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Act of Conspiracy, Chapter IV: Indicative Future
Posted By: russ687<russ687@hotmail.com>
Date: 9 February 2005, 10:53 PM
Read/Post Comments
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Chapter IV
Indicative Future
December 28, 2524
City of Standyle, Pacificatorius Capital City
Pacificatorius, Atropos System
Department of International Security, City Center
They were not fairing well. Over the last two days the attacks had escalated with shocking speed, though not to anyone's surprise. While a decent amount of the State's high value facilities were safely defended by the National Guard, they had nonetheless lost a significant amount of resources and people to this vicious onslaught, fueled by a reason unknown to anyone in DIS.
The total casualty toll was well over one-thousand globally, a good portion of those National Guardsman who were just doing their duty and defending locations that were deemed essential for the State to operate. Were these terrorist mad? How could they justify such actions? Their efforts seemed to lead nowhere, at least nowhere discernable by the intelligence analysts working away on the eighteenth floor of this downtown government building.
What they needed to do was find what was driving these people, and why. Branson rubbed his forehead as he stared at the photograph sitting before him, thinking on more boarder terms then he ought to. It wasn't his job to figure this thing out strategically, but rather to solve the imminent tactical issues that flooded them. He couldn't help but wander to those thoughts, and despite his mild efforts to stay focused, he kept trying to devise a motive for the GDSO.
Damnit, what am I turning into? He knew better then to let thoughts like this sidetrack him from the task at hand. He wasn't some green-agent who was taking this in for the first time. Branson had experience, background, and familiarity with situations like this. Terrorist threats were nothing new, and learning from his prior mistakes to solve this epidemic was what should be taking his undivided concentration. Look, focus on the task at hand.
The photograph on his desk filled his mind. Just over ten hours old, it clearly showed the faces of several men. Those recon guys did a hell of a job. It was not hard for him to make out their faces, which in turn helped him make the identifications quick and easy. Though he already knew them, he ran them into the DIS/DOD database and got their complete files. They were not as thick as most, or as thick as he would have liked, but it gave him enough information to work with.
Maynard Shamlin; GDSO assistant director of covert ops. Born 18 May 2485 near Levitian. First became an extremist suspect after being linked to a bombing of a natural gas pipeline in 2508, then being identified as a firm member of the GDSO in 2509. Steadily worked his way up the ranks to his current position among the terror group, and is notorious for cunning plans and tactics that catch even the DIS's best off guard. Considered a high priority target, the DOD sent an assassin after him, only to never hear of the agent again and to see the man retaliate in kind with a car bombing outside the steps of a federal court, killing seventeen. This man had a dark side of him, and was complimented by an even darker side when infuriated.
But even that man was shadowed by another in the GDSO. Pictured next to him, director of personnel Cyrus Ladage was an even higher priority to them then Shamlin. Born 11 September 2481 outside of Standyle, he was first noticed by the DIS when he was caught planting explosives in a federal building. After serving his time, the terrorist was released—much to everyone's regret—and soon became one of the leading men in the GDSO. This man had directly killed dozens of people, and his planning and execution of attacks cost the lives of hundreds more. He was one of the most wanted in the System, and even had numerous charges against him in other Systems as well. Cyrus Ladage was elusive, and had avoided every attempt by the DIS or DOD to end his violent life. That would have to change.
"I take it we're not looking at the guys who robbed the local candy store," Ryals said, walking over.
Branson shook his head, not even noticing the lame attempt at humor. "We got a good picture of Ladage, with Shamlin right next to him, taken yesterday night in Canabreria."
Ryals took the picture and looked it over closely. "Only one-hundred kilometers south of Levitian, interesting. What do you think these guys are doing getting so close to our well-protected turf?"
"Well, with all these attacks going on around the globe, I doubt they're feeling much pressure to stay hidden."
"That will change shortly here," Ryals said. "We just got a contact from someone who wants to defect, and I must say, this guy's close to the top."
