27
As his chopper spun around the buildings in central L.A., Colonel Tessler watched the chaos below on multitasking screens. What was happening below was premature and potentially disastrous. It had to be brought under control.
The death of Landra, a top Blacksnake team leader of the highest tier, changed everything. Tessler realized now the operation was blown. His earlier confidence that things would be resolved quickly and neatly dissolved in the violence and chaos below. It was becoming a worst-case scenario and he had to inform Raab, a man with no tolerance.
It was painful to realize, but there was no doubt now that Keegan, his greatest pupil, had betrayed him and followed Metzler, or had become Metzler’s prisoner along with Doctor Hall. In either case, it was a mess.
What was Metzler planning? And what was Doctor Hall’s role? Maybe she was with him.
Tessler began to think that Doctor Hall, the enemy both of the program and of Raab, had to be behind Keegan’s change. But how? What was going on? Nothing made sense to the colonel.
Giving the “kill” order was necessary, but painful. The two most advanced soldiers had to be taken out. But first, per his orders and status, he had to talk to Raab.
And Raab, when he realized the situation, would go into his panic mode, which he did.
“You have to keep her alive, goddamnit! She’s the solution to the problem. You have to bring her in no matter what.” Tessler hated the sound of the man’s voice in any context. Raab said, “And it would be nice if she had Metzler’s goddamn brain to look at. Jesus!”
And no matter how much Tessler tried to suggest, to express his doubt about Doctor Hall, Raab didn’t want to hear it. He was obsessed with the woman.
Finally, unable to deal with Raab’s incessant chatter, Tessler cut him off.
What Tessler was worried about far more than Raab’s angst was the National Guard. They would come in soon to close things down and force him to lose much of his freedom of movement over L.A. airspace.
Raab would still be watching the movements from Baja, yelling, but Tessler was spared. He turned his attention to monitoring the communications between local police and the National Guard.
But on an emotional level, his focus was on the two greatest, most enhanced warfighters on the planet. And the possibility of their betrayal.
It was as if Metzler had not only turned against the program but was intent on destroying it by triggering a disaster.
Local authorities, having been informed that a special operation against a domestic terror organization was in progress, stood back. That gave cover for the movement of the Blacksnake teams, but it also posed serious potential problems if the goddamned National Guard moved in.
When his chopper dropped to a few hundred feet in above the streets and buildings, the signal from the tracker was now located. They just might have them cornered.
“I need teams blocking every exit. I need the woman alive if possible,” Tessler ordered. “Three and Four, go.”
His lieutenant was on a constant commo search for contact with Keegan, but to no avail. It was spinning out of control down there. Beyond what even Metzler’s cell would be doing.
One of the big problems was that even lowly flash mobs and gangs were into new technologies, sold on the Dark Web. Unchecked freedom on the Internet had to be reined in. Handing it over to the United Nations was a joke nobody took seriously.
From the Blacksnake team closest to the problem came a simple reality. “Sir, we get into a fight, we might not be able to control the fate of the doctor.”
Tessler had to make a call, a decision that he would be responsible for. That might come back on him at some point, but he had to make it one way or another.
“You do what you can to keep Doctor Hall alive. We need her. But, in any case, this has to end.”
He framed in a defensible way, a way that, if it came to that later, he could argue his intent.
The good news was that they had the movement of the tracker and had teams in place to intercept. It was coming to a head. The problem was, those who they faced were among the greatest of urban warriors. If Keegan had turned, he was a major threat. He was known among the top tiers as the Urbanwolf. Facing him in the streets of L.A. or any city was not something Tessler wanted.
He ordered the chopper to get to the location. But when they were moving low over the tops of buildings, they again got gunfire from below.
Tessler’s pilot pulled them up fast. He knew he was now in trouble.
28
Rainee was feeling the stress on her legs more now. Still in her running sneakers and clothes, she felt like she’d been running the entire day with no end in sight.
Duran and Mora were always with her as they headed for the L.A. River.
When they stopped near train tracks, warehouses, something going on ahead, Duran came up beside her. “How you doin’, Doc?”
She smiled at him. “I’m good. My morning jog is taking a bit longer than normal. What’s the problem?”
“We’re okay at the moment. But that depends on when the Blacksnake teams that are closing in on the sewer where the chip is realize they’ve been had. So we have some breathing room. But it won’t last long once they realize they’ve been fooled.”
“What’s happening ahead of us? Why are we stopping?”
Duran said, “Some of Metzler’s guys who control the corridor are trying to get river dinghies up from the camp. There’s a lot of layers of coordination going on. The camps downriver are, to some extent, a separate entity from the groups in this district. It’s complicated. It’ll get resolved, but the rule is, and Metzler created it, when survival is at stake, different groups have to see to their own situation.”
She said, “Tell me something. You’re a Metzler follower, I’ve gathered, so what is his goal? What does he want, when all is said and done?”
Duran gave her a look, smiled, and said, “He has no goal, as far as I know, other than making sure his people, the vets and contractors who worked with them in Iraq and Afghanistan, are not screwed and abandoned and left in the dust. There are people who want to use us for other purposes. He’s against that. He doesn’t want us used by anybody. And because of that, he’s pretty much worshiped.”
“What about Keegan?”
“That’s different. Keegan’s seen as part of the problem. But you need to understand that Keegan is also seen as one of the most dangerous people on the planet. And for that, well, he’s respected on that level.”
As they waited, Rainee Hall processed this with growing anxiety and angst. She stood between two of the greatest warriors on the planet, who were in opposition, each determined to thwart the other. One for the program, whatever it was, and one against. And they were both her guys. Her former patients. The idea that, at some point, she might have to choose between them was painful in the extreme. These were not just patients—these were men she had a connection to in a deeper way than if they were her lovers, or sons. War is the responsible party. It creates connections, emotional bonds, beyond what is normal.
