Cobra Clearance

R
ICHARD
C
RAIG
A
NDERSON

COBRA CLEARANCE
©2013 RICHARD CRAIG ANDERSON

Published by Hellgate Press/Fiction
(An imprint of L&R Publishing, LLC)

All rights reserved. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express wtitten permission of L&R Publishing, LLC.

Hellgate Press
PO Box 3531
Ashland, OR 97520
www.hellgatepress.com

Editing
: Jean Jenkins
Cover design
: L. Redding

e-Book edition: April 2013. ISBN: 978-1-55571-730-8

This story is dedicated to my colleagues from Dragon Team, and to all the others out there fighting the good fight.

What others are saying about
Cobra Clearance
:

“Richard Craig Anderson delivers a story with details so seemingly true to life, to events that could be happening at this very instant, that he very quickly had me wondering where fiction ends and fact begins. A bold look at a dark and sinister world where that which is right often blurs with what is most certainly wrong.”

—Wes Albers, author of
Black & White

“When America's second black president is assassinated, former FBI agent Levi Hart and his covert team are called in to find and get the bad guys. With Levi disguised as one of them, all hell breaks loose. Anderson has created a hair-stander of a novel. Don't miss this fiery tale!”

—B. Abell Jurus, co-author,
Men in Green Faces

COBRA CLEARANCE

RICHARD CRAIG ANDERSON

Cobra clearance: Allows access to Top Secret, Sensitive Compartmented Information. The clearance itself is classified, buried within the layers of the TS/SCI compartments that shield black ops. Holders of a Cobra are not permitted to disclose this level of trust to anyone, unless that person has a similar clearance combined with a need to know.

M
ost of the spectators outside the Key Bridge Marriott had no clue, but others among them knew the truth, and got ready. Either way, many of the onlookers wore overcoats, and they drew them close against a blustery wind. They were visitors from Detroit mostly, in town for an Arab-American convention. Some carried children in their arms, while couples stood with arms around one another. Eyeballing them earlier, the lead Secret Service agent decided they presented no threat and besides, they were far enough away from the main door for him not to get too excited. He told the detail, “Put away the metal detectors. We won't need to scan 'em.”

All at once a ripple ran through the crowd as America's second black president appeared in the hotel's doorway. “Lead from the front, leave by the front,” he'd famously declared. After a pause, President Morgan Melchior stopped to wave at the constituents surging against the rope line, while the agents spoke into their cuffs and scrambled to adjust their protective cone.

The agents were working their way past the onlookers when a seven-year-old boy bolted from his mother's side and ran to a
black Suburban parked fifty feet behind the presidential limousine, where he stared with huge eyes at the heavily armed agents of the Counter Assault Team in black BDU clothing.

Seconds later the mother appeared, grabbing his hand and offering the men an apologetic glance as a blast of wind tore at her coat. One of them motioned her away but she leaned down to whisper to the boy, instead. Then from the crowd someone whistled twice and yelled, “Come, Mr. President. I want you!” The woman stood straight. Her eyes widened. She looked from the boy to the armed men, then reached inside her coat and pressed the switch.

The explosives strapped to her body vaporized her and the boy. The blast tore apart three of the four CAT members. The fourth died milliseconds later as the concussion shattered his lungs. The blast continued until it slammed against the face of the Marriott. A split-second later its thunder rolled across the Key Bridge toward Georgetown.

Then the dreadful stutter of assault weapons split the air. They came from every direction, all at once from beneath winter coats—ten men armed with folding-stock AKs and chattering CAR-15s. The nearest agents were gunned down before they could draw their pistols. Other agents with impotent 9mm MP-5 submachine guns fired back, but were ripped apart by heavy, high-velocity AK slugs. A grenade found its way into the open rear door of the president's limousine. Fire and smoke belched out. Then the men lobbed flash-bangs into the crowd. One landed near Melchior. Its blast stunned him.

A dozen bystanders lay dead or dying amid acrid gun smoke. Eight agents and six cops were also killed within seconds. Officers forming a distant outer perimeter were too far away to intervene. The chief executive, still dazed, stood ten feet from a follow-up limo. But there was no one left to protect him.

Six of the attackers lay dead. But four remained. Their tall, lean and bearded leader strolled forward in full view of the news cameramen—the only people still capable of reflex action—and faced President Melchior.

When Melchior moved toward him with clenched fists, the man raised a 9mm pistol and kneecapped him. Melchior crumpled, the pain so brutal he struggled to breathe. His assailant moved forward. A cameraman leapt in the way to stop him, but the assailant shot him point-blank in the chest and stared defiantly into the other cameras. As they rolled he whipped a small sword from beneath his coat and grabbed the president's hair. Then he placed the razor-sharp blade beneath Melchior's left ear and drew it with one swift stroke across his neck, then sawed through the thin upper vertebrae to decapitate the leader of the free world. Glaring into the cameras, he held the head high and spoke evenly. “To quote Danton, ‘the coalesced Kings threaten us, and we hurl at their feet as a gauge of battle the head of a King.'” After a pause he added, “There shall be more.” He dropped the head to the pavement and turned on his heel.

