ROGUESTATE, page 41
He had closed down theBlackest of the Black during the changeover of administrations from George Bush to Bill Clinton in the winter of 1992. Bill Casey, Ronald Reagan’s Director of Central Intelligence, had designed theBlackest of the Black as one of many weapons to implement the new President’s policy of defeating the Soviet Empire. In order to realize Casey’s vision, an entire infrastructure had to be developed to support the secret warriors Casey mandated into existence.
Louis had gleaned the best soldiers he could find from all service branches, and assigned them into two-man teams. The missions included the public grievances against Grenada, Panama, and Iran, but they also delved into the darker side of the Cold War, including the Nicaraguan Contra rebels. More than one operation violated specific Congressional restraints—restraints the ruling Democrats never dared to test in the Supreme Court. The balance of power did not simply teeter between East and West, but also between the Congressional and the Executive branches of the American government.
The number of people who knew about the 44-Protocol came to a short list, and two names rose to the top: Damon Layne and Jim Harper. It was the worst circumstance, for neither man trusted him and both had good reasons for their skepticism. The old spymaster felt the immense weight of his charge land heavily on his shoulders. He could see Wallops long runways forming a triangle growing larger in the canopy as the helicopter came in for a landing.
* * * *
Building 44, Wallops Flight Facility
Harper watched Damon Layne move into the gray hanger. It was not a large building, measuring a little more than fifty feet by fifty feet. It appeared to have been locked in time at the beginning of the eighties. The oil drums were heavy with silt and grime. The tools showed signs of rust.
The only modern technology was the card reader that opened the heavy steel door. It matched the smart cards he had retrieved following the 44-Protocol, and the smart cards had a microprocessor embedded inside a silicon wafer that was unimaginable in 1980. It appeared the hanger had been sealed almost twenty years ago and never opened. As with so many things in the secret world, small surprises remained primed for decades—long after their creators had retired or perished.
Harper waited for Layne to close the heavy door and reach for the light switch. Nothing happened, because Harper had tripped the circuit breakers, and only a dreary light made its way through the green-shaded windows along the top of the wall.
Layne froze in place and let his eyes drift around the room, searching for a clue as to why the lights had failed. Somewhere beyond his vision, someone stirred. He could sense the muzzle aimed at his back and he slowly raised his hands.
“Lock your fingers behind your neck,” ordered Harper.
Layne did as he was told.
“You got him in your sights, Conner?” continued Harper.
Layne took a quick breath and sweat popped out on his forehead.
Harper stepped sideways, keeping his Glock trained on Layne’s back and both hands wrapped around the weapon. The nausea and debilitating dizziness he suffered caused him to remain cautious. Layne knew how to kill as quickly and effectively as Harper.
Layne scanned the room until he saw the gray/black silencer protruding from behind a pair of fifty-five–gallon oil drums. He could understand Conner’s anger. The man was a master sniper, and blowing a hole through his head was trivial at this range.
“I see you’ve found Conner,” commented Harper. “I’ve convinced him to let you live for the moment.”
Slowly Layne turned towards the voice behind him. He found only a silhouette holding a pistol behind a row of oil drums.
“And you are…?” he asked.
Harper ignored the question and said, “Move away from the door—very slowly. I know you are aware of Conner’s abilities. It doesn’t appear you are wearing any body armor—not that it would do you any good anyway. He took out Major Paco Cruz standing in a field at one hundred yards during a rainstorm. He can certainly handle a twenty-foot shot.”
Layne nodded silently.
“Not many people would know to come here, or have a card capable of opening the door to this building. You do. You’ve initiated the 44-Protocol, and very few people know how to do that,” observed Harper.
Damon squinted at the dark shape, and he asked, “How do you know about that 44-Protocol?” He already knew the answer.
“The same as you do—we were briefed on its use,” whispered Harper.
The old training asserted itself and the cautions against revealing the effort against the Soviet Empire ran through his memory. These were forbidden topics.