War is very strange in that way. War is the breakdown of civilization. Those who engage, whatever their position, are in something extreme. War is the most primitive and essential of survival activities. Those who have known it are never like those who have not. It’s just an experience outside of the collective, tribal, usual matrix. Rainee Hall’s profession, history, and experience in war zones conditioned her to that phenomenon. But the one thing she’d never envisioned was that the wars would come home and become something dangerous.
They were cleared to go. Now the pace picked up. They skirted dumpsters and trash piles, burned out cars and warehouses with broken out windows.
It seemed like an hour of steady jogging. L.A. was beginning to fall behind them now. And the river ahead, off to their right. They slowed to a walk.
Keegan came back to her after talking with Metzler. “How are you doing?” he asked, looking over and nodding at Duran.
“Maybe more importantly,” she said, “how are we doing?”
In the moonlight, that right eye of his had a nearly metallic shine. “I don’t know yet,” he said. “We’ll know more at camp. You’ll get your opportunity to talk to Metzler, see what you can do.”
She saw that he still believed there was a chance Metzler might decide to come in out of the dark. He was one of those optimistic types, one of those true believers who thought at some point everyone would come to the reality, the necessity, the truth.
No chance, she thought. You’re utterly disengaged from our reality.
But she said nothing.
They moved out again, Keegan going on ahead down along some railroad tracks to the river.
She started to think seriously of some other course of action, like bringing in some of her contacts and seeing what they might come up with.
She thought of one of the men who’d pleased her in so many ways, but a man she’d lost. Jason Styles. He was a superstar in her mind. He had his grip on some of the most sensitive and powerful intel operatives in the country. He led more dark operations than anyone she knew about. And he was her advisor in the congressional hearings. At the moment he was running a new psywar training center at the naval base on Coronado Island.
He would be her guy. But first she had to have something to give him.
The camp would be where things would be decided, where she would learn what the real situation was and how Metzler and Keegan would deal with each other.
Both Metzler and Keegan were now undoubtedly on some kill list. Maybe she was there as well, but they needed her and that might give her some leverage down the road. If there was a “down the road.”
She turned to Duran, as they were now reaching the river. “The men in these camps—are they Metzler’s?”
“Yes. They’re a mix of vets, homeless alcoholics and druggies, some criminal elements hiding out. Many are former contractors. But Metzler is their hero. I’d say the majority in the river camps are contractors from Iraq and Afghanistan.”
The highest rate of PTSD victims actually were contractors. They outnumbered the combat units in sheer numbers in war zones, had to deal with different and dangerous circumstances, and were often totally overlooked.
They stopped along the bank in some trees.
After a few minutes, Mora informed her that there were mini-drones at low altitudes. “Time for the butterfly killer,” he said.
“What is that?”
“Duran is the expert. It’s called a butterfly killer. Butterflies being the tiny drones everybody is using these days. Police, crooks, and feds. It tracks any getting close and can send out multiple search-and-destroy signals to the drones’ electronics. They have, generally, very tight inscription, but these killers are designed for that. It’s all a matter of staying ahead of the game.”
They moved up to where Metzler, Duran, and Keegan were huddled; Duran had the little tube, which looked like a miniature shotgun with a smartphone.
She saw the small screen of a device reading something from one of the screens. He fired off pulse after pulse.
“Got two,” Duran said, looking at the small screen. “We’re good.”
Mora turned to her and said, “Duran is the nerd. Man understands the digital world way beyond what I can even imagine. He lives in that universe.”
Rainee said, “And what universe do you live in?”
“I’m just a basic blood-and-guts kinda guy. Baseball and hotdogs.”
Rainee smiled. She liked Mora.
They headed off toward the river.
29
They moved in single file, at quickstep, along a trail to the river, dodging rusted-out grocery carts and other junk, moving like soldiers in a hurry, escaping a city under siege.
Finally, mercifully, the air began to clear. No longer did her lungs burn from tear gas and tire smoke as they moved away from the combat zone of L.A.
They stopped. A group of men moved across their path. There was some conversation between the men with Metzler.
Rainee said, “I feel like I’m in a nasty episode of
Game of Thrones.”
Duran said, “Believe it—you are.”
They moved out but again were stopped. Keegan and Metzler then talked for a few minutes to some long-bearded homeless guys who camped in the brush near the river.
Another argument broke out between Keegan and Metzler. Duran went over to join in.
Rainee stood with Mora, before them, the dark ribbon of water; behind, the city on fire.
“If those two can’t agree on anything,” Mora said, “and they can’t, I think we are
doomed
.”
“Sounds like a description of the country at large,” Rainee said.
Mora nodded. “How the hell did things end up like this?”
“Bad wars lead to messed-up societies,” Rainee said. “Some historian, whose name escapes me at the moment, said that intact armies never launch radical movements or rebellion, or are even subject to proselytizing, but a shattered army, reduced not by defeat, but by an absence of victory, an absence of reason, will return in pieces and under extreme duress, and will not transition well back to society. That’s what we have here. All these soldiers living in limbo are ripe for radicalization. I think that’s what’s very scary.”
“You got that right,” Mora said. “There’s one hell of a lot of anger out there in the alleys, in the streets, and in the camps. And now it’s getting organized across the country. Add to that the nanobots, brain crawlers, minibots, and it’d scare anybody.”
What she’d always liked about Mora, when she ran into him during the various Stand Down projects, was the ultimate dedication to his fellow soldiers and the sardonic personality. This guy went from combat to his return and continued his work, above ground and below, to help his fellow soldiers deal with their problems. The world around him might be going to hell, but Mora, and guys like him, never stopped.
She watched the men who were in a tight circle talking down by the river just below her. She saw no good end to any of this.