INCURSION: Knightmare (Knight's Bane Trilogy Book 1) Read online

  Agent Smith reflexively glanced at the red "classified meeting" light. Trained long ago to never interrupt a meeting in progress, he was relieved to see that the red light was not illuminated. Opening the heavy wooden door, he walked in to an office that was almost a stark contrast to his own.

  Plush carpet covered the floor and the mahogany from the reception area carried through to the bookshelves, baseboards, and crown molding. A large desk was also of mahogany and was uncluttered by a computer monitor or laptop. What little paper that was on the desk was meticulously arranged in a series of neat piles and file folders. The glow of a monitor through the glass top of the desk was the only concession to the need for a computer. The only piece of electronic equipment sitting on the desk was his office phone.

  The two visitor chairs in front of the desk were stuffed-leather extravagance, and a small conference table with four chairs around it was staged for a meeting. At a gesture from the Director, Smith settled into one of the visitor chairs, turning as Mary brought coffee for both men. Mary closed the door on her way out of the room, pausing to reach over and turn on the meeting light.

  Smith smiled as he inhaled the savory aroma wafting from the warm cup in his hands. "I don't know how she does it, but Mary makes the best coffee I've had in a long time."

  Section 28 Director Clifton Day nodded and agreed with Smith. Several years ago, Director Day found Mary working as an administrator for another department, and she impressed him immensely. After pulling a few strings and threatening another Assistant Director, he orchestrated Mary's transfer to his office. After discussing her new benefits and the substantial raise in pay, she readily agreed to work for him. His life was much easier after that. Director Day knew he was a hard taskmaster and often ignored the social niceties when running his department, but Mary actually seemed to thrive on the job.

  "James, I've read your reports and had Esoteric Analysis run your numbers as confirmation." Director Day's voice came out in a low growl. "Frankly, they scare the hell out of me. They couldn't find any fault in your work and came up with the same recommendation that you did. As of today, I've opened Operation Orbweaver, and I'm approving the formation of your third team, Knightmare. Have you selected any candidates?"

  Supervising Agent in Charge James Smith thought for a moment and nodded slowly. His cultured voice had a hint of a southern accent. "Yes, sir. I have pre-screened several candidates. I'm only waiting for your approval to recruit and train. I've still got a couple holes in the team, but I should have the rest recruited by next week."

  "Good," Director Day's deep voice rumbled. "Let Mary know if you need anything. Go get your new team spun up. If you are right, we are going to need them soon."

  SAC Smith stood and smoothed imaginary wrinkles in his suit pants. Reaching out, he shook the proffered hand from Director Day and headed towards the door. As he walked towards the elevator, he heard Day shout through the open door to his office, "Mary, get DSS Andrews on the line. Schedule a working lunch here."

  2

  SIX

  BAGHDAD, IRAQ.

  Commander Burt Holstein rolled up to the U.S. Embassy doors in one of his company's armored Humvee vehicles. His driver was his second-in-command, Robert Guzman. The trip to the embassy was a relatively short one, but it pulled him away from his current assignment, and it grated on him to be called to the embassy like an errant puppy while his team was out protecting some State Department VIPs.

  Both he and Guzman had been contacted by his direct boss, the Regional Security Officer for Diplomatic Security Services. Told to grab his second-in-command and report to the embassy "ASAP," his arguments were cut off before they could form. Leaving the VIPs in the hands of his two squad leaders, Burt snagged a Humvee from the motor pool and tossed the keys to Guzman. The short ride to the embassy was filled with questions, as neither he nor Guzman could figure out why they were summoned to the RSO's office.

  Climbing out of the oversized SUV, the baking heat of Baghdad crashed into him with physical force, the normally oppressive heat compounded by the fifty pounds of armor, gear, and weapons worn by Burt and his driver. Normally, a civilian wearing that much gear and firepower approaching a U.S. Embassy would set alarm bells ringing and precipitate a violent response from local law enforcement.