“Conner isn’t cleared for this information,” warned Layne.
Harper rocked back on his legs as the wear and tear of the last two months sought to bring him down. He had lived too long in a murky world of half-truths and lies. Louis Edwards had insulated the teams from one another, and Harper had broken cover. It was bad tradecraft and there were consequences for such actions. He desperately wanted to survive this day and go home to Lynn and his girls. He had a promise to keep. He also wanted the truth, and for now, truth won out.
“You used the armory in Georgetown and killed important people,” Harper said flatly.
Layne simply nodded.
“You ran an operation in Panama calledSpanish Poppy and commandeered the cocaine trade. You killed a lot of people there as well.”
Layne nodded again.
Harper licked his lips and stated his third fact. “You mailed the video tapes regarding a Chinese spy nameGoldenrod to Louis Edwards.”
Layne raised an eyebrow and smiled. “Yes.”
“Why?” whispered Harper.
* * * *
Louis Edwards got out of the Jeep and turned to Mister Smith and Mister Jones. “You will stay here.”
His two guards started to protest, but the older man raised a hand to silence them.
“I must go where you can not. If you hear gunfire, then kill whoever emerges from this hanger. Otherwise, do nothing.”
“Sir, we can’t—”
Louis fixed Mister Smith with a steely glare. “I shouldn’t even have you with me. This never happened.” He left them standing next to the Jeep and headed towards the steel door leading into Building 44.
He waved his master smart card over the reader and heard the deadbolt lock slide open. Taking a deep breath, Louis entered the building. The secrets stretching back to Iran-Contra, the Mena supply efforts, BCCI and others waited for him inside the hanger. It was a sordid history that occasionally spilled into the public domain, but only the most rabid conspiracy hunters ever bothered to even understand what they were hearing.
Damon Layne stared at Edwards and gulped. It was getting crowded in the stifling hanger at the edge of the Atlantic Ocean. The door closed behind the spymaster as he observed one his finest pupils and noted his stance.
“I take it we are not alone,” murmured Louis.
Layne nodded towards the silhouette holding a pistol on him.
Louis stared into the gloom, uncertain as to whom he was facing.
“Why am I not surprised,” muttered Harper.
Recognition blossomed across Louis’ features as he said, “Jimbo, how did you know?”
The only person Harper ever allowed to call him Jimbo had been Jerry, and Jerry was buried in an unmarked grave along the waterless land between Iraq, Jordan, and Saudi Arabia. He let the slight pass for the moment.
“I read his Q file,” answered Harper. “A heavily edited Q file.”
Louis nodded quizzically. “That wouldn’t have been enough.”
“No, it wasn’t enough,” murmured Harper. “He did two other things.”
Layne wondered at the conversation—what was going on here?
Louis glanced at Layne, noting the pistol in his shoulder holster. Why would Harper leave Layne armed? It was totally out of character. “What were those?” asked Louis.
“He used the Pine View farm in Virginia, and the armory in Georgetown. He had access to military personal folders, and mounted a sophisticated operation out of the American Embassy in Panama. You also assigned Jerry and me to take him out in 1989 during the American invasion along the Panama Canal. I’m not the brightest bulb on the tree, but it occurred to me that very few people would have known or been at all those places. So I guessed.”
“You guessed!” blurted Layne incredulously.
Harper nodded.
“Guessed—what did you guess?” asked Louis.
“If he was one of us, then he might use the 44-Protocol to get away. Especially after killing a Congressman and leading the FBI on a merry chase—it is the perfect bolthole. Use the American government to elude every law enforcement agency in the United States. It’s perfect, because the Company would never admit to the Bureau they allowed a rogue agent operating under Cold War rules using US facilities to get away. They still won’t admit it—isn’t that correct Louis?” concluded Harper.
The spymaster nodded.
Layne stared at two of them and asked, “Can I put my hands down?”
Harper shook his head.
Layne frowned and Louis waited for Harper to make the next move.
