The Great Deception Page 8

  "Yes sir," he resigned himself to the not-sogood news. "We're moving out."

  "Good."

  Jennings appeared at his post presently.

  "Alright, I have orders from the president to get outta here," he bellowed down below.

  His men moved lickety-split, moving crates, throwing things into bags.

  "I don't like this," Miller grumbled. He had to give up the task of parsing through data and just turn the computer off. His gloved hands grabbed the computer tower he worked on to open it up and reach in for what he assumed to be the hard drive. He disconnected its cable running to the system-on-a-chip. "Take this," he handed it off to Tony.

  "Any luck before Jennings said he wants to call it quits?"

  Miller's granite face said it all.

  Just when it looked like the operation had wrapped up and the Viper agents were ready to make a beeline for the exits, the grills to the ventilator ducts popped off, clattering to the tiled floor. Ropes descended from the ceiling at multiple locations. Scorpion Elite Guards rode them upside down like Spiderman. Only instead of shooting web, they blasted the enemy with plasma. One agent flew backwards, caught in the concussive shockwave. His body flattened against several racks that went down in sparks with follow up explosions.

  Several men were already on one knee with their battle rifles out, desperately trying to return fire. In the midst of the mayhem the good guys had to defend an untenable position. Their surprised forces who were previously scurrying to gather data and equipment weren't prepared for the withering barrage of plasma discharges.

  Agent Jennings sprinted with his artificial limbs for the door. He would never make it. Fire and heat breathed up his back: an explosive force finally hurled him off the ground and knocked him sideways into the wall. He crumpled to the ground in a lifeless heap.

  The only guy in the room who didn't imitate the others and shoot at something instead attempted to communicate to the guards in the lobby of the structure.

  "Contact! We have contact! Inform the president. Shots fired...." his voice cut off as the enemy had gotten to him. But his dying plea unmistakably got through.

  ...

  The sentry from the lobby who'd received the distress call didn't appreciate being vindicated for being right about his hunch. In this instance he'd gladly trade a "I told you so" for the safety of his team.

  Right now it was his duty to let the commander and chief know the bad news.

  After a few rings chief of staff Leonard Palmer picked up.

  "I'll get the president," he informed the breathless caller.

  Precious few seconds ticked away.

  "Who is this?"

  "Mr. President, I have bad news sir."

  Alexander's wiry hair stood on end. This couldn't be good. "What is it?" Everyone else in the Basement with a view of the president's face couldn't have missed the unmistakable worry in his features.

  "We have a..."

  But right as he was about to give specifics the bad guys burst into the room, firing. The lethal salvo silenced the messenger.

  "You have a what?" the president asked. After moments of static he knew he wouldn't ever get his answer.

  The president looked at his national security advisor and shook his head. Ahmed Negler read the expression instantly. "We must send in the security forces from outside to clean up. Otherwise all is lost."

  "Did you get that Barker?" the president addressed the minister of defense.

  "I'll inform the commanders," he grimly replied to Alexander.

  The president cursed up a storm before his cabinet. "How could this be happening?!" he half-yelled.

  "Mr. President," a grave Edmund Drezzler leaned in, "we must stay calm."

  Alexander glowered. "Don't tell me what to do or not do."

  The vice president backed off. "All I'm saying is have a little more faith in our men to

  handle it."

  "You'll forgive me for my skepticism Edmund when everything so far has not gone

  according to plan."

  …

  Inside Westover Complex in between the wings a seating area became the scene of an intense firefight. The Viper agents originating from the Energy Division were headed back to the planes right when they stumbled upon the enemy lying in wait for them. A welcome grenade bounced towards the good guys and detonated with three victims trapped inside the kill zone. That evened the odds now with both sides numbering at six a piece.

  Good versus bad exchanged fire back and forth like two ships facing off with all their broadsides discharging. The Viper agents utilized the marble columns for cover, but unfortunately Scorpion scum had the same idea.

  Something had to give.

  Outside Westover Ventures word on the street drew in a full platoon of reinforcements to put out the incendiary situation. Going in through the front door would not even be considered. Teams circled the building instead and prepared to blast their way into the action.

  Two soldiers had with them explosive tape that they intended to make a giant square with on the rear facade of the structure. A minute later the controlled explosion created a spacious entryway for the troops to rush in.

  The bad guys took out the first wave of fresh bodies to join the fray...but it wouldn't be enough. The FRN had finally retaken the building and planted their flag of victory.

  The lieutenant in charge of the rescue operation stood over the carnage while appearing to assess the situation with hands on hips--his men roamed around.