Branson looked over, surprised. "Who?"
"The name is Marcus DeVeres, close aid to Shamlin." Ryals pointed at the picture to a face near the two terrorist leaders. "He's with them all the time, and gives them media updates about the public reaction to the GDSO. Partly the social analysts for the group, he makes the public image of the GDSO better by manipulating any number of sources, and is the root cause of the support for this organization in Atropos."
"And what's motivating him to talk?"
Ryals handed the photo back. "Apparently, he wants out. We don't have any details really, but it's the only lead to start knocking these guys off."
Branson nodded. They needed anything to get a leg up. "When and where?"
"Canabreria in two hours. We have to find him."
Branson cursed. "Like usual." He stood up and grabbed his coat, folding the large photograph and putting it in his pocket. "Looks like we have some business to take care of."
Port Sidcaster (400 Kilometers East of Standyle), Counter Terrorism / Special Warfare Operations Center
Randy Brient felt the tap on his shoulder, and motioned with his right hand for the demolitions expert to come up front. With his weapon up and ready, he waited silently as the other man, dressed in full black body armor, came up to him. He made a cross with his hands, then pointed at the closed door in front of them.
They were right up against the wall parallel to the door; the four-man team waiting in the dim light as the breaching charges were set on the entry point. It took just under twenty-seconds, and the demo expert nodded, backing off slightly. On the door was a ring of small charges designed to fragment the door inward, while creating a substantial explosive flash to temporarily blind anyone in the room on the other side, allowing them to enter with disorientation and confusion among their enemy. It was lamely referred to as a forced entry, and was not the best choice of action, especially if hostages waited on the other end.
Tactical choices. Very important and demanding, and almost always resulted in the death of someone, whether they be friend or foe. Brient had little option in this case, since all alternatives had been exhausted. They had four hostages somewhere in this building, and at least fifteen adversaries waiting to cut their rescue short. This had to be fast and swift, and most of all, they couldn't miss.
Years of training had brought the counter-terrorist team to a degree of proficiency envied by all. It was no easy task, but it paid off in full when they were able to accomplish missions such as this one. While it seemed only to make a slight difference among a world of war and crime, the ability to strike with surgical precision saved the lives of hundreds, and their pre-emptive actions against would-be terrorists deterred them from taking a thousand more. Their job description was short and simple, but their specialty was far beyond the areas of simplicity.
Brient gripped the G55K rifle firmly, keeping the barrel pointed at the door. Three years of paramilitary ops, foreshadowed by six years of Special Forces in the UNSC, had given him considerable experience in his chosen profession, and it showed nearly every time he was called to action. His team was trained and was just as experienced, and their combined arms made them very formidable. They had faced many obstacles before, seen many deaths and encountered many dangers—and not everyone in his team had walked out alive—but their continued existence and operation was essential to the safety of millions. None of them ever forget that.
"Red Team, breach at entry point four," Brient said into the microphone connected to the black helmet on his head.
"Gold Team, set at point two," another team transmitted over the radio.
"Green Team, flashbang at point one."
There was a short pause as Brient looked at the time on the Heads-Up Display; an eyepiece feeding information into his sight. Two other teams waited for his go-code to move in, but the timing had to be just right. With situations as delicate as this, they couldn't afford slipups and mistakes; everything had to be perfect.
"All teams, Romeo One, move now, move now!" The voice crackled over the radio circuits.
Brient didn't hesitate as the reconnaissance report confirmed its prior observations. Now was the three-second window to move in. "Alpha, go!"
The charge on the door no more then a meter away exploded by remote, filling his view with dust and debris. He felt the presence of his team directly behind him, and began stepping forward into the haze. With the 5.56-millimeter rifle up, he moved pass the door—and strained to see through the obscuring debris that had filled the air two seconds ago.
Movement caught his eye, and the G55K settled on it, but the rifle didn't fire. Friend or foe? He walked directly into the room, continuing to take steps forward as his team turned left and right to secure their flanks. Brient withheld fire another second as he moved closer, finally identifying the figure before him.
