INCURSION: Knightmare (Knight's Bane Trilogy Book 1) Page 3

  Once he graduated, he received job offers from several government alphabet-soup intelligence agencies, and even more private firms and banks. With his cryptanalysis background, the two most interesting offers came from a bank on the west coast and the NSA in Maryland. With several of his geek friends taking jobs in D.C. and the surrounding area, John opted to work for the National Security Agency in Fort Meade, Maryland. Because he stayed in the area, he was able to continue "ghost hunting" with his friends from college, and that's where he was headed now.

  He rolled down the highway towards a farm outside Manassas, Virginia. This farm was on the edge of one of the battlefields and was supposed to be pretty active with ghost and poltergeist activity. As members of the D.C. Ghost Hunting Society, he and his team had arranged to spend the night inside the farmhouse. He had several new pieces of equipment that he wanted to test tonight, and his teammates were bringing their new equipment as well. Billy was supposed to be bringing their new equipment trailer/mobile basecamp also. As John drove towards the farmhouse, he slowly relaxed and let his mind forget about the report he sent his bosses.

  WHEN MONDAY MORNING ROLLED AROUND, John was in a great mood. He and his DCGHS team scored lots of pretty good evidence on Friday night, including what is called a "Class A" EVP in the paranormal world. This Electronic Voice Phenomena is a sound that is recorded on a digital recorder that is not heard by anyone actually present during the recording. Often, these sounds are recorded at a different frequency than normal human voices, yet they seem to have voice patterns and offer recognizable words. To be a "Class A" EVP, the voice must be clear and distinguishable. Their recording clearly had a deep male voice growling, "Soon you will see." Coupled with some other interesting readings, it had been a fairly successful hunt. Before leaving for work, he uploaded the evidence collected to the DCGHS server, where the video and audio would be available for streaming.

  John arrived a bit earlier than usual but still chose to park in his normal spot. As John approached the large black, ominous looking building, he started whistling the theme to his favorite ghost-hunting movie. John was in such a good mood that the onerous security procedures for entering the building and then the SIGINT area didn't bother him as much as they usually did.

  But John's mood soured quickly when he got to his cubicle. A note posted on his primary monitor said simply, "See me ASAP. Kenneth." The "Kenneth" was his direct line supervisor, Kenneth McAllister. John's secure mobile phone then received a text, also from his boss, "Come to my office. NOW."

  John swore under his breath. Grabbing the spare shirt and tie hanging in his cube for just such an occasion, he hurriedly drew it on, slipped the pre-tied tie over his head, and scurried down the corridor as he tucked in his shirt and straightened his tie.

  Arriving at his boss' office, he knocked on the door and heard an immediate, "Come!" Kenneth McAllister looked like John felt. McAllister's tie was askew, his perfectly pressed shirt was stained with sweat, and he looked as if he just got caught with his hand in the proverbial cookie jar.

  When he got excited or angry, McAllister's original Texan accent crept back into his voice. The accent was almost overbearing as McAllister continued, "Get your butt in here, John. What in the hell were you thinking, sending that report? It's bad enough that you sent it to me, but you decided to send it to Homeland Security? I just had our Director chew me out. Your supervisor at DHS called HIS boss. His boss called the Director of Homeland Security, who called OUR Director. And he called me. It was strongly suggested to me that I reconsider the idea of putting someone who sees 'monsters and ghosts' in charge of the PRISM and ECHELON programs. Is he right?"

  John's high spirits visibly deflated, and he collapsed into one of the visitor chairs. He had a sudden vision of being reassigned to the IT maintenance department. John tried to defend his work. "Did you even read the report? All I did was correlate data from the programs. It all got flagged, and I simply analyzed the data. It's not my fault that these programs compiled this data. And I don't 'see' ghosts. Ghost hunting is a hobby, but it has never interfered with my job here. What's going to happen, Ken?"

  McAllister stared at John with a probing look. He seemed to find the genuine innocence that he was searching for. "Listen, John," he began. His voice became much softer and the Texas 'twang dropped away. "This will blow over pretty soon, but you need to step back for a few days. Go hide under a rock. Keep your head down. I'm going to give you a couple of days off work, paid, of course. Heck, take a week. Take some time to relax. Get this out of your system. Come back in next Monday. We'll see what happens then."

