The disclosure protocol, p.16
The Disclosure Protocol, page 16
part #8 of Warner & Lopez Series
‘Seriously?’ Lopez asked. ‘You’re going to help us hide by stealing trucks?’
‘It’s only temporary,’ Ethan explained. ‘We’ll take this one west, then dump it for another. There’s no way that they’ll be able to track us.’
The Ranger’s driver’s door clicked and Ethan opened it and climbed in. Lopez and Trent joined him, and within ninety seconds Ethan got the ignition turned and the engine rumbled into life. Despite the truck’s battered exterior, the engine sounded in good condition as Ethan hit the lights and pulled out of the lot.
They saw nobody as they drove out of the airport, except the black Mercedes booked by Garrett waiting for them near the terminal building with its lights on. If there was anyone watching for them to exit the terminal building, their eyes would be on the Mercedes and not on a shabby looking Ford Ranger.
Ethan turned west toward the I70 as Lopez settled in.
‘Okay, so now what?’
Ethan shrugged and looked in the rear-view mirror at Trent.
‘I guess we do what Garrett suggested,’ he replied. ‘We go grab ourselves a UFO.’
Trent’s eyes widened, both with trepidation and terror as he began to consider the implications of what Ethan was suggesting.
‘I don’t know how we’d do that,’ Trent said. ‘I wanted to film the things, not go hijack one. If the US government can’t do anything about these things, how are we going to figure out how to catch one? Right now, we can’t even safely catch a flight out of the state.’
‘You’re the genius, right?’ Ethan said. ‘The only way you’re gonna get out of this is if you’re too valuable to kill. You need something to trade, and while those images you have are dynamite they’re not enough to save your life. The government could easily orchestrate a campaign to render them fakes, and there would be nothing that you could do about it. What you need is hard evidence, something so tangible and solid and unfakeable that nobody could possibly suggest it’s anything other than the real deal.’
Trent scoffed in the back seat. ‘Huh, no big deal then.’
‘He’s right, Ethan,’ Lopez said. ‘Have you thought about what you’re proposing? Nobody in history has been able to figure out what these things are, much less capture one.’
‘Until recently we didn’t have clear images of one either,’ Ethan countered. ‘We have a way of finding them, and that puts us one step ahead of whoever is tracking us. It’s all we have. There’s nowhere else to go for Kyle here except into permanent hiding, perhaps as part of the FBI Witness Protection Programme along with his parents.’
Ethan glanced in the mirror and saw Kyle pale considerably as he considered a life where he would never see his home again, where his parents would have to live out the rest of their lives because of what he had done.
‘This is all my fault,’ he uttered miserably. ‘I should have just gone public with the pictures.’
‘That would have made sense,’ Lopez agreed, ‘and probably earned you a lot of money in the process, not a death warrant.’
Kyle Trent punched his own thigh in frustration. Ethan had to feel for the kid. He’d had the best intentions, forcing the government of his country to stop lying to the people for whom they worked. But he had underestimated the lack of control Washington had over certain branches of the military and intelligence community. Not everyone answered to the President of the United States, and Ethan knew that in some cases the president was kept in the dark about much of what went on within the so-called “Black Budget”, the tens of billions of tax-payer’s dollars spent on military-industrial projects shielded from congressional oversight.
‘Kyle, you did what you did and now you’re going to have to help us get you out of it. We don’t have anyone else we can trust or rely on and I don’t want Garrett to stick his neck out any further than he already has. We’re on our own, and all we have is that little box of tricks of yours so why not run it and find out whether there’s anything happening in Nevada in the next twenty-four hours?’
Kyle sat for a moment in catatonic silence. Lopez leaned back over her seat and flashed him her best smile.
‘Why not show the world just what a genius you are, instead of hiding it?’
Kyle’s lips curled in a shy smile, and Ethan wondered again why he didn’t just let Lopez do all the talking. Trent pulled out his laptop and started it up.
‘I’m going to have to connect to the Internet to update any data on recent sightings but I’m well protected, it shouldn’t flag up to anyone looking as the IP address is heavily cloaked.’
‘Make it fast,’ Ethan replied. ‘I don’t care if you think you’re well protected, the people searching for us will have a dozen Kyle Trents working to find you. Once you’re done let me know.’
Kyle Trent’s fingers rattled on the keyboard as he worked. Ethan could hear the laptop’s fan humming to keep it cool as the software began to work.
‘Okay,’ Kyle said, ‘lots of recent sightings over Nevada. The routine will need a few seconds to add the extra data and analyse it.’
Ethan kept driving, one eye on the mirror to both watch Kyle Trent but also to see if they were being tailed. They were heading north on the 70 towards Nevada, probably the last place that the CIA or special operations thought they would go to. With Mackenzie out of the picture for the time being they would have had no reason to go anywhere near the state and so their enemy would not think to…
Ethan frowned.
‘What is it?’ Lopez asked.
Ethan hadn’t really made the connection until now, but the more he thought about it, the more he realised that the attack on Mackenzie made no sense.