  Fortunately for Burt, he was not a normal citizen, in a normal city, in a normal country. Burt Holstein was the commanding officer of a team of contractors hired by the State Department to provide security for diplomatic VIPs and their families. Holstein was a senior team leader from the company that used to be known as "Blackwater." Now known as "Academi," the company had a multi-million dollar, multi-year contract to provide private security contractors to augment the Diplomatic Security Services agents in Iraq and Afghanistan. And Holstein was one of Academi's best team leaders.

  Burt currently led a team of twenty contractors that worked for DSS. Most often, he and his team would be charged with guarding high-value VIPs as they traveled around the city and countryside. He and his team were working guard duty for a small contingent of State Department "fact-finders" that were investigating some incident that certainly did not happen on his watch.

  He currently had his team split into two separate squads of ten, each one shadowing two of the staffers. Burt was leading one of the squads, while Guzman led the other. When they got the call over their secure radios, both squads were together as all four staffers were meeting with the mayor of one of the outlying villages. Since the command had been ordered to report "ASAP," they did not have the time to go back to their apartments and change or clean up. Burt figured that the RSO would just have to put up with the sour smells and layers of dust on a man who was actually working in this sandbox.

  As he and Guzman approached the building, they slung the M4 carbines on their backs. Drawing official State Department identification from their pockets, they presented the identification to the Marines at the entrance. Carefully studying the identification and comparing the pictures to the men before them, the Marines eventually handed the wallets back, waving them through the doors. As they entered the lobby of the building, both men took off their gloves and hats, storing them in their voluminous cargo pant pockets. As they handed their wallets to the guards working the metal detectors, the contractors were told to disarm.

  Holstein looked hard at the guard in question. The contractor growled a terse, "RSO Hernandez just called us in from the field. 'ASAP' was the word he used. Call his office and clear us through,"

  The guard muttered something unkind about Holstein's genetic relationship to monkeys and the anatomically impossible act of procreating with himself. He reached for a phone and dialed an internal extension. Keeping his voice low, he read the names and information from Holstein and Guzman's IDs and appeared to argue with someone on the other end. With a sullen "Fine," the guard hung up the phone and handed the IDs back to Holstein and Guzman.

  He waived to the guard standing by the metal detector.

  "Go on up. Third floor, RSO's office," the guard said as he motioned to the other guard. "Let 'em go, Mike. They're cleared, as is."

  Holstein smiled at Guzman and led his partner through the metal detectors, setting off a cacophony of buzzers and sirens. Walking towards the elevators, Holstein watched the guard pick up the phone and report to the security office. With a smirk on his face, Holstein boarded with Guzman only a few steps behind. As the elevator doors were closing, Holstein smiled at the sullen-looking guard and was rewarded with a raised middle finger salute.

  Disembarking the elevator on the third floor, Holstein turned right, walking towards an office he had only visited once before. Walking up to the reception desk in front of the RSO's office, Holstein smiled politely and said, "Burt Holstein and Robert Guzman to see RSO Hernandez. I apologize about the commotion."

  The raven-haired beauty behind the desk smiled warmly. Her warm Georgian accent rolled over the men.

  "No problem. Mr. Hernandez is expecting you gentl
emen. Go on in. Would you like something to drink? Water? Iced tea?" asked the receptionist.

  Holstein deferred to Guzman first who replied, "Water, thanks!"

  "I hate to be a bother, but the iced tea, is it sweetened?" Holstein asked.

  Laughing, the receptionist said, "Of course! What other way is there for proper iced tea?"

  Smiling, Holstein laughed, too.

  "As a west coast boy, I've tasted the non-sweetened variety, but, if forced to choose, I prefer it sweetened. The tea sounds delicious, ma'am," said Holstein.

  He turned and walked into the office with Guzman on his heels.

  RSO Hernandez was not behind his desk. Instead, a man in a gray pinstripe suit that screamed "Fed" sat behind Hernandez' desk, and the RSO stood beside him. Holstein took all this information in with a quick glance, unconsciously shifted into parade rest, and nodded to Hernandez.

