Delphi Initiative, page 20
part #2 of Tommy Donovan Series
Winston went to nod but instead took an unsteady step backward. Tommy grabbed him and lowered him back to the ground. He looked at the bloodied arm and said, “You got a bad wing, what happened?”
Winston looked at the arm and let out an exhausted sigh. “I took a round through it somewhere around Texarkana. These assholes have been following me ever since. I stop every few hours to kill some, but they won’t stop hunting me.” He looked down at the ground then his head suddenly snapped back up like he’d forgotten an important fact. He looked hard at Tommy. “You’re dead.”
“Not so much, brother. Come on, we need to keep moving.”
Winston grunted and looked at the western road. “There’ll be more. A lot more.”
Tommy nodded in agreement. “They’ll see your little ambush site down there.” He looked at the exploded Malibu and the bodies surrounding it. “But you intended for them to find that, didn’t you?”
Now smiling, Winston said, “You like that? I stopped at that farm and told them if those cartel boys come looking for me to be sure and point them in this direction. Then I parked that car so it could easily be seen from the road.”
“Cartel?” Tommy asked.
“Yeah,” Winston said. “Believe it or not. I had the pleasure of conversing with one of them. Like most cowards, he talked a lot as he died. Let’s just say these boys aren’t locals. They are officially credentialed up, but they aren’t from here.”
Tommy looked at the road in the distance and saw a long snaking convoy coming into view. The lead vehicles were all black, but behind them were serval irregular vehicles, including a pair of busses. He pointed at the horizon. “Looks like your friends are coming; we need to head out.”
Winston grabbed Tommy’s arm. “I didn’t know anyone would be at the Ranch.” He closed his eyes and leaned his head back. “I wouldn’t have come this way. I wouldn’t have led them here if I knew. I thought you all were dead.”
Tommy grinned as he got to his feet then yanked the wounded man up. “It’s not just me, we got Hagan, Kidd, and Marcus.”
Shaking his head, no, Winston said, “Four, even five of us against them—Tommy it isn’t enough. Leave me here. I’ll end it and you can stay undiscovered.”
Tommy looked out at the approaching convoy. “Hell, from here it hardly looks like a fair fight. You sure they ain’t got more? I thought this was supposed to be hard.”
“Fuck off, just go,” Winston said.
Looking down at the man, Tommy could tell he was in no mood for gallows humor. “Sorry, brother, I can’t let you die a hero and steal all the glory.” He laughed walking up the hill, pulling Winston behind. “You know I’m the only hero in Ground Division.”
Winston attempted to laugh; instead, it came out as a wet cough. He tried to hold his head up as he mumbled, “Yeah, you’re right. You were always the attention whore of the team.” The wounded man stopped and fell to a knee then looked up at Tommy. “Hey, brother, it really is good to see you,” he said before collapsing to the grass.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
In a cold, brightly lit room Mark Dorsey sat at an empty conference table. Every inch of the space was white, the table surface, the chairs, even the speakerphone sitting in the center of the table. Mark couldn’t complain about the decorating; he had designed this room. Hell, Mark had designed the entire building, the entire complex. Mark and his Apollo Group were the technical developers and master architects of the United States National Intelligence Survey Administration, the newest and most developed technology and intelligence asset within the US Government.
Apollo Group and Mark Dorsey had been brought in early in the concept phase of the center and the complex. It was Mark’s vision and procurement talents that truly brought the ideas to reality. Mark knew the best people, he had access to the best developers, and he had the capital and investors to make it all happen. The US Government had deep pockets, but even the Treasury would have sticker shock if they knew the extent of what was going on in the basements of this facility, if they knew the salaries Mark had approved to the world’s top application developers.
The USNISA was intentioned to be the hub of all the American intelligence agencies. He had grand plans for the organization. With him at the helm, he would revolutionize intelligence gathering in the world. He would reduce redundancy, streamline investigations, and close the gap on keeping American’s truly safe from their enemies. He developed the Delphi Initiative to ensure it. The United State Security and Monitoring Enhancement Act would make people safe; it would stop crimes before they happened. Mark wasn’t a philanthropist or a patriot. He didn’t take on this project out of any civil duty. From the start, he had intended to one day run the complex, but he had never planned to take it over by force.
All he needed was for Delphi to go live. But the President and his administration fought him every step of the way. His Justice Department scored the program unconstitutional, and when Dorsey’s name had been floated around to lead the new agency, President MacLeod soundly rejected the idea. Mark made a fist, thinking of the idea of surrendering everything he had built here. Just the thought of having to hand this facility over to some bureaucrat made him physically ill. He grinned and looked around the room. “Nobody is taking this from me,” he whispered.
If the government wouldn’t turn the USNISA over to Apollo Group, then Mark would find a way to move the US Government under the control of Apollo Group. Things were not going according to plan. After Delphi passed the House and Senate, the President was supposed to resign. Then his friends in the Senate would move to the next phase to put place Mark Dorsey at the top of the USNISA, then he would bring Delphi to its full potential. He made another fist, this time hitting the table. He winced at the pain in his wrist.
