Authors: Jack Murphy
“We have a plan in place in case something does come out in the press,” the older Biermann brother stated.
“I can mobilize the Occupy movement through various media watch dog organizations,” the old man agreed. “If the public hears about the government smuggling guns into Mexico we will make it look like a Republican conspiracy theory against a Democrat President.”
“And we can mobilize thousands of Tea Party supporters through our own media outlets,” the brothers said almost in unison, an annoying habit that the twins had. Looking at each other, the older brother continued. “We can get them outraged by the scandal and channel their anger towards the President which will fit nicely with what you have planned.”
“That way,” the younger brother said, picking up the conversation, “the entire scandal turns into nothing more than left wing versus right wing demagoguery and the subsequent investigation will go nowhere with both political parties pitted against each other.”
“During an election season,” the older brother laughed. “Its' a slam dunk. Silence a few whistle blowers, threaten to sue any journalists that get out of line, and the entire affair will peter out on its own.”
The old man pursed his lips.
“Maybe. Let's see what the damage is first before we worry about containment.”
The waitress brought them their breakfast, including three glasses of bourbon, a tradition the three men had started several years prior.
“The military base in Torreon could have been an accident of some kind but on the way here I found out about the Ft. Bliss facility going dark. Now we are getting nothing but radio silence from Area 14. It can't be a coincidence.”
The old man's assistant came in and sat down at another table. Propping a black case in front of him he opened it to reveal a computer screen and keyboard. The twin brothers had a similar system as did many others in their network, up to and including various commanding generals and select members of the President's National Security Council.
Nicknamed, the “Pirate's Net” it was a communications platform developed as a part of Cold War continuity of government planning. In the event of a nuclear war, military planners had decided that the mechanism and functions of government needed parallel systems to allow them to survive. This included a means for the civilian government to talk to the military even after key facilities and satellites had been destroyed by intercontinental ballistic missiles.
Normally run by the Office of Naval Intelligence, the Pirate's Net transmitted signals by bouncing them off the ionosphere rather than by satellite, and this gave it the added advantage of making it impossible to tap into and eavesdrop like normal communications. The National Security Agency was recording nearly everything these days, ostensibly for purposes of counter-intelligence but since the 9/11 attacks they recorded civilian communications traffic as well.
Communications nodes in their network had to use a system that could not be recorded or cracked by any agency, anywhere. The stakes were too high.
“Sir,” the assistant said. “Military Police on Ft. Bliss have found the crew at the G3 facility retrained and locked in a closet. Other than a non-life threatening wound, they appear to be fine.”
“What the hell is going on here?” the younger brother asked. Nothing like this had ever happened before. No one had the gall to challenge their power.
“Get Ted on the phone for me,” the old man said, demanding to talk to the CEO of G3 Communications.
“He locked himself in his panic room when he heard about what was happening. His body guards are trying to talk him out,” the assistant said, looking away from the computer screen.
“When was this?”
“About half an hour ago.”
“What about Area 14?”
“Updates show that a security detachment from Creech Air Force base is just arriving. I see a new message being forwarded to us from our contact in the National Security Council.”
The three oligarchs nervously ate their breakfast while the assistant read them the message traffic. They never touched the Pirate's Net but rather let surrogates handle it for legal reasons. Technically the system never should have been outside the hands of ONI as it was piece of classified government technology.
“The reports are coming in through NORTHCOM,” the assistant updated them. “The G3 command and control center burnt to the ground.”
“Now we know why Ted is hiding out in his panic room,” the old man said. “He must have ordered the destruction sequence.”
“The Iraqi contingent appears to have been completely destroyed.”
Forks rang off porcelain as the brothers dropped their utensils on their plates.
“They are counting the dead now, but there are dozens of bodies and destroyed vehicles. It appears to be the entire MEK strike force.”
“What about the provocateur element?” The old man specialized in propaganda and manipulation. When needed, his provocateurs acted all around the globe to help advance his schemes in tandem with various non-governmental organizations.
“They appear to be among the dead, sir. Wait, there is something else coming in.”
The assistant's hands danced across the keyboard and a picture loaded on the screen.
“Uh, you might want to take a look at this,” he said sheepishly.
The old man lumbered from the table, followed by the twins. As they stood behind the operator of the Pirate's Net, their faces went white. The Air Force security detachment had uploaded a picture from the scene of the disaster to the Pentagon, who in turn forwarded it to the White House, and finally to them.
The old man had never met him of course, but the corpse in the photo was the provocateur operative that he knew only as The Arab. A giant black knife was sticking out of his chest. The twins looked faint. Across the top of The Arab's shirt were hastily written words, hashed out with a black marker. The old man's eyes followed across them as he read aloud.
“
His boss is next on my target deck.
”
Read about the adventures of Deckard's father, a Vietnam veteran turned professional mercenary during the 1980's in the PROMIS series. Here is a sample from issue #3, PROMIS: South Africa...
12SEP83
0032hrs
South Africa
Streetlamps cast golden light down on the long empty roads that twisted throughout the Eastern Cape, insects creating a steady buzz that filled the darkness of night with their presence. The occasional window was still illuminated, only to be dashed as the locals tossed a curtain into place and prepared to bed down for the night. Although not still, the night was calm until the blast rocked through several neighborhoods, shaking people from their beds and setting off alarm systems on several warehouses located in the area.