Two rounds spat out of the rifle, hitting the target square-on.
Several rounds shot out from around him, and he recognized them as G55K's. Calls of downed enemies started coming in as the timer-clock on his HUD reached eight seconds from the time he called out the first go-code. They had to move faster.
"Clear!"
Brient swept his area back and forth as his team reformed behind him. He felt the tap from the man behind, and started moving for the open doorway ahead of him. He stopped just short of passing through it, keeping his rifle shouldered, and peered around the corner. Two men were running his direction from down the long hallway. Foe.
The G55K spat out six rounds, tagging the two men. He checked the hallway again carefully, then stepped out into it, his pace fast as he moved down the featureless corridor. There was an open door ahead of them, and a closed door to the left of it. Brient motioned to his left, and came to a knee one meter short of the closed door, keeping the rifle pointed through the open door ahead.
His team moved to the closed door as Brient kept his line of sight covered. Twenty-six seconds.
"Flashbang," Leonard Kautz ordered, leading the team while Brient covered the door. The teammate directly behind him stepped forward, bringing out the long, rectangular shaped grenade. Kautz eased the door open slightly with one hand, while keep the rifle steadily aimed at it. The flashbang went through the crack of the door.
Brient fired a single round at a figure that came running through the open door ahead of him, neutralizing the threat. He heard the flashbang clatter to the ground in the other room through the door, then the loud explosion as the charge went off. Kautz flung the door open all the way and stepped through, rifle up and ready. Several shots were fired as Brient kept a close eye on the open door.
"Clear!"
He stood up and moved through the door after his team. The small room was empty, except for the two figures on the floor; a single closed door led out to their right. Brient moved for it, stopping just short of it as his team stacked behind him. Forty-one seconds.
"Hostages on other side," he said silently, deducing that fact since they had encountered no so far. "Flashbang."
Again, another teammate came up, ready to throw the charge through the door. Brient reached out and opened the door, and the flashbang went through a second later. A bright flash and deafening explosion came from the room, and he immediately moved through the door.
The room ahead had three figures standing, all of them disorientated and temporarily blinded, and four figures on their knees, hands above their heads. Hostages. The G55K centered on the first standing figure, and two muzzle flashes accented the two small explosions as the rounds impacted the figure. He shifted targets to the next and fired three times, taking it down. The third figure fell to Kautz simultaneously.
"Tango in sight!"
Brient turned right quickly as the third team member fired at a figure regaining orientation. The man went down quickly, and they fanned out to secure the room, rifles up and scanning.
"Clear!"
Seventy-one seconds. He kept his rifle up and ready as he reran the entire experience in his head. Their time was decent, and they had obviously made it to the hostages before their adversaries could react and execute them, but he felt somewhat lacking. Their movements had been good, and so was the coordination, but when he missed that fourth guard in this room, he could be kissing the life of a hostage—or his own—goodbye. Only that flashbang had saved his life, and his third teammate.
During hostage-rescue missions, there was always an emphasis on speed and accuracy. This wasn't a methodical type of operation, where you had to systematically eliminate every opponent. You had to get to the objective as quickly as possible, before the enemy could react to your onslaught. Far more dangerous then even some of the stuff he did in Special Forces, this put them in great jeopardy since they couldn't be as thorough as anyone would like. Infiltration or reconnaissance missions were actually easier, to him, at least, since it wasn't focused on speed, but rather intuitive on-spot tactics.
Brient pulled up the protective goggles, then pulled down the black facemask. He wiped the sweat from his eyes and took a deep breathe; this wasn't as demanding physically, but it got the blood pumping, and thirty-pounds of Kevlar body armor kept the heat in fairly well, much to everyone's displeasure.
"All teams, report."
"Gold Team, objective completed, no casualties."
It took a few seconds for the second team to report in. "Green Team, objective secured, no casualties."