The President had refused to resign, and Senator Shafer was losing his backbone. Instead of rallying Congress to support him, there were rumors they may vote to take Delphi down before it could prove its value. The President had more friends in the Congress than Mark had given him credit for, friends that needed to be silenced. Mark had ordered the blackout on the Capital District. He wanted to temporarily shut down the government. But he didn’t realize the extent of the risk of cutting the grid cold.
The fires and the spread of the blackout down the East Coast had angered a nation already in turmoil. But Mark wasn’t worried. He controlled the media, and they were working to sell his message. The people were believing his propaganda campaign to blame MacLeod for using an EMP device against his own nation’s capital. He laughed, thinking of the ridiculousness of the idea, but it was the journalists themselves who originally sold the idea of an EMP strike. All Mark had to do was use the power of Delphi to point a finger, and now DC was a dead zone, and Apollo Group has escaped all blame. But there was one other loose end he needed to contain.
The phone to his front rang. Mark held his breath and exhaled slowly before hitting the connect button on the base of the phone. “Hope you have good news for me,” he said.
On the other end of the line was Senator Shafer. He was supposed to be closing a deal with Chris Michaels, the Vice President, to end the stalemate, to convince MacLeod to resign, to leave his stronghold in Maryland and let the country return to normalcy.
“The news isn’t good, I am afraid,” Shafer said.
Mark scowled. “So Chris isn’t cooperating?”
“It’s a bit worse than that. He is threatening to go public; he’s scheduling a national address. He says he has direct evidence that Delphi, not MacLeod, is responsible for burning the White House.”
“That’s impossible,” Mark said. “The evidence on our side is unquestionable.”
“You don’t have to convince me, Mark.” The line went silent for a moment then Shafer came back. “Chris says they have gathered intelligence from several locations that show a cyber intrusion against the power plants and other pieces of government infrastructure. He has techs at his location now. They are presenting evidence captured in the seconds before the power went out. He says he can prove it was Delphi and not a high-orbit nuclear device that took down the Capital.” Another pause. “And, Mark, there are a lot of experts already doubting the idea that it was a nuclear weapon. The Israelis are ready to state that their satellites detected no atmospheric detonations. There are teams on the ground telling us they’ve found no evidence of fallout.”
“Are you fucking serious right now?” Mark shouted, suddenly losing his temper. “MacLeod did this! Why are you even humoring this guy?”
“This guy?” Shaffer shouted back. “This guy is the Vice President of the United States! Even people who want to believe the President is capable of such a thing are starting to doubt it. He’s going to go public, and then we will lose the Senate’s support.”
“You have to stop him,” Mark said, bringing his voice back down. “We need more time to prove our case.”
“The media is accusing the President of the United States of using a nuclear weapon against his own people. Mark, the Vice President is not going to stay quiet on this.”
“Where is he?” Mark asked. “Still in Chicago?”
“Yes, he’s staying at the naval base north of the city. There is no getting to him, if that’s what you are thinking,” Shafer said.
Mark laughed, and said, “Senator, what exactly do you take me for? I told you, this was MacLeod’s doing. All I want to do is help put this country back together again. Listen, we are not talking about this anymore; I am sending Victor to retrieve you and bring you back here. It’s time we reestablished control of the situation.”
Before Shafer could reply, Mark hit the end button, disconnecting the call. He then ran his hand over the surface of the white table. A digital keyboard illuminated on the surface. He punched in several commands, and the wall to his front transformed into a bank of computer displays.
Opening the main interface with Delphi, he dug deep into the inner workings of the network. From the main hub in the USNISA complex, he had access to every working system in the United States’ arsenal. He stopped at a login panel for the United States Strategic Command. He clicked a Delphi seal on the bottom corner of his display and let the artificial intelligence do its work. In moments, he was inside the secure network. He clicked a button, launching the AI module and took his hands off the virtual keyboard.
“Delphi, give me missile launch sites.”
Four of the smaller displays converted into one, then a map of the United States with red dots populated the map.
“Show Iowa,” Mark said.
The map zoomed in on the state, then switched to satellite images. Fifteen locations populated. Mark looked at the sites.
“Display low yield.”
All but one vanished. Echo Thirty, a Minuteman VII site northeast of Waterloo. He dialed in on the warhead type, a W78 with variable yield. Mark grimaced and ran his hand over the table, illuminating the keyboard again. He pulled up the device nomenclature then nodded. He stared at the map. It was big; this would be devastating.
“Delphi, give me the terminal,” Mark said.
This time all eight screens on the wall transformed into the command center of the Minuteman Silo. Mark could see all the red blocks on the screen, the failsafes and safeties that would prevent just this sort of launch. There were manual safeties to prevent a rogue operator from making a launch, but all of those could be circumvented by a system capable of firing the circuits on its own. He looked at the map of four silos, all missiles fueled and ready for launch.
He would love to send all four silos at the President at Camp David, but he had the majority of his ground forces surrounding the base there. He couldn’t risk killing his own people. No, and this was better. He could kill off the Vice President and make it look like retaliation. For what, it didn’t matter; the media would report whatever he said. And if the armed forces thought the President was dropping nukes on his own people, they would defect.
