Authors: Nathan Goodman
40
Stephen Latent’s right ear was occupied with the president of the United States who was barking in anger, when his left ear picked up flash traffic from an agent codenamed Savannah, who had just engaged and possibly killed several uniformed CIA officers. Latent pulled the red phone away from his ear. “Oh Christ,” he said. It came out as a whisper.
He interrupted the president, “Mr. President, Mr. President! We’ve got live fire. CIA operatives are engaging our agents who are returning fire.”
The president was furious. “How could this be happening?” he screamed. “What in the hell kind of FBI director are you?”
But Latent was having none of it and yelled back over the screaming president.
“Listen to me, you jackass! You authorized the Fourteenth Protocol? You authorized those assholes to conduct this operation? Against the people of the United States. What in the fuck were you thinking? You’re in this up to your eyeballs, and I’m going to fry your ass for it!”
The president went silent as Latent slammed the red phone down.
Latent could hardly believe what had come out of his mouth. And he couldn’t believe he just let slip that the FBI had been investigating the executive branch of the United States government for conspiracy. There would be hell to pay, and Latent didn’t know how he would retain his position if the president moved to revoke his authority.
Kyle continued his charge up the stairwell. He was on twelve and wasn’t stopping. His adrenaline raged, but he still couldn’t catch his breath. It was slowing him down, and it pissed him off. He heard loud footsteps coming down the stairs. He froze, assumed a cover position, and locked his sights on the landing above. Maybe this pause would give him the moment he needed to catch his breath after all.
It sounded like two, maybe three people charging downwards. Kyle braced himself for an all-out firefight. One set of footsteps sounded loud and clacking, like the sound of hard leather soles. The other softer, more rubbery. What struck Kyle was that the sounds were different. CIA security officers wore identical, hard-soled boots. A handgun entered his field of vision, then Jana’s face. She nearly shot him but saw the navy blue windbreaker just in time.
“Holy shit, Kyle!” she was gasping for air. “Oh my God, I nearly killed you.”
“Same here. You guys all right? You hurt?” said Kyle, reaching toward the blood on Jana’s face and blouse.
“We’re okay,” said Cade. “What about you? Are you hurt . . . wait, Cool Mac, what the fuck? Shit, you’re bleeding. Wait, are you hit?” Cade lunged toward Kyle’s left side. Frothy, bright red blood was all over the side and back of his FBI windbreaker. It was coming from just underneath his left arm.
“What? What are you talking about?” said Kyle.
Jana said, “Sit down. Let me look.” But what she saw drained all the color out of her face. She went numb, then into immediate crisis mode, tearing Kyle’s mic off his shoulder, “Paula D, Paula D, this is Baker.” No one had bothered to give her a codename since her last name fit into the cooking theme anyway.
“Go ahead, Baker.”
“Paula D, we’re in the southwest stairwell, level twelve. Savannah is hit. I say again. Savannah is hit. Requesting immediate evac.”
Kyle turned hard, struggling to see what they were talking about.
“I’m not hit, goddammit. Now let’s get out of here. Did you get the data?”
“Roger that, Baker,” came the radio reply. “Cooks on multiple floors are heavily engaged. Moving to you now. Use any and all force necessary to get out. You are free and clear.”
Cade applied pressure to the wound that Kyle himself had yet to register.
“Free and clear, my ass,” said Cade. “What does that mean?”
Kyle said, “It means shoot anything in your way and don’t ask it questions.” Kyle started to stand up but fell back down, dizzy.
Jana held down his shoulders. “Kyle, stop moving. You’re hit. The blood is bright red and frothy. It’s a lung shot. Now stay put until they get here.”
Tink, tink, tink
came another metallic sound of something bouncing down the stairs. Kyle rocketed up and screamed, “Everybody down!” He lunged forward, knocking Cade and Jana behind him. He chest-blocked the white phosphorous grenade then grabbed it and flung it straight down, in between the staircases. The sound of the explosion was cacophonous. The percussion and ringing in their ears was numbing. Thick, white smoke enshrouded the entire stairwell, and all of them began coughing. More screams from down the staircase were audible.
Gunfire erupted from above and then from below. Kyle called into his mic, “Paula D, Paula D, this is Savannah. Taking heavy fire! We’re pinned down. Over.”
Kyle couldn’t hear the reply over the ringing in his ears. Jana fired her Sig Sauer nine millimeter up the staircase, causing scalding hot shell casings to rain down on Cade below. Kyle fired both up and down the stairwell as darker smoke from the gunpowder mixed with lighter. Visibility was near zero; they couldn’t even see what they were shooting at.