Brient nodded in satisfaction and looked up at the camera in the corner of the room. He walked towards it and slung his rifle, his face straight but the conciliation was clear in his eyes. "How'd we do, Chuck?"
Charles Mahler looked at his group leader through the television and suppressed a smile. This kid's got the right stuff. He had seen every step of the way through various cameras positioned in the training compound, and at no point found a major flaw in their performance. Twelve men had just stormed the three story building, collectively taking out twenty-one "terrorists" and saving all four hostages. It was done all by the book.
He motioned for an analyst to begin copying the video so they could review it later with everyone in the briefing room. The forty-one year-old smiled at his own reference to Randy Brient, who was twelve years his junior. A kid? He knew a title like that gravely understated Brient's true character and abilities, but it gave him some reason to justify his retirement from active counter-terrorism.
Inactive wasn't quite the phrase. Mahler was very active in counter-terrorism, though he had given up participation on a paramilitary team such as the one he commanded. His day of hunting those who threatened the free world had come to an end; now he just directed these fine men to do the dirty work for him.
Three groups fell under his command, each with three teams, plus support. His position in the Department of International Security was not well known by anyone outside of this chain of command, and even the true identities of his men were kept silenced for their own security. The entire unit operated in complete secrecy, to the point that their only proof of existence were the few lucky shots the media got of their egression from a mission, and the occasional slipup by some bureaucrat who was trying to please a crowd.
The tight confidentiality surrounding this task group was in response to a major mistake made when he served on the team. 2513 was year he would never forget, as that was the time he lost half of his team, not in a mission, but to assassination from terror groups like the very one that flooded the news. It was clear that the men and women serving such a sensitive position in the State would be prime targets, and allowing their identities, or even the very existence of this group, to be known would prove fatal. He winced unconsciously. History had taught them that.
The subject of the new terror threat worried him. In his years of service with the DIS, he had never seen such a large threat come into existence, at least not from the roots of extremist groups. Was there something bigger behind this? In his line of work, he was tasked with counter-ops against such terror threats—and they were ready to—but the DOD had failed to call them to service. They had watched the last three days unfold from behind a television, unable to act in any manner.
Their operations against terrorists required one thing, though, that they were not getting. Intelligence. Without a place and objective, his teams were useless, and were about as effective as some police officer walking a beat. It was not his position to inquire about such shortcomings, but he definitely put thought into it. Was the DIS just sitting on their hands? Or was this threat really that elusive, that just finding a simple lead to act upon was a breakthrough?
Hopefully, they could find something to move on, and soon. The longer they waited, the more time they gave these terrorist; the more damage they will cause that could be prevented. He needed to get a call from the red phone at his desk a floor above this control room. He needed to hear the very words from the DIS counter-terror director ordering them to deploy and stop this enemy.
For if he didn't, the codename they affectionately cherished would mean nothing, and their abilities to end such a threat would be wasted in time. They were designed and trained to fight an enemy of this nature, all they needed was the location of their foe. Would they get it in time, was the real question.
Prostasia.
Aegis.
Guardians.
Canabreria, Beachfront Commercial Area, 3 Kilometers from City Center
The short flight had been pleasant, and more importantly, uneventful. Branson enjoyed little trips away from the office; getting out to see the world he worked to protect always renewed his perspective of life. Before this global crisis occurred, a trip to this mid-sized city would have been close to a vacation. The nice weather, beautiful beach, and modern and comfortable feel to it was rather relaxing.
Relaxation, though, was far from what he was feeling as he walked down the street dividing the beach from the buildings. He was out to find an informer, nothing less then a traitor, from the GDSO. This whole thing could easily be a set up, nothing more then a small plot to knock off one or two more agents of the State. The thought was distracting, and he found it hard to keep his mind from wandering to such preoccupation. He needed to be attentive and alert, not worrying about what lay in wait for them.