  John looked defeated. "So am I gonna' be pulled from my current job? What about Liaison to DHS? Am I even going to have a job when I come back?"

  McAllister smiled wistfully. "You'll have a job. You're a great analyst. You're a freakin' genius with ECHELON. I'll do everything I can to keep you on this assignment, but you need to keep your head down for the rest of the week. Officially, your report never happened. This so-called 'Section 28' doesn't exist. And the only monsters out there are the ones that bomb malls and hijack airplanes... the human kind of monsters. Got it?"

  John absorbed the key words and nodded slowly. "Got it." He stood and walked out of the office. As he reached his cubicle, he grabbed his messenger bag with his laptop and left the facility.

  It was a long ride home. His thoughts kept mulling all the data over in his head. Section 28 has to exist, doesn't it? There's too much data. Distracted, he drove past his exit on the highway and had to backtrack. Pulling into the driveway of his small rental, he grabbed his bag and walked up to the front door. It wasn't until he began to put his key into the lock that he realized the front door was cracked open. Looking around, he belatedly realized that there was a black sedan parked in front of his house that might as well have had a sign posted on it stating, "I am a federal agent." Fear filtered quickly through his mind. What had he done wrong? Who was waiting for him? The fear slowly changed to anger. This was his house that they busted into. It didn't matter that they were Feds. They broke into HIS house. With the stress of the morning, this was the last straw. Not caring if the "men in black" were in his living room, he threw open the door, spoiling for a fight.

  Sitting in his favorite recliner was an average-sized man with a gray pinstripe suit. His black hair and eyes gave hint to Native American or Latino descent, but his cultured voice spoke of a gentrified southern upbringing.

  "Good morning, Mr. Smith. I am Agent James Smith from Homeland Security. And I'd like to discuss a report that you filed with your boss on Friday."

  John was livid. "Get OUT," he roared. "Get out of my house. My boss already read me the riot act. I got the message. 'Section 28' doesn't exist. There are no monsters. This conversation never 'officially' happened, and I don't frakkin' know YOU! Now, get out!"

  Agent Smith raised his hands as if to deflect the words, "I'm not here to, as you say, 'read you the riot act'. I'm here to offer you a job." Agent Smith withdrew his credentials from his inside pocket. "You see, I'm from Section 28. The monsters are real, and we could use your help."

  4

  GOD

  GRAND RAPIDS, MICHIGAN.

  The sniper carefully extended the bipod on the front of his rifle. Setting the bipod on the rest in front of him, the man visually inspected the five-round magazine for his rifle then inserted it into the receiver. Grasping the bolt handle, he twisted and shoved it forward, feeling the secure "click" as it locked into place with a round in the chamber. The sniper lifted the cap from his head, brushed his black hair out of his eyes, and put the hat back on backwards.

  Next to the sniper, his spotter carefully unfolded the tripod that supported his spotting scope and placed the scope on the ground. With his gear set up, he reached over and tapped the sniper on the shoulder twice in a pre-arranged signal. He then reached to his side and withdrew a pair of binoculars to survey the scene just over a hundred yards in front of him.

  Having s
potted his target, the spotter carefully placed his binoculars in their case, laid back down, and switched to the spotting scope. He looked in through the windows of the large building in front of him. Keeping his voice low, he began a running commentary for his partner.

  "Primary target, one hundred twenty-five yards. Windspeed..." he said as he glanced at the small instrument package set up in front of him. "Fifteen knots, three-two-zero degrees. Gusting to twenty-five."

  The spotter began performing the necessary calculations on a small computer attached to his wrist.

  The spotter received his answers from the computer, and murmured, "One and a quarter clicks up, three and a quarter left should put you spot on. You're good to go, Rivera."

  Jesús Rivera made the adjustments to the scope, smiling because he beat the computer yet again. He brought his eye to the scope in front of him. Caressing the stock of his M24-A3 rifle subconsciously, Rivera looked through the scope and sighted in on the Gerald R. Ford Federal Building in Grand Rapids, Michigan.