More gunfire erupted from above. Had their ears not been already ringing, the sound would have been deafening. But this was different. An HRT team had entered the stairwell somewhere above and was engaging the CIA officers in a pitched gun battle. In all likelihood, the CIA had assumed the building was under attack and moved to defend it without even knowing they were shooting at FBI agents.
The smoke that obstructed their view also provided cover. They had to move, and Kyle knew the time was now. He jumped up and said, “Move! Move now! We’re going.” But as quickly as he was up, he collapsed on the landing in front of them.
“Kyle!” screamed Cade.
Kyle’s injuries were far worse than he knew. He could barely inhale, his head was spinning, and all the energy in his body felt like it was draining out. He couldn’t get up and began coughing up blood. The unfamiliar salty taste in his mouth shocked him.
“Take this,” he said, as he handed the automatic weapon to Jana then pulled off the fanny pack, which contained extra clips of ammo. She started to refuse, but knew her duty had to supersede her emotions. She grabbed the MP5 assault rifle and pack then assumed a cover position below, aiming down the stairwell from where gunfire was still coming.
“Damn, I’m cold.”
“Kyle, no!” pleaded Cade.
Kyle’s eyes went slack then fixated on a spot just above Cade’s shoulder. His eyes closed as he drifted in and out of consciousness.
“Cade, take this,” he said, handing Cade a nine millimeter handgun.
“No. What? No, man. No,” said Cade, incredulous to what he was seeing.
A tiny smile formed across Kyle’s mouth. His hazy eyes locked and a certain peace began to glow in them. Then Kyle shook his head violently and snapped himself out of his daze. He grabbed Cade’s shirt with both bloody hands.
Cade was shaking his head. “No. No. No, man. No. Don’t you do it. Don’t you leave me.”
“Take it, damn you. Take the gun,” said Kyle.
“Cool Mac! No, don’t leave,” said Cade. “I can’t do this. I’m not a federal agent.”
Kyle paused then blinked one time.
“You are today,” he said. With that, his gaze floated away. The slight grin returned as dimness formed in his pupils. It was like watching the sun slowly disappear over the ocean’s horizon as the burnt orange glow faded to darkness. And Cade knew. He just knew.
41
Jana’s movement was mechanical as she pulled off Kyle’s radio and earpiece. Then she ripped open his blood-soaked outer windbreaker, revealing the Kevlar vest underneath. She tore free each Velcro strap and wrestled the vest off of Kyle. She threw it over the top of Cade’s head and attached it to him.
Cade yelled over the gunfire, “What are you doing? No, put this on you.”
But Jana was having none of it.
“No. It’s you we’ve got to get out of this building. You have the data, and you know how to interpret it. Now pick up that weapon. We’re going, and we’re not stopping for shit.”
“But . . . I can’t. Kyle . . .”
Jana knew time was short. The smoke screen that hung in the stairwell would soon dissipate and remove their only cover. She fired several rounds down into the stairwell. The battle raging a few floors above them intensified. Even over the gunfire, she could hear people yelling. She fired three more rounds, then turned on Cade and slapped him, hard.
“Listen to me, goddammit! Pick up that fucking weapon! I don’t give a shit what you were ten minutes ago. Right now, you’re a soldier, we’re going down that stairwell, and you’re going to shoot any damn thing that moves. Now stand up!”
Jana took his hands and oriented them correctly on the handgun.
“Hold tightly, point, then squeeze. Keep your eyes open. If anything happens to me, don’t stop. Get out of the building. Find Uncle Bill. We’ve got to get the data to him.” Then she yelled into the radio. “Paula D, Paula D, this is Baker. Agent down, agent down. Kilo Item Alpha, Kilo Item Alpha”—the signal for KIA, killed in action. The words bounced across her lips like the rhythm of a drum. “Any friendlies below level twelve better get the fuck out of the way, we’re coming down hot.”
Outside at the command post, a junior agent monitoring cameras and other equipment burst in on Supervisory Special Agent Murphy.
“Ah, sir, you might want to take a look at this.”
“Not now, goddammit, not now,” he said, then keyed his mic. “Roger that, Baker, all teams are converging on your twenty to draw fire away from you. No friendlies below you.” Then, referring to Uncle Bill, he said, “We have verified, package pickup is on scene. I say again, package pickup is on scene. God speed.”