Ryals walked closely next to him, cursing at the cold wind coming off the ocean. While the weather was clear and nice, it was still cold, and the two agents walked through a fifteen-knot crosswind, their long trench coats blowing up occasionally. More people were out then they had expected, which, like the last meeting they had attended, was going to be a bitter-sweet. More on the bitter side, Branson thought.
This informer wanted them to find him, and he hadn't made it easy. Of course, the man was probably scared shitless, and didn't want to make anything easy for anyone. This was probably a good sign, then, since fear bore testimony to the man's honesty. If any of this went as planned, they would find this man, get the information, then promise him a secluded life somewhere away from danger. Branson nearly smirked. The damn usual...
"There they are," Ryals said, pointing to two men directly ahead of them.
They weren't going in alone, and some local support was being spared for this very purpose, though not enough. Four agents, total, would be working this Op, which seemed rather undervalued since this was their only working lead to start combating these terrorists.
"Mitchell Branson and Duncan Ryals?"
The two agents nodded and shook hands with their counterparts.
"My name is Special Agent Steve Freeland," the man said. "And this is my partner, Brian Nye. We've been notified that you've got a lead here in Canabreria, and have been tasked to assist you in any way."
Branson nodded. "Right. Long story short, we've got a defector from the GDSO who's willing to talk on account that he's granted immunity from any subsequent investigation and trial. Now, with all the wisdom of the Director, he's authorized that. Provided we get the information we need, of course."
"Naturally," Freeland said.
"Here's what the man looks like," Ryals said, handing each of them a cropped picture. "Now, this spook wasn't too helpful, and just gave us a general meeting location, which was the beachfront mall, just a block away."
"I'm familiar with the place," Freeman said, looking behind him towards the large shopping center.
"Excellent," Branson said. "Any support?"
"Local law enforcement was put on alert, though they have no clue about our little Op here."
Ryals looked over at Branson. "We're set. We'll be in contact via the radios. You two get the second floor, we'll take the first."
Branson had forgotten just how big this shopping center was until he was actually searching for a face. Although it was not as busy as normal, it still harbored many faces, and trying to make their search seem discreet was harder then putting a .40 in between the eyes at thirty meters.
The two agents walked down the large, first-story of the mall, passing multiple stores that neither had ever shopped at. Mitchell had always left the shopping up to his ex-wife, prior to their divorce, that is, and never really got into the fashion business. Completely evident, though, since his wardroom consisted mostly of suits and a colorful array of ties. Even Ryals had made occasional jokes at his lack in that area of life, though the other agent could not speak much of himself, either.
Amusing, how they wandered through an area they normally wouldn't look twice at, looking for a face to connect to the picture. Branson couldn't help but smile, as people looking at them probably saw two grown men wandering through a mall looking like they were trying to find some girls, or something juvenile like that. Those days had long passed for both of them, and instead of "hanging out," they were trying to find a terrorist. How times have changed.
"Wait," Ryals said softly. "Over there."
Branson followed his partner's gaze and connected with the man they had been searching for. He stood awkwardly in front of a clothing-line store, fidgeting slightly with an unlit cigarette in his hands. If anyone was looking for this man, he would have been easy to find, due to the invisible fear that he gave off, even from this distance.
"Freeman, we got him, first-floor near the food-court."
The agent responded quickly. "On our way."
"DeVeres."
The man nearly jumped as they approached. "Are you from the DIS?"
Ryals nodded. "The trench coats with ties aren't obvious enough? Let's go have a seat."
The three made their way to the nearby food-court, finding a secluded table to sit down at. There were a lot of people at this part of the mall, which helped both the agents and the informer to relax. They couldn't be easily spotted.
Branson eyed the man carefully, trying to detect any small signs that could potentially reflect any true intentions about this meeting. Marcus DeVeres—the man's official name, at least—looked about nervously, as if he were expected the very men he planned to defect upon showing up. DeVeres seemed like the classic tagalong, someone who had considerable skill in his area of expertise yet not seemingly too useful unless there was dire need for him. The personality Branson got from the man was odd as well, and there seemed to be no way he could relate to him, despite this only being the first three minutes he had actually seen him.