‘If they hadn’t attacked the general we would have taken Kyle Trent right to him, just like we were ordered to.’
Lopez considered this for a moment. ‘And they wouldn’t have had to track us at all, they could have just sat back and wait for us to walk through their door.’
Ethan and Nicola shared a glance.
‘The CIA weren’t behind it,’ Ethan said. ‘They can’t have been and besides, Mackenzie said that he was operating off the books, that he hadn’t told anyone about the operation at the Barn and had come to us directly on the recommendation of…’
‘Jarvis,’ Lopez gasped. ‘But he’s…’
‘Out of the game,’ Ethan confirmed. ‘But if someone else picked up on the images that Kyle sent to the CIA, someone who wasn’t really on our side but who had access to that kind of material then they could have sent it out into the world and set everyone looking for Kyle.’
Lopez nodded slowly, thinking back to their work with the DIA.
‘Mat Zemlya,’ she said finally. ‘You think that they’re involved with all of this?’
Mat Zemlya was the name of a secretive Russian covert operations unit that resembled and had perhaps even been modelled on the Defense Intelligence Agency’s ARIES unit. The name meant “Mother Earth”, but there was nothing motherly about the unit’s operations or their methods. Covert, violent and answering to nobody, their purpose was the infiltration of American intelligence assets and the acquiring of advanced technology for reverse engineering back in Russia. In the past the unit and its various leaders had shown no concern for human life or international laws and boundaries, killing indiscriminately wherever they were encountered.
‘The Russians are involved?’ Kyle asked from the back seat.
‘We don’t know yet,’ Ethan cautioned. ‘But it’s one possibility.’
There was a ping from Kyle’s laptop, and he looked down. Ethan and Lopez waited.
‘Well?’
‘We’ve got a target,’ Kyle said.
‘Where is it?’ Ethan asked.
Kyle told him, and Ethan bit his lip as he considered the location. ‘Damn, this isn’t going to be easy.’
***
XXIX
Colonel Rico Savage strode into the mobile command centre that his men had set up in a disused warehouse on the edge of Las Vegas, and with him came a deep aura of displeasure that descended upon his men like a black cloud.
‘Sit rep,’ he snapped as he reached a pair of desks where operatives manned hastily connected computers.
‘We’re searching for them,’ came the response. ‘No information as yet on where they went.’
Savage peered at the screens. Each portrayed multiple law enforcement and public service cameras that were operational at the time of the hunt through the Galleria mall. The operators were skilled observers and were trained to monitor each of the feeds simultaneously in order to identify their quarry, but they were assisted with facial recognition software that helped pick out targets of interest from the throng of shoppers and tourists passing by the cameras.
That, of course, didn’t help if the targets happened to be walking away from, or parallel to, the same cameras, which was where the operatives came in. Despite advances in computer recognition technology that could identify people from as little as the shape of their ear, that capability did not translate well to the low-resolution cameras typically fitted within civilian areas. Savage preferred “eyes on the ground” over any technical gadgetry, but this time the old-fashioned way had failed. He turned to the commander of his field team.
‘What happened?’
‘We identified the target within the Galleria mall and were closing in when another team grabbed him.’
That got Savage’s attention real quick. ‘Identity?’
‘American,’ came the response, ‘former DIA team known to our database.’
That was a surprise, and in some ways something of a relief. Had the grab team been Russian, as Savage had feared, they would have been facing far greater consequences.
The team leader turned and handed Savage a slim file which he opened to reveal two images and an intelligence brief.
‘Ethan Warner,’ Savage murmured as he read through the report. ‘Former Marine, journo turned PI?’
Savage could admit to himself that he was stunned. His men were some of the best trained covert operatives in the United States inventory and yet a former soldier and gumshoe had given them the slip. While stranger things had happened, he wouldn’t allow the team to get away with this without venting his spleen at their commander.
‘You got given the slip by frickin’ Columbo?’
The commander raised his chin.
‘All due respect sir, this man knew what he was doing. He and his partner were already in the Galleria and they had help.’
Savage turned to the operatives at the computers as they supported their commander.
‘They had a vehicle waiting outside and they were able to get out of the Galleria and blend in with local traffic. We located their vehicle within a half hour but they had already switched. By the time we caught their trail they’d boarded a helicopter that took off and headed north for McCarran. We’re tracking the pilot down now.’
‘How long?’
‘Already on it, sir,’ the commander reported. ‘The team should have something concrete within the hour.’
‘Good,’ Savage replied, ‘because I’m going to find it tough to explain how a former Marine who’s been out of the service for over a decade outwitted a team of Navy SEALS and Army Rangers. Is that something you want on your CV?’
‘No sir!’
Savage’s cell phone buzzed in his pocket. He gave the commander a cold glare.
‘As you were.’
The team dispersed to continue with their duties as Savage walked outside into the darkness and answered the secure line.
‘Savage.’
‘Where are we with the Trent kid?’