“I presume you have your attack dogs waiting outside,” said Harper.
Louis nodded slowly. “They have orders to kill anyone who comes out of here if either of you start shooting.”
“Too many bodies and not enough explanations if I read you right,” murmured Harper as he evaluated the truth.
Louis nodded again. “You demanded the truth after you brought Jonas back from Panama. All right, now you know. You and Damon were—are—teammates.”
“He’s a murderer and a coward,” snarled Harper. The pain lanced through his back and he visibly staggered, but the muzzle remained steady in its aim at Layne’s chest.
“You knew it was the two of us—how?” asked Layne.
Louis stuffed his hands deep in his pockets. The truth was a difficult thing for him to parse. “There are not many left from theBlackest of the Black. Most of the people George and I recruited died during the Cold War or shortly thereafter. You were part of the ten percent or so who escaped unscathed—physically at least. Bill Casey wanted the job done, and he really didn’t care who or how or what we used to get things accomplished. We selected you because of your skills and your animal-like determination to survive. No one checked your political inclinations or psychological profiles—had we, the program would have been shut down. We needed killers, not Sunday school teachers.”
The spymaster shook his head and explained, “Harper here, struggles with right and wrong, black and white. We discovered the man had a moral code that permitted him to declare absolute war—the perfect weapon for wartime, and an imperfect person during the peace.
“Layne, on the other hand, has no moral scruples. He kills dispassionately and without a second thought. He’s a weapon that has no OFF switch, and as the Cold War wound down, his rather insatiable appetites demanded more and more danger—regardless of the source.”
“That’s why you sent Jerry and me to kill him in 1989,” whispered Harper.
Louis smiled. “Yes, wars are marvelous events. People die or disappear, and no one asks too many questions. The Invasion of Panama was our opportunity to do a bit of house cleaning. The two of you are equals and opposites, and you both live in your personal hells.”
“Death or life? Is that your choice, Louis?” snapped Layne.
Louis faced his prodigy. “Either you both live or you both die. You’ve been a bad fellow, Damon,” scolded Louis. “However, the damage it would cause to have the FBI apprehend you is greater than the people you have killed recently.”
“How can you make judgments like that?” demanded Harper.
Louis kept his eyes on Layne and answered, “The public can’t take the truth, and neither can the people running the country. They really don’t want the truth; they prefer a convenient fiction. Damon, you can draw your weapon, but I think Harper or Conner will shoot you first, and of course, the men outside this building will shoot them. Or you can take the Jeep to the far runway and the jet waiting for you.”
Harper tried to lift the gun, but his body was fighting him. The wounds from Panama had reopened and he felt blood sticking to his back.
“Jim, I have another jet waiting for you. You’ll be home in time for Thanksgiving and a long rest. Isn’t that what you really want, and what Lynn and your girls want? Money will not be a problem; there’s more than enough to take care of you and your family while you recover,” offered Louis.
“One last thing, before you leave,” Harper said quietly.
Layne felt generous—he was going to live a while longer. “What’s that?”
“You never answered my question,” he reminded Layne.
Layne gave Harper a quizzical look, “What question?”
“Why did you mail the tapes to Louis? Why did you break cover?” Harper had to know.
Layne considered the question. He realized the man who was struggling to stand upright could still put a bullet into him. “There are lines we all cross. I don’t mind killing anyone, but there’s a part of me that still believes in the red, white, and blue.”
“Really?” rasped Harper.
“Yeah,” nodded Layne. “I know you might find it hard to believe, but I do love this country.”
Harper realized it was over. Never dropping the aim of his weapon, he grunted, “Go.”
“A moment,” said Louis raising his hand.
Layne jerked to a stop pinioned between Conner Fadden’s rifle and Harper’s Glock. “What?” he snarled.
“Hayden Burke—what ever happened to him?” asked Louis.