  "Holstein and Guzman, reporting as requested, sir."

  "Thanks for coming so quickly," Hernandez said as he looked at both men. "Burt Holstein and Robert Guzman, I'd like to introduce you to Agent James Smith. Agent Smith is from Homeland Security and has requested a meeting with you, Holstein. Guzman, if you'd join me outside."

  Hernandez motioned and followed Guzman back out the door, leaving Holstein and the federal agent in the room, closing the door as they left.

  Smith stood and reached out to shake Holstein's hand. "Mr. Holstein, I appreciate your coming in today."

  "Please have a seat," the Homeland Security agent said as he pointed to one of the visitor's chairs. "I'd like to discuss a job offer with you."

  Holstein shook his head and relaxed slightly.

  "What kind of job are you talking about?" Holstein continued, "I'm on contract with Academi for three more years. Most likely, I'll be here for that time. I can probably talk to you more as I get closer, but, if I leave my team now, I will lose my bonus. I'm not walking away from all that cash in my bank account."

  Smith let a small smile show on his face. "I understand perfectly, and I've already been in touch with your home office in McLean, Virginia. I'm forming a new team at Homeland Security to... deal with a particular kind of domestic threat and would like to have you lead the team."

  Smith consulted a thin file in front of him. He began reading from the file. "Los Angeles native, born to moderately wealthy parents. Father owned a high-end electronics store where your mother helped until a gang shooting took both of their lives.

  "Joined LAPD as soon as you could and excelled at the hard stuff. Appointed to SWAT at age 23. Served two years with merit. Left LAPD to join the Marines. Again, excelled at what you do best, and joined Force Recon, serving with distinction in Iraq.

  "When your term was up, you left the service to make some real money. Simple security or police work did not cut it for you... you wanted to make real bank. Academi heard you were available, and you scored a contract that gives you the money you want. Working as a contractor here in the sandbox got you exactly what you wanted: you get to play with guns and make a whole lot of money doing so.

  "When you were 12 years old, you saw a UFO while you were camping in the desert. You've been a conspiracy theory nut ever since, convinced that the government is hiding the aliens from the public." Smith looked up at Holstein. Looking the contractor in the eyes, he continued. "It wasn't a UFO that time, not in the classic sense. It was something... something else."

  Leafing through the contents of the file once again, Smith continued, "When you have free time, you spend a lot of it searching for proof that what you saw was real. Your contractor's salary allows you to search for answers in areas and places that most folks couldn't afford."

  Holstein sat and tried to absorb the dry retelling of his professional and personal life. "What do you mean 'something else'? How do you know so much about me?"

  Smith just smiled and ignored the questions. "I know that your contract still has three years left on it. I am authorized to buy out your contract from Academi completely, including your bonus from this posting, and pay you a salary level somewhat higher than you are currently making here in the sandbox. You would become a full Homeland Security agent, with government service accumulation, and time towards your retirement."

  The actual job offer began to sink in past the shock of having his background laid out so openly. Holstein asked a barrage of questions, "What do you mean 'somewhat higher'? Do you have any idea what I make here? And I still get my bonus? I've never seen the Feds throw around this much money. Only the private contractors can afford that kind of salary. What kind of threat do you need me for?"

  Smith's smile widened as he realized that Holstein was taking the bait. "Yes, I know exactly what you make here, and we're going to start you at an even higher salary." Smith set the hook as he offered a number that caused Burt's eyes to widen in shock. The contractor thought about how that much money could help him find the answers he was looking for.

  Smith continued, "As to your other questions, everything is classified Top Secret, and I cannot tell you any more until after you come on board. So what do you think?"

  Holstein was still trying to process the information. And the job offer. And the salary. He wanted the job. He was hooked by the money, and the fact that he might be able to find some answers. He asked the Homeland Security Agent, "What about my team? What happens to them? When would I leave and where am I going?"