South Africa was having another one of those nights.
0030hrs
An aluminum ladder thudded silently against the side of the prison wall, the strips of rubber tire treads tied to the top of the ladder damping the sound as it made contact. The ladder had been specially cut for one specific task, to help two black-clad men scale that specific wall. After scrambling up the rungs, the first man tossed a carpet over the barbed wire before uncoiling a rope ladder down the opposite side of the wall.
Crawling over the lip, the two operators did their best to keep a low profile as not to silhouette themselves against the moonlit skyline. Sliding down the rope ladder in a kind of controlled fall, they then slung their AK-47 rifles off their backs. The safeties slid off without the normal distinctive click, the levers wrapped in black electrical tape during mission rehearsals that had been conducted over the past week.
Finding themselves in the courtyard of Middledrift Prison, they sprinted to the heavy steel door that led into the prison itself, their rifle muzzles leading the way and scanning for threats. Black ski masks concealed their features from the ever watching CCTV camera on a pivot mount above the doorway.
Reaching into a satchel, the larger of the two operators produced a specialized door charge made of P4 explosives. Developed years prior during the Rhodesian Bush War, the charge was often called by its nickname, the
Gate Crasher
.
If there was anyone on the other side of the door they were in for a world of hurt from the steel bending and giving way under the explosive force of the detonation. The charge lived up to its name. The two assaulters stood on either side of the door as the plastic explosives blasted a shower of debris out between them, rattling windows for blocks in every direction.
Inside, the cell blocks consisted of cinder block walls that were covered in peeling paint, the walls themselves seeming to stretch on forever. The black-clad interlopers cut right and sprinted down a side corridor, knowing exactly where they were headed. A scale mock up had been constructed with wooden planks and Hessian cloth where they familiarized themselves with the floor plan. Together they had run rehearsals through the improvised prison again and again until they knew the layout like the palm of their hands.
Approaching the wing of the prison where the target was being held, they saw two guards as they rounded a juncture in the hallway. With AK-47 muzzles bearing down on them, one of the guards threw his hands in the air. The other reached for the revolver holstered on his hip just a second too late as one of the intruders butt stroked him across the cheek, drawing blood and knocking him to the concrete floor.
“You,” the attacker said to the remaining guard who had prudently surrendered. “On the fucking ground!”
The prison guard could see the edges of the man's lips and eyes under the balaclava he wore. He was the smaller of the two, also white, but his accent was not that of an Afrikaner. It was a strange voice like he had never heard before except maybe on television. American?
In seconds the gunmen had handcuffed the prison guards to a pipe sticking out from one of the nearby walls and were hurrying down the hall to complete their mission.
Turning another corner, their boots thudded down the corridor towards the entrance to the wing that housed solitary confinement, usually reserved for those deemed to be too dangerous to be left in general population. However, there was also another type of prisoner consigned to solitary confinement. Political prisoners.
At the sliding barred metal gate that served as an entrance to solitary, a lone guard sat behind a desk half asleep. When he saw two men storming up to him with Kalashnikovs held at the ready he jolted fully awake, his heart rate suddenly skipping up well over a hundred beats a minute. Reaching for the pump-action shotgun lying across the desk, a spray of 7.62 bullets shredded the wooden desktop, sending the shotgun spinning to the floor. The guard retracted his hand as it was now bleeding from several shrapnel wounds.
The larger assailant strode up to the guard and punched him in the face, toppling him over. No demands, just another obstacle to crush on the way to their objective.
Reaching for a key ring in his pocket, the shooter with the American accent produced a key, jammed it into the lock on the gate and turned it open. The key, and others, had been given to the operators several days prior by a guard who was currently off duty. The American had used some key impressioning techniques to make copies before rushing the originals back to the prison before anyone noticed them missing. The door slid on its rollers until it came to a stop with a loud
clang
that resonated throughout the solitary confinement block.
The jail breakers took off, jogging down the hall as prisoners reached through the bars of their cells attempting to catch hold of them. They screamed and shouted in a half dozen languages and dialects. Aside from the actual prisoners, the cells themselves were empty cement cubes with a lone slop bucket, the only amenity provided. It was no wonder that they begged to be released. Most of them looked malnourished; some looked positively sickly with boils across their skin and covered in feces.
In cell Twelve-Alpha they found their target, Josef Menzi.
Although it could be debated whether or not Josef was a psychopath, he was kept in solitary for purely political reasons. The ruling government, particularly the current president of the breakaway state of Ciskei, didn't want Josef spreading his political ideas among the other prisoners, afraid that it would lead to another coup attempt. It didn't help that the current President of Ciskei was also Josef's brother.
One by one, the various black ethnic groups were granted strategically located black homelands, Ciskei being one of them. The idea was purely Machiavellian on the part of the South African government. With black homelands granted, the rest of South Africa was reserved as a white
Volkstaat
by a matter of deduction. Besides, with the various black tribes split up into separate provinces it was even easier for the Apartheid-state to play them all off against each other.