The fear reflecting off the large, brown eyes was good enough for him. If this guy was sincerely worried, that meant he either had some damning evidence that would break the entire situation, or some formidable bosses that could break his neck. Either way, they needed to get someone useful out of him; something that they could us to take down these terrorists.
"No time for introductions," Ryals began. "Talk to us now, give us the info we need, and you'll be taken into protective custody, with the deal we agreed upon."
DeVeres nodded. "Okay." He looked around once more before beginning. "As you may already know, I work with public affairs for the GDSO. I ensure that we get the proper, positive responses from the populace, so we're never completely alienated. Two days ago, I was tasked with manipulating an operation they are about to implement, a very large one, one that will actually bring dire consequences to not only the government, but also to the general population.
"I never signed on to hurt citizens. I'm only helping the GDSO to get back at you guys, the government, for messing my life up. Affecting innocent people was never part of the plan, and it never had been until now. I tried to tell them that, but their mindsets have changed dramatically. They're going to do anything to get back, and I can't—"
"Cut to the chase," Branson interrupted. "What are they planning?"
DeVeres took a calming breath, though it did very little. "They're going to release a nerve toxin at the Social Management district headquarters in downtown New Sodham."
What? The State had placed an extremely large amount of resources on stopping illegal arms trade in Atropos, which definitely included nerve gases and toxins. How could they have gotten such a deadly weapon? Branson thought about it, staring blankly down the first-story of the mall. They must have gotten it from out-of-System. That was the only way to get nerve toxins into private hands.
New Sodham was also a very controversial choice. The city, which was more towards Port Sidcaster—being about five-hundred kilometers from Standyle—was not known for a heavy federal presence. While not nearly the largest city on Pacificatorius, it held a substantial population that could be affected by such an epidemic if they were within one kilometer of the outbreak. Branson couldn't recall accurate demographics of the city, but he would think no less then two thousand people would die from such an attack, and that's not on top of the government workers.
Social Management, one of the numerous program created for the people, had nothing to do with security or force. Staging an attack on such a innocent department of the government seemed pagan-like, at best. It would serve no tactical or strategic purpose in whatever goal they had. Why would they do that?
Branson shifted uncomfortably as the thought occurred to him. It would break our will to resist.
"When are they going to do this?" Mitch asked.
"Tonight, sometime after midnight."
Damnit. That gave them just over ten hours to respond.
"Pre-emptive is our best bet," Ryals thought aloud. "Where are they currently staged at?"
DeVeres fidgeted with his jacket's zipper. "They're on their way to New Sodham right now." He paused, thinking.
Branson blinked as blood splattered on his face. No shot was heard, nothing, only two bullet wounds on DeVeres chest. He turned and looked back down the direction they had come from, standing to his feet and drawing out his .40 semi-auto service handgun. Ryals mimicked his reaction and scanned the area back towards the food court, trying to find the shooter. It was obvious what had happened.
DeVeres had been silenced.
"There!" Ryals yelled.
Branson turned and followed as his partner ran off into the crowd. People began screaming in horror, not at the gunman who had shot DeVeres—who they had not seen at all—but rather at the two agents as they ran with their pistols up and ready.
People scurried out of their way as they made their way around tables and chairs, chasing down a lone person that Branson couldn't see. He hoped Ryals had a good line of sight on him, because their assailant could disappear into the crowd in a heartbeat.
"Freeman! Where the hell are you guys?"
Nothing but silence ensued from the radio.
"Freeman?" Branson yelled louder into the radio.
Where had they gone?
"Mitch, stay with me! I'm on him!" Ryals yelled, running full bore three meters ahead, his pistol darting up and down, trying to get a clear shot of the man they were chasing. Though the mall was unusually sparse today, there were still plenty of people, and hitting a civilian was unacceptable.
Branson ran on after his partner, trying to ignore the screams of people they passed.
This situation had gone out the window. He shook his head, trying to think
What happened?
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