  After receiving the official count on the number dead he immediately got on the horn to deliver the terrible outcome to the president.

  Once he had finished speaking to Alexander he directed the security forces under his command to complete the task the fallen Viper agents weren't able to do.

  --

  The War Room

  Men with high IQ's wearing suits and solid ties waited on Howard to blow them away with his diabolical scheme.

  He asked them a direct question. "Which of you have ever seen a movie on aliens?" No one had an immediate response to the bizarre inquiry.

  "Come on, somebody here had to have...." Howard snapped.

  "We don't go to the movies in Mother Russia," Igor said with an air of disgust. Jasper Turpin volunteered an answer, albeit reluctantly at best. He contemplated his naval and said, "I saw one long ago as a kid." Howard broke into a grin. "What struck you about the movie?"

  The British prime minister shuffled a bit. An exaggerated morose visage communicated to his peers he felt shame over his past life choices.

  "Quite frankly it scared the heck outta me."

  "What did?"

  "The ineptitude of our weapons against

  ET's."

  Howard expected an answer like this. It set him into action. An assistant that stood at his elbow appeared ready to carry out what came next. Howard imperceptibly nodded to the man. He disappeared.

  "Gentleman, I have a motion picture I think you'll like to see. And for those of you who haven't been to the movies," he had the Russian leader in mind as he spoke, "this is your golden ticket!"

  German chancellor Lothar Kirsch who had come to hear Howard speak appeared a little ruffled at the news. "A...movie?"

  A light clicked on and revealed a hidden section to the war room. The movie theater. "Everyone, if you'll follow me, we have a show to catch," Howard beckoned. He left them, not leaving any time to loiter around. There would be no previews, no messages to turn your cell phones off. The feature presentation began to start.

  Igor Orloff ironically enough led the politicians to the sunken seating area. The Russian found a staircase and took it down to the already waiting Howard and Maxwell. His right hand man, Grigory Sliva, chased his boss down and found a seat next to him in the second row.

  The acoustics of the room were impressive.

  The screen went black. Opening music boomed through the speakers and rattled everybody's nerves. This wouldn't be a sit back and enjoy the show kin
d of flick.

  ...

  For years planes have left a chem trail footprint in the sky. Officials have argued (in vain) against conspiracy theorists that these trails are actually normal contrails and not the other thing.

  Even though the governments may deny their existence, no one understands why. What could the agenda be? Why leave chemicals in the atmosphere when it's not necessary to. But it was necessary for those with a great scheme plan. These crisscrossing sky paths made excellent jerry-rigged screens on which the mass deception planned for the human race would play.

  Motherships from galaxies far, far away would cruise towards the seat of power of every major nation on earth. There they would hover, uncontested, in the no-fly zones over earth's governments. The alien ships would delay long enough to sow the seeds of fear in man's heart over his uncertain fate. While mankind decided how to handle the artificial crisis, those actually behind the holographic images in the night sky positioned themselves for a global takeover. It was their hope that an alien invasion would unite the militaries of the world to overcome it. The natural conclusion of such an action would be the birth of a one world government with a strong leader behind it. Howard.

  --

  Moldova

  Never trust the official story. Seth certainly learned not to. He believed the whole reason they were being moved from turbulent Turkey to Moldova had something to do with a coverup.

  Turkey's controversial president waxed eloquently through state channels on the eve of an assassination attempt on members from his own party that Mossad had showed her hand once again. Supposedly the police held in their custody a captured agent who spilled the beans on everything. Lesson number one: Israelis will gladly take torture over helping their enemies. The fact that this "agent" so willingly came forth with such a fantastical story made him not credible in the least.

  Another thing Seth Markov didn't like about everything that had transpired? The distance that grew between him and his son. Previously Seth had a little contact with Azriel through a surrogate mother he paid off to take care of the boy. However this little experiment ran amuck with the youngster rejecting the care of the undercover agency woman.

  And then there was Uncle Ephraim. The man really worried Seth. For years there had been bad blood between the two brothers. Actions done in secret, only to be uncovered years later gave Seth more reason not to trust his brother.

  If only he knew of Ephraim's involvement with his son...there'd be hell to pay. Seth didn't want him or his family to have anything to do with his brother. But now that his job took him so far away from Israel, while he was busy protecting the homeland it left the homestead extremely vulnerable.