  Smith slowly stood and walked around the desk. "RSO Hernandez is currently telling Guzman that he is now in charge of the team until Academi sends a replacement. We leave immediately. A quick stop by your office and quarters to get any personal items, and then to the airport. I have a jet on standby, and we'll be wheels up in less than an hour. As to the where? You'll just have to wait and see. This is the only time I'm going to offer this job to you. Do you want it?"

  Holstein looked down briefly. Looking back up, he reached out to grasp the proffered hand. "I'm glad to be on your team, sir. Where do I sign?"

  Smith chuckled dryly. "I've given RSO Hernandez your transfer paperwork from Academi. You'll sign the official government contracts in a few days. For now, let's get moving. I have a schedule to keep. I need to get you back to headquarters so you can get settled. Once we get you settled, I'll need to go collect your new team."

  3

  SPOOKY

  FORT MEADE, MARYLAND.

  Rows of numbers and letters filled all six monitors in front him. Formed in two curved rows of three, each monitor was a twenty-three-inch widescreen display with the whole stack wrapping around almost one hundred forty degrees of his vision. Each was filled with multiple windows of text and data, and anyone watching him work would see him shift his eyes and head in an-almost-neurotic way. Looking bird-like, his focus constantly shifted between the monitors, and his fingers rapidly flew between three different keyboards and a couple of customized pointing devices.

  John Q. Smith, or "Q," to his geeky friends, sat in his cubicle buried deep in the heart of the server farm for the NSA. His bright red hair was cropped in a short spiky cut, and his brilliant green eyes hid behind small horn-rimmed glasses. Eschewing the standard shirt and tie demanded by the employee handbook, the young man wore geek-interest-related t-shirts and blue jeans. His boss had long ago figured out that Smith was never going to dress up regularly and only made sure that he was at least dressed in standard attire when management wandered through the cube farm.

  Wrapping up for the day, John finished typing the final few lines of his report. He made a couple more references, read it one more time, and sent it to his boss. As the lead analyst for PRISM and ECHELON, the NSA's domestic electronic spying programs, his report would be the first thing his boss would read on Monday morning. The strange reports and seemingly credible intel about "monsters" kept occurring enough that it made John curious. The deeper he dug, the more he found that confused and confounded his searches.

  One name kept popping up over the last couple weeks, "Section 28." There were no h
ints about what or who they were. They seemed to be a governmental agency, but there was no record that he could find—and he had clearance to find anything. Using the vast resources of the NSA, as well as CIA, FBI, and Homeland Security sources, he searched every crack in the internet for information. What few references he found were either sketchy "evidence" on conspiracy theory websites or occasional signals intelligence (SIGINT) that pointed to some shadowy group that dealt with... monsters?

  Finding this odd, he began compiling the information a couple weeks ago, and finally completed his report for his boss today. John was not only the lead analyst for PRISM and ECHELON, but he was also one of the key liaisons with Homeland Security for those programs. He thought about it for a few seconds and sent a second copy to his DHS supervisor as well. In for a penny, in for a pound, he thought to himself.

  Making his way out of the labyrinth that was the NSA server farm, he passed all the checkpoints and emerged into the sun for the first time that day. Blinking painfully against the bright sun, he walked to the parking lot and climbed into his "Ghostmobile."

  Growing up in Boston, Massachusetts, his Irish blue-collar heritage was painfully evident in his accent. In older Boston, there were plenty of houses that were rumored to be haunted, and he and his friends used to spend their time wandering those halls. As a budding electronics genius, he often made "ghost hunting" gear for himself and his friends.

  At the top of his high-school class, he had scored high enough on SATs and ACTs to receive a full-ride scholarship to MIT. There his computer prowess and electronic savvy had served him well as he moved to the top of his class in crypto-analysis. While in college, the only distraction for "Q" and his friends was his ghost hunting hobby. He and several friends had often spent their off-time searching out the haunted locations and trying their newest custom equipment to finally find the proof they were so desperate to find.