  Home to many federal offices and a U.S. District Court, gunmen had barged past security checkpoints, shooting people and causing terror all the way to the top floor, taking a judge and several court workers hostage. They coldly shot the guards at the entrance on the way into the building and had fired at and wounded or killed every federal law enforcement officer they encountered. Early reports from witnesses said that there were three of them. Claiming to be from the Islamic State of Iraq and Syria (ISIS), the jihadists were making demands that certain prisoners be released from Guantanamo Bay and that Sharia Law be officially adopted in the state of Michigan, as it had virtually been in Dearborn, Michigan.

  As soon as local law enforcement knew who was holding the hostages, the FBI's Hostage Rescue Team was immediately deployed. They were on the plane and in the air from the FBI Academy in Quantico in twenty minutes and on the scene in Grand Rapids in three hours. Once on site, the local law enforcement responders deferred to the HRT for the resolution.

  As the team arrived, they were told that the ISIS jihadists had killed one of their hostages. The spokesman stated that if their demands were not met, and if they did not have a helicopter on the roof within an hour, another hostage would be executed.

  Thirty minutes before the deadline, the takedown order had been given. Rivera and his spotter, Stuart Duncan, were quickly ordered to post on top of one of the buildings close to the federal building. A position on the roof of the Grand Rapids City Hall would put them on the same level as the hostage takers, and they would be in a great position to guide the entry team.

  Rivera activated the microphone around his throat. "Alpha lead, Overwatch. Eyes on target."

  The HRT team leader replied, "Overwatch, Alpha lead. Sit Rep."

  Rivera counted bodies through the scope, then heard his spotter mutter, "Three bad guys. Eleven hostages."

  Since the count agreed with his, he relayed it to the team leader. "Three tangos. Eleven civilians. Tango one, by the entry door, with a mirror to see the corridor. Tango two, five feet from tango one, along north wall. Tango three, looking out the windows."

  "Copy Overwatch. Alpha lead to all Alpha. We will execute in three minutes... mark," answered the leader.

  Rivera heard Duncan mutter a curse under his breath. "Tango three has eyes. Looks like we're spotted."

  Rivera switched to look at the terrorist by the window and watched as he scanned the city hall roofline with a pair of binoculars. He seemed to be directly looking at them and started waiving his hands, gesturing wildly.

  Rivera uttered the same curse and keyed his mic. "Alpha lead, Overwatch. Caution! Caution! Caution! Tango three has eyes and has spotted our position."

  The team leader responded immediately. "Overwatch, Alpha lead. Priority target, Tango one. Take the shot. Alpha team, execute in 15 seconds."

  Jesús agreed with the team leader. If the sniper shot the target by the door with the mirror, the other bad guys would have no idea when the entry team was going to come through the door, or where. Shifting the crosshairs back to the designated tango one, he paused, inhaled his breath, and then exhaled slowly. When he let about half of it out, his trigger finger moved just under a half inch. Easily taking up the slack and breaking at a crisp one-and-a-half pounds of pressure, the rifle fired.

  The firing pin struck the primer on the .338 Lapua Magnum round in the chamber. The primer ignited and lit the gunpowder inside the casing, propelling the projectile down the barrel and out towards the target. Approximately twelve hundredths of a second later, the bullet ripped through the window glass, missing one terrorist by six inches. The large projectile slammed into the head of the terrorist by the door approximately five thousandths of a second later. The explosive force of almost 4,900 ft/lbs of energy imparted on the skull of the terrorist, and the head virtually vanished.

  As the terrorist by the window heard the crack of the high-powered rifle, Rivera had already cycled the bolt-action and switched targets, centering his sights on the forehead of the troublesome third terrorist. Another breath, another twitch, and another twelve-thousandths of a second later, this bullet did not miss the terrorist at the window. As Rivera cycled the bolt-action again, he shifted the crosshairs again, this time covering the second terrorist, the only one still standing. As the sniper stabilized, he watched the rest of Alpha team break through the door. The first agent through the door pointed his M4 carbine at the terrorist and pulled the trigger. Twice. Six rounds stitched through the terrorist, and he jerked and dropped.