“Delphi, select Silo 1.”
“Selection, confirmed.”
“Delphi, set yield to five kilotons.”
“Selection, confirmed.”
“Delphi, target Great Lakes Naval Station, Illinois.”
“Selection, confirmed.”
The screen transformed. The terminal went live. An active target list populated then was scrubbed with the grid coordinates of the naval base locked into the right of silo one. His screen changed, and the display locked. He knew that the silo operators were trying to override his command. “Delphi, lock all internal command center doors, and shut down all internal monitors, shutdown all internal systems and communications. Delphi, disable bunker life support.”
“Selection, confirmed.”
He waited and watched as the screen returned to its previous settings. “Delphi, proceed with immediate launch.”
“Selection, confirmed.”
Mark leaned back in his chair and looked at the display. Two digital timers populated the center of the screen. The first was time to launch, the second time to target.
He watched the launch timer. Five minutes, he would have thought such a thing would be hastier. In the case of nuclear war, he’d always assumed things would be quick. “I mean, they are called Minuteman, not Five Minuteman.” He laughed sadistically at his own joke.
There was a loud knock at the door. “Enter,” he shouted.
The door behind him opened and he spun around in his chair. Victor Kesson stood before him. “Sir, there has been a development, actionable intelligence from Delphi,” the man said.
He was talking to Mark, but his eyes were fixed on the launch terminal. Mark smiled, knowing the muscle-bound Russian would have no idea what he was looking at.
“Yes, that is what the system is designed for. What do you have?”
Victor scowled; his eyes were still fixed on the display. “There was a captured communication from a call to the facility at Camp David. The call was made using a rudimentary encryption device. Delphi easily cracked the security and gave us information on the call. Whoever was calling is important to the facility, and they will be sending transportation.”
“Who was the caller?” Mark asked.
Victor shook his head. “That we couldn’t discern. The voices had analog modulation.”
“The location?”
“Lower Alabama.”
Mark looked back at the timer then back to Victor. “That is near Raul’s sector. Give him the call location and have him check it out. Have him capture whoever made the communication and deliver the information to us.”
“All due respect, I think my team should go. Raul is more of a hammer than a scalpel.”
Mark looked up at the ceiling with his fingers interlocked, twirling his thumbs. “No, Raul can handle this. Make it his priority.”
Victor, obviously not happy, nodded his head in submission. “I will see that it happens. Still, I think at least I should also fly to the location; this person was using encryption technology placing a call to the President. He may be of great value to us.”
Mark shook his head. “No, I have something else for you.”
“Sir?”
“Take your people, your best people, and go to Washington. Find Senator Shafer and return him here.”
“You want me to go to Washington now?” the man asked. “We have no control there; the city is in meltdown.”
“Yes, take your Spetsnaz buddies. The mercenary friends that you claim to not have.”
Victor grinned. “Yes, sir, we will leave right away.”
Mark shook his head. “Not right away—make the call to Raul first.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
He walked across the dusty parking lot, crushing gravel beneath his boots. No longer dressed in the tan khakis and shirt, he was now in the same black utility uniform as the rest of his men. Diaz had paid for that lesson; it was bad to stand out in a group when there were snipers in the area. He looked down at the dead men, several scattered and maimed around a destroyed automobile, another cluster of dead around a muddy crater where an IED had been planted.
Raul kept his eyes locked on the carnage as he spoke. “How many?”
“How many?” an officer said in Spanish-accented English. “How many what, my captain?”
Raul stopped and looked the man in the eyes. He missed Diaz, his right-hand man. Diaz would have already given him critical stat. With this idiot, every tidbit of information had to be painstakingly extracted, every question exact, and then contradicting information poured out when he didn’t want it. He glared at the man, wanting to pull his pistol now and shoot the idiot in the face. “How many men did we fucking lose?” he said, his voice hard and cold. “And I am not your fucking captain.”
“Eighteen.”
Raul turned away, walking toward a row of stacked bodies. Other men of his unit were gathering weapons and removing equipment from the dead. He looked back at the road. There were five vehicles heavily damaged with bullet holes. Beyond them, further back on the highway, was his own convoy of twenty plus vehicles.
“Five vehicles and eighteen men from one gringo,” Raul said under his breath.
“My captain,” the officer said. “That was just here—he has killed fifty from our force in total. And we are also taking heavy losses from the Texans west of the Mississippi.”
Raul locked his jaw in anger. He turned, drew his sidearm, and shot the officer in the side of the face. “Now it is fifty-one! Would anyone else care to recount the gringo’s numbers?”
The men around the ambush scene had frozen in place. Slowly their heads shook side to side, then they went back to the task of piling up the dead. One of the men, instead of cowering, returned his hard stare. The man was short, wide-shouldered, his beard well-trimmed, but his boots worn. The man wore his sidearm high on his right hip in a retention holster instead of in a drop holster like the rest of his men.
Raul pointed at the man. “You—what is your name?”