Hayden Burke was a name he had not heard in a long time. Burke had been his partner—a grizzled old spy who had been through the terrible years in Indonesia, Cuba, Vietnam, and Laos.
“I killed the old man,” replied Layne matter-of-factly.
“Really?” murmured Louis skeptically.
“Yes, I shot him through the head in Costa Rica!” protested Layne.
“Of course,” taunted Louis.
Layne glowered at the spymaster. “Can I go?”
“Certainly,” replied Louis.
Layne unlaced his hands and exited the hanger, leaving Louis, Harper, and their ghosts.
Harper sagged seconds after Layne vanished through the door. The Glock dropped from his numb hand and he stumbled across the fifty-gallon barrels. Casually Louis walked across the intervening space and lifted the Glock from the dirt floor.
“Where’s Conner?” he asked.
“Dead,” whispered Harper. “I buried him at sea.”
Louis examined the rifle wedged between two barrels on the far side of the hanger, “But Layne doesn’t know that?”
Harper shook his sweaty head.
The old spymaster helped the Cold War Warrior to his feet.
There had been enough killing for now.
EPILOGUE
Washington D.C.,UPI,December 13, 2000 –The United States Supreme Court ruled in favor of Governor George W. Bush, effectively making him the President-Elect. This is the first time in the nation’s history that a court ruling directly determined the outcome of a presidential election.
The court ruled 5-4 that it was reversing the Florida Supreme Court decision permitting hand recounts of the votes in Florida.
The court ruled 7-2 that the manner in which the recount was being conducted violated the due process and equal protection guarantees of the U.S. Constitution, although the court did not agree on a remedy.
Chief Justice Rehnquist and Justices Antonin Scalia and Clarence Thomas went further in a separate opinion. They stated the Florida Supreme Court violated the Constitution and federal law in ordering the recount.
Crawford, Texas
Wednesday December 27, 2000
2:00 P.M. CST
Louis Edwards watched the barricade move away and the Secret Service wave his car through the security perimeter. He followed the marked path up the driveway to the President Elect’s ranch house.
It was a cold gray sky blowing over the central Texas pastureland. The Cold War spymaster thought briefly about the closing days of the twentieth century and the new president who would lead the country into the twenty-first. There were storms raging on all sides.
China was attempting to become the next superpower and achieve hegemony over all of Asia and most of the Pacific as far as Hawaii. Europe was flexing its muscles and shaking off the need for NATO. They no longer faced a unifying and intractable foe across the Berlin Wall and the Iron Curtain. World War II was a distant memory and they resented American economic and military dominance. Africa was a continent racked by AIDS, and certain computer models predicted a population die-off similar to the Black Death of the Middle Ages. India and Pakistan rattled their nuclear sabers and threatened to explode the subcontinent in a fiery war. Israel and the Palestinian Authority ratcheted claims and counterclaims ever higher as they danced closer to the precipice.
The Russian Bear might be muzzled, but the world was not a safe place.
The Secret Service ushered Louis into a large den. It was a small and incredible gathering. Former President Bush stood shakily on his new artificial hip. Secretary Dick Cheney rose to greet Louis. National Security Advisor designate Condoleezza Rice graced Louis with a smile, and President Elect George W. Bush turned to face the spymaster. Louis found it noteworthy that General Colin Powell was absent.
The Vice President Elect turned to former President Bush and said, “You remember Louis, sir. He helped out with Special Forces during the Gulf, and he was involved in special matters during the Reagan years.”
Former President George Bush cracked a broad smile and shook hands. “Yes, of course; you briefed us on the SCUD hunters.”
Louis nodded and smiled.
Dick Cheney turned to Ms. Rice and said, “Louis is very sharp—a man we should listen to—especially when it gets rough.”
She took his hand and smiled knowingly. “I’ll keep it in mind.”
The man they called “Dubya,” whom the people had chosen to replace the President they still called Bubba, stood before Louis and said, “My dad and Dick have said many fine things about your service, Mister Edwards. I am honored to meet you.”