  He had long suspected his brother of comingling with terrorist groups because of the unexplained gaps in Ephraim's timeline that weren't accounted for. Whenever Seth would see him he'd ask the man what he did for a living. The answer never satisfied him. Ephraim had his rear-end covered pretty good. Just in case people came snooping around the personal details of his life, he had plenty of alibis who swore up and down the veracity of the false records. According to the white papers Ephraim Markov worked in the energy business as a low-tier manager at a solar power company.

  Seth called the company one time, eager to expose the lie, only to be further irritated when a man claiming to be his brother's supervisor came on the line. This served to further enforce the level of treachery which must have been deep, hence the need for a convincing cover. Did he serve the United Islamic Caliphate? A European power? Heaven forbid, Scorpion.

  …

  In the intelligence business being on a need-to-know basis was quite common. Especially when you were the one doing the killing. Seth resented this system though because to him, unlike the other operatives in the agency, the targets weren't faceless cardboard cutouts. They were real people with real lives. And he didn't always trust Mossad to be making the best decisions on who doesn't deserve to live anymore. Most killers were so dehumanized, so divorced from feeling that the only reason they needed to kill stemmed from an order to just do it. Act, then react. They didn't want to know what their victim did to deserve this...it was just another trigger pull. Mossad got lucky with Seth Markov. No matter how much training and brainwashing they gave him, he still couldn't turn it off when someone else's life rested in his hands. There had to be a reason to sanction this murder. And he wanted to be in the know. If it hadn't been for his uncanny ability to stay on top of any situation, be a master of

  his own fate, Mossad would've moved on to the next guy and not waste their time with a stubborn agent.

  He became the closest thing to indispensable in his field of work.

  …

  From where he rocked he heard the soundtrack of the night air: the deep ribbit of frogs and the music of the crickets. A few hours of sleep would be a luxury. That night Seth and Baruch would be briefed on their next mission.

  Perhaps their most important mission...ever.

  --

  Barcelona, Spain

  The confusing jog took him down streets he had never heard of before. Along the way he passed by old widows spinning strange yarns to their granddaughters. Salesmen enticed the young people to spend their small allowances on the latest and greatest cell phone at pop-up kiosks that populated the center boulevard in a busy shopping district. The police seemed to be everywhere. A couple officers dressed in blue pants with red stripes down the side, checkered conductor hats, and light blue short sleeved shirts questioned a few locals at the corner of an intersection by the crosswalk. The pedestrians looked pressed for time judging by the way they twirled around, longingly gazing at the opposite side of the road. Alfonso could read lips. "Just a few more questions," he saw the officer beg. The couple complied. A little while later it startled him to see the woman saying something to the cop while pointing at the street Alfonso had just been on.

  If I weren't so paranoid, I'd swear they're talking about me.

  Alfonso made a sharp turn that led him through an alley. He pushed trash cans over that impeded his progress.

  Now would be a good time to check my phone for an update.

  The person he trailed appeared to close in on his position from a perpendicular artery that intersected the back alley he would exit from. He would wait for them to pass and pick up the trail again. An idea struck him and before long he pulled up a list of coffee shops within one square mile of his current location.

  There were a few.

  Once the blip on the screen passed by and he decided it was safe to peek and try to acquire visual confirmation of the target, Agent Marcello slowly peered around the protruding stone cornice.

  Several people with their backs turned to him followed the sloped road down to their destinations. Only one of them had a fair complexion untouched by the sun. Alfonso smiled to himself.

  Amalia plodded along. She didn't appear to be lost either. The woman with auburn colored curls and an hourglass figure allowed the bottom of the hill to draw her in: as if gravity did all the work.

  Alfonso let her make enough progress before he took up pursuit. He didn't worry about losing her.

  That'd be hard to do with how quickly she moves, the sarcasm registered.

  The German woman's vector changed as she headed for a little cafe situated at the corner at the bottom of the descent. Confident he hadn't been made, Alfonso followed her in five minutes later. He had to count on a disruptor which the Germans would use to defeat listening devices. The Mossad agent grabbed a table within earshot of Amalia.

  While he waited for the other person to show he sipped a warm latte with cream and mocha at the top. Five DigiCoin for an overpriced coffee drink was a small price to pay considering the potential Intel he would glean from the careless Germans.

  The door to the shop jingled. It could have been just another customer. The place had good business. Or with any luck, Wendel made good on his appointment with Amalia.

  Alfonso detected a man walking up the ais
le near where he sat. The shuffling feet stopped short and a distinct German greeting reached his ears. Then the official excused himself for a moment to order his drink. "Can I get you anything?" he kindly asked before leaving.

  A Dutch Low Sax dialect. Interesting, Alfonso mused