The junior agent interrupted again, “Sir, I think you really need to see this.”
Murphy wheeled around, “What in the hell is so damned important, son?” Disdain hung thick in his voice like frozen molasses. “I’m in the middle of a goddamned firefight at the moment.”
“Sir, we’ve got incoming,” said the junior agent.
Murphy squinted at him.
“Incoming.” It was more of a statement than a question. “What in the Sam Hill are you talking about?” He walked over towards the laptop’s screen muttering, “We ain’t back in ’Nam, son.” But there on the radar screen was a small, moving blip trailing across the digital outline of buildings. The blip disappeared only to reappear in a new location. “What the hell is that?”
“It’s an
inbound
,” said the junior agent. “And it’s not one of ours. It’s flying so low the radar is barely picking it up. But it’s definitely heading this way.”
“Wait, what the hell are you talking about?” said Murphy. “It’s an inbound what?”
“It’s air traffic, sir. Likely a chopper weaving its way in between the buildings to stay under the radar, but definitely coming in hot. It’s headed right up our six.”
“Air traffic?” said Murphy. “But . . . can you identify it?”
“No, its transponder is off, but based on its outline, attitude, speed, and the way it’s weaving in between buildings, I’d say it’s a helicopter gunship.”
Murphy looked like he had seen a ghost.
“A gunship. Oh shit.” Barking into the mic, he yelled, “All cooks, all cooks, this is Paula D. We’ve got company. We have inbound air traffic, definitely a hostile. All cooks on the outer perimeter prepare to repel. Traffic is inbound from the south. It’s on the deck. If it stays on course, it will come right up our six on Peachtree Street.”
Radio confirmation replies echoed back from all stations as sniper pairs turned their guns southward towards downtown Atlanta. Murphy pointed across the room at another agent. “Get me the tower at Dobbins Air Force Base, priority alert. Move, dammit!”
A few blocks north on Peachtree Street, an early model Honda Odyssey minivan sat idling. Inside the van was a lone driver whose hands rested across the “spare tire” he carried around his waist. He was in his fifties but looked a little older, with thinning, unkempt, salt-and-pepper hair. If the thick, graying beard had not obscured the outline of his entire mouth, one would have noticed bright orange crumbs left behind from a package of half-eaten peanut butter crackers still sitting on the seat.
If Stephen Latent had been standing on the sidewalk, he would have shaken his head and laughed, saying, “Same old Bill.” Bill Tarleton had roomed with Latent during their last couple of years at Georgetown. Latent would say that Uncle Bill, as he had called him, was brilliant on a level he could never comprehend. Yet, Bill’s free-thinking, unassuming air, and disheveled appearance made him look like more of an aging hippie than a senior leader in the National Security Agency’s cryptography branch. When Bill was a junior analyst, he had written some code algorithms that even the senior-most code breakers in the agency had been unable to crack. It was brilliance like that that catapulted his career to higher and higher levels within the agency.
One thing was certain. Latent no longer knew whom to trust. But the one person he could always trust was Bill Tarleton. They had been together during the absolute best times in their lives. Back then, they were so full of energy, so full of ideals. The goals were clear, and both of them thrived at Georgetown. Now, things were so complicated you didn’t even know who the enemy was.
There weren’t many people who understood Bill in those days. He was a quiet guy. He’d never had an interest in the limelight that his stellar academic achievement afforded him. When graduation neared, Bill received offers from more top think tanks than anyone. Latent would find job offers lining the trash can underneath the desk in their tiny dorm room, still unopened. Latent secretly stashed all of them. There were offers from all over the world for ever-increasing sums of money. Yet, Uncle Bill was only interested in the arrival of one letter—one from the federal government.
When the envelope came, Bill stared at it for a long while. When at last he opened it, the expression on his face remained stoic. But then Latent saw something he’d never seen before. He saw Bill Tarleton crack a little smile. For the first time in three years, Bill Tarleton actually smiled. After that first smile, Bill stood up and walked out of the dorm without saying a word. He then proceeded towards another first; he got drunk. Blind, stinking drunk. Finally, it was Latent’s turn to hold someone’s head over the toilet.
And so it was. That one envelope. The only one Bill had opened. Although he wouldn’t say, Latent knew that it was a job offer from the NSA. Bill never had an interest in money. He would serve his country and serve it in a way that would change the direction of code breaking in the United States for the decades that followed. Bill revolutionized cryptography, and tonight, he was the only person on the face of the earth that Stephen Latent could trust.