LEVI HART MARCHED DOWN
the fifth floor hallway of an anonymous office building two days later. With his undercover work behind him, he wore his heavy auburn hair brushed straight back. He was slender and angular, with a lean face, a shy grin and knowing eyes. He was thirty-seven but passed for ten years younger. As he turned a corner three brawny men regarded him, glanced at each other, and gave him a wide berth.

The building was nestled between the Pentagon and the Key Bridge Marriott. It was used when officials needed to meet off the record with particular types of personnel. Levi reached a closed
door, then waited for Joe Tucker to catch up. Tall and solid, Tucker walked with a long stride. Every bit of his thirty-something years showed on his face, but today his stern expression aged him beyond his years. The two men were colleagues, although Joe Tucker had wanted nothing to do with Mr. Levi Hart at first, not until a night in Baghdad when a bullet had zipped straight toward Tucker's nose.

“Ready?” Levi asked as Tucker drew to a stop.

“Proceed.”

Levi rapped twice against the heavy security door, pushed it open with ease and paused in the doorway, silhouetted against the bright hallway. He said from the side of his mouth, “Let's see what this is all about.”

The lone occupant of the meeting room sat at the far end of a polished mahogany conference table. He had gray eyes and wore a gray suit and Levi knew him—Harve Parsons, retired FBI assistant director, cold and ruthless. He waited in silence until Levi closed the door and turned its dead-bolt, then said, “Mr. Baker's been summoned to the White House and is unable to attend this meeting. No matter. He's already been briefed.” He made a sour face and gestured toward a pair of Aeron chairs alongside the table.

The two men dropped into their seats. Heath Baker's summons to the White House could only mean face time with The Man himself. In this case The Man was former Vice-President Mark Cohen, and the information didn't surprise either of them.

Their host put a briefing folder on the table and opened it. After donning half-moon glasses he read its summary sheet in silence, then closed the cover and regarded the men. “You're here because our government cannot get its hands dirty.” Peering over his glasses he rendered the directive. “The president's assassin has been identified. Dragon Team's job is twofold: to assist in the investigation,
and to take him into custody when located. This could include a country hostile to our own interests.”

Joe Tucker's face remained calm but what rumbled up from his chest spoke of a quickened pulse and a deep resolve. “What if ‘custody' isn't an option?”

“You're the team leader. What the hell do you think?” He flicked his gaze to Levi. “I'll bet Mr. Hart knows. But of course he's FBI.” He paused for effect and then smirked. “I'm sorry. I meant to say former FBI, and an assistant special agent in-charge to boot. Isn't that right—Hart?”

Levi arched an eyebrow. “Yeah, that's right—Harve.”

“Watch it,” Harve snapped. “Only my friends call me by that name.” Regaining his composure he said in a lower tone, “I always felt you were too young when you were promoted, so your lack of courtesy comes as no surprise.”

Levi let it roll off his shoulders. He knew a few things about Harve—that he had no friends, that he never approved of Levi's promotion to ASAC after fewer than five years on the job, and that he had voiced his scorn when Levi abruptly left the Bureau. He also knew Harve as the boot-licking lifer that he was, and that he now oversaw black ops for one of the alphabet agencies. Levi stared through him and said nothing.

Tucker cocked his head to one side. “Who's our target?”

Harve laced his fingers across his belly. “His name is Amahl, aka, The Butcher. He's intelligent, cunning and elusive.” He settled his eyes on Tucker, then on Levi. “In my opinion he's far too much for you people to handle. But our country faces economic ruin, and the racial tensions have escalated. So we're forced to scrape bottom.” He snorted. “At least you'll be working out of
Fannex
and not here.”

Tucker leaned forward and rested an elbow on the arm of his chair. “You know, you really need more fiber in your diet.” Reaching
across the table, he grabbed the folder and the men huddled over it until Tucker closed its cover and thumped his finger against it. “This is quite a task. But Dragon Team's up to it.”

“You'd better be, because if you're caught on the wrong side of certain borders you'll face imprisonment in a very undesirable country. And I'm authorized to inform you that our leaders will deny any knowledge of you and your activities.”

A little smile tugged the corners of Tucker's mouth. “Are we supposed to be shaking in our boots now? Because I've gotta tell you Harve, I'm stirred, not shaken.”

Harve pointed to the door. “Please close it on your way out.”

The two men burst out into the hallway. Tucker flicked his eyes in the general direction of the exit. “Let's head over to Friendship.”

Levi nodded at Tucker's veiled reference to Baltimore-Washington International airport. Known as Friendship Airport until 1972, BWI was large and its support facilities were situated in a nearby industrial park. But the NSA also maintained a setup there, with a name that lingered from the old days: the Friendship Airport Annex. The acronym was FANX but it would forever be
Fannex
. Levi and Tucker would meet the team within its security-oriented confines and “read them in” to the mission. Levi said, “I'm with you, boss.” His blue eyes narrowed. “This is gonna be a nasty job.”