‘He’s got some friends,’ Savage replied. ‘Looks like former DIA, they’ve picked him up and run. How the hell would they have known anything about this, sir? We kept a lid on it from the get-go and it’s only been a day.’
There was a long pause on the line.
‘I take it that I don’t have to impress upon you the importance of finding Trent.’
‘Trent isn’t the biggest issue now,’ Savage replied, unintimidated. ‘If the DIA or another agencies are sniffing around this then they’re gonna take him under their wing and we’ll lose the advantage we’ve had. Chances are they knew nothing about any of this until Trent and his pal snuck into Dugway and started playing David Bailey with the visitors.’
It wasn’t often that Savage could even bring himself to refer to the objects that occasionally appeared over American installations, and even then he could only refer to them as visitors. This was more to do with his own dislike of them as it was to do with security over communications. Although not a religious man, Savage was not comfortable with the idea of alien species, or whatever they were, wandering around on American soil. What was more, he was aware of the way in which his superiors held these things in regard. They did not know what they were. They did not know why they came or where from. They were not able to be aggressive toward them, because humanity’s weapons and technology were feeble in comparison. The end result of all of that, for any military man, was that they were afraid, and that bothered Savage immensely. The most powerful and dangerous men in America did not conceal the presence of UFO activity because of government projects or secrecy or national security. They concealed it because they could not tell the American people that they were scared and that they could not hope to defend the public against these things if they ever turned hostile.
‘A base that you and your team were charged to secure,’ came the response.
‘Lines of battle change daily,’ Savage countered. ‘New skills allow determined folk to break through, however briefly. Trent’s breach has been sealed and cannot again be used against us. The focus now is on locating and apprehending him.’
‘His apprehension is no longer enough,’ came the reply. ‘I want him silenced, permanently, is that understood?’
‘Yes, sir.’
The line went dead and Savage slipped the cell phone back into his pocket and sighed. Most kids got busted for carrying beer or drugs, or maybe fighting on street corners. Kyle Trent had leap-frogged over all of that, infiltrated one of the most sensitive bases in the world and now had the full might of United States’ covert operations units bearing down upon him. The chances of him surviving much longer, even with this Warner and Lopez pair protecting him, were pretty slim.
As if on cue the team called him back in, to where a cell was on speaker phone to an operative in the field.
‘Go ahead,’ Savage said as he joined his team.
‘We’ve got camera footage from a traffic camera that shows the helicopter in question descending below 500ft while over the city. That’s normally against federal aviation laws so we checked it out and found that it flew to a ranch on the edge of Vegas that has its own airport.’
‘Its own what?’
‘You heard me right sir; runway, terminal, the whole thing. We’ve got a record of a private jet leaving within four minutes of the helicopter’s arrival, scheduled for a stop–over in Virginia. Passenger manifest records only the pilot and one male aboard, but chances are that’s where our boy and his new pals went.’
Savage blinked in amazement. How the hell this had all been arranged at such short notice confounded him for now, but he put that to one side and focussed on the job at hand.
‘Who owns the jet?’
‘It was chartered by one Rhys Garrett, a billionaire property magnate. He’s the passenger.’
Savage leaned in toward the phone.
‘Find Garrett and find out what he knows. Everyone else, let’s pack up and get moving. I want us all in Virginia before nightfall.’
The team dashed to perform their duties, as Savage’s superior’s words rolled around in his mind; I want him silenced, permanently. It was a shame, but Kyle Trent’s life was about to come to an abrupt end, and if Warner and Lopez got in the way Savage knew that they too would suffer the same unfortunate fate.
***
XXX
The tide had well and truly turned.
Vigor Vitesky sat in the darkness in an unremarkable car, wearing unremarkable American clothes and reading an unremarkable American newspaper. It was notable about the insular nature of the American press that he had to turn to about page nine to get anything resembling world news: everything else was the world according to America. It was the same on the cable networks he and his men watched in their motel rooms, everything America. The rest of the world might as well not exist, which suited Vigor just fine.
The small articles concerning the other ninety per cent of the inhabited world detailed the recent electoral victory of Vladimir Putin with around seventy-five per cent of the vote. The journalist brought attention to the fact that Putin had no real challenger, the only one who had existed having been barred from running due to corruption charges, a favourite ploy of the Kremlin to prevent “undesirable” candidates from achieving office. Putin’s victory had come just a few days after a Soviet traitor and his daughter had been poisoned in the United Kingdom, a likely revenge attack by communist loyalists who yearned for a return of the Politboro and the hardline leadership so embodied by Putin and his entourage.
Vigor set the piece down, which was full of Yankee rhetoric over the lack of democracy and honesty in Putin’s Russia, smiling as he considered the rank corruption of most western leaders and the bias of their journalism, at least in America. Their press was owned by corporations, as were their leaders. In Russia, back in the glory days, the Kremlin had been owned by nobody, and anyone who crossed it would find themselves lost to history in the Gulags of Siberia.
