,” said Raf, holding up a hand as Evans tried to interrupt. “We’re doing well in national polls. State polls are much closer. And some of the best prediction sites have unusually large error margins.”

  “Why?”

  “The sampling is uneven, the results poorly reproducing. Some speculate there is a shame factor in admitting support for Suite distorting the polling.”

  “All purely speculative, Nina,” said Evans, his face reddening. “We’re very strong—”

  “If the vote swings the wrong way,” said Raf, “if the error is in the wrong direction in just a handful of states, it’ll be close. We’ll almost certainly win the popular vote. But the EC is a very different story.”

  “Another Bush-Gore scenario?” asked York.

  “The polling shows you winning a lot more votes. Millions more. So, if Suite takes the College, it’d be worse than Bush-Gore. The raw differential in popular vote might be history making.”

  Evans shook his head. “Nina, what are you saying? Because it sure sounds like you might be suggesting—”

  “She’s saying we might lose, Greg,” said York, leaning back in her chair. “That the voters of this nation, a minority of them, might just hand the most powerful position in the world to a monster. And God help us if they do.”

  24

  Gone Under

  Sacker suppressed a laugh. She’s got spunk, that’s for sure. This might be fun.

  Gone inhaled and fired words out like a machine gun.

  “You’re a heavy smoker, but have tried to quit for some time, and off the wagon recently because of the stress of this case. You tend to self-medicate stresses like this with different drugs, your personal vices the common ones of nicotine and alcohol. You’re left handed, a former soldier, serving sometime before 2007, which likely places you in the Iraq War. You received a military scholarship and attended college, entering the police force as a beat cop but because of your intellectual abilities moved up to detective. You’re single, and have never been married for any length of time, although you are very interested in women and date as frequently as your job allows. Currently this case is in big trouble, is going nowhere, and you have no leads to assuage the growing impatience of your bosses and the public. I could tell a lot more about you if I researched social media, public records, hacker databases. But this much I could get from our introduction.”

  Sacker sat still, his mouth open. “And I’m supposed to believe you just deduced all that? From meeting me this morning?”

  “Yes.”

  “No way. I don’t buy it. You’ve been looking into me. I like my privacy, Ms. Gone. I think this interview is over.” Sacker stood to leave.

  “I was fairly on target, wasn’t I?” He scowled at her. She rose from her seat and steadied herself on the desk. “I haven’t investigated you, detective, and I can tell you how I know each of these things. I also know that you have begun investigating me.”

  Sacker raised an eyebrow. “How would you know something like that?�
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  “Credit reports have been called out on my name today, right after you agreed to meet me. I monitor a lot of channels, detective. No doubt you had a colleague begin to look into my background.”

  Dammit! Okay, sister, I’m intrigued.

  He sat down. She followed suit. “All right, let’s pretend that you haven’t been spying. How the hell did you come up with all that? What makes you think I smoke?”

  Gone laughed. “That’s an easy one. To a non-smoker with a good sense of smell, the products of burnt tobacco leave a strong, acrid odor easily detected on a person’s clothing, skin, and their breath.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. Nothing very impressive there. Look it up online and use mints.” She frowned. “As for how I knew that you were a heavy smoker, several things. The first I admit to using a little outside information: the video of you on television at news conferences. You’re there, just last week, right behind the mayor. You put a strip of gum in your mouth. But you don’t chew it long. You park it in your mouth and stop chewing. You repeat this process of short chewing and then long periods of holding the gum in place. Not regular gum. Nicotine gum. Altogether, it was obvious you were a smoker and failed to quit, indicating heavy dependence on cigarettes.”

  “You’re pretty damn observant.”

  “Part of my gift for the job, detective. A photographic memory also helps.”

  “Go on.” Intriguing and uncomfortable.

  “It’s the failure to quit—which clearly happened over the last week because of the video date—that leads to the next conclusion. You use pharmacological compounds to self-medicate your psychological needs.”

  “Really.”

  “Yes. Why did you fail to quit just this week?”

  “Maybe I tried the damn gum last weekend and it sucked. Went back to smokes.”

  “A military man, detective, assigned a high-profile case lacks the discipline to go more than a week on the gum? Low probability. The much higher probability is the stress of the case drained your willpower, a finite resource of the nervous system. This sent you back to the physical cigarette. Next, add your abuse of alcohol.”