  After a few seconds, Rivera watched the all-clear hand signal being given across the team. Alpha lead rasped in his ear, "Alpha lead, Overwatch. All Clear. Good shooting. Wrap it up."

  Rivera cleared his rifle and put it away.

  Rivera and Duncan sat up, carefully putting their gear in the various pouches and cases. They stood, grabbed their gear, and headed toward the roof access door. This time around, they relaxed and took the elevator to the ground floor. Walking through the building and out the doors, they had stowed must of their gear when the rest of the team returned to the mobile command center.

  A giant of an African American named Alton Lynch strode up to Rivera and Duncan. The leader of the FBI's HRT Team Alpha gave a thumb's up to the pair.

  "Great shooting, Rivera," Lynch said as he turned to the rest of the team. "Alright. Great outcome. Let's get everything stowed. I want to be wheels up in one hour."

  AFTER A GOOD NIGHT'S REST, Rivera arrived at the Quantico Marine Corps Base training facility for debrief and training. Rivera thought the debrief went well enough, and Lynch only handed out minor criticism about being spotted by the lookout. Walking out of the debriefing room, the team headed towards the mess hall for lunch before their afternoon training. Rivera walked out, deep in discussion with Lynch about other tactics they could have used. They were stopped by one of the administrators for the group.

  "SSA Lynch? Special Agent Rivera? There is a visitor here from Homeland Security. He is requesting a meeting with both of you directly. I have him in Conference Room 201, but he requested that I contact you as soon as your debrief was done. Shall I let him know you are coming?" The administrator waited for an answer.

  "Thanks, Krista. Rivera and I can walk with you," Lynch responded.

  As they walked, Lynch turned to Rivera. "Any idea why Homeland Security wants you? Did you apply for a new job without telling me?"

  "No, sir," Rivera said as he shook his head. "I'm happy here. Did we screw something up in Michigan?"

  Lynch just shrugged. "Not to my knowledge. If this guy is recruiting, just say no. Any time one of these interdepartmental headhunters show up, it's never good for the head they are hunting."

  Rivera agreed as they reached the conference room. Opening the door, he let Lynch go in first, and followed closely on his heels. Sitting in the room at the head of the conference table was a rather average sized man in a gray pinstripe suit. He had two folders in front of him, both closed. Rivera
could see that the front of one folder displayed the FBI agency seal. The other folder was emblazoned with the Department of Homeland Security seal, and Rivera could just make out his name on the tab.

  Without standing up, the man greeted the two agents. In a softly cultured voice he said, "Good morning, gentlemen. My name is Agent James Smith, and I work for Homeland Security."

  Picking up the folder with the FBI seal on it, he opened the folder and continued. "Great job in Michigan yesterday. Sounds like it was a bad one. Do we have a final casualty count yet?"

  Neither man sat down. Rivera could see Lynch stiffen and clench his jaw out of the corner of his eye. The sniper knew that meant his commander was about to begin shouting. Lynch roared at the Homeland Security agent, "How did you get a copy of that preliminary report? That is HRT Eyes Only until the final report is ready. No one outside the Director or the Attorney General in cleared for that file. How did you get it?"

  Agent Smith held up his hands, as if to ward off the attack. "Relax, Agent Lynch. I have access to far more information than even the AG. Well written report... really backs up your sniper here. It's good to see that you are watching out for your people."

  But Lynch was not placated in the slightest. "Who are you? Where is your ID? Why are you here? Did we trample on DHS' private playground in Michigan?"

  Agent Smith reached into his jacket for his credentials, and opening them, he slid them across the table towards Lynch. "As much as I'd like to answer all your questions, Agent Lynch, I don't have the time, and, more importantly, you don't have the clearance for that. Instead, I'd like to spend a few minutes talking with Agent Rivera here. Alone. Don't worry, I won't keep him from lunch." Smith smiled and nodded towards the door.

  Lynch carefully scrutinized the credentials and grudgingly came to the conclusion that they were genuine. He looked at Rivera knowingly. "Remember what I told you. I'll wait outside for you." He then looked at Agent Smith and warned him, "Leave him alone. I back my team, AND I protect my team. He's mine." Lynch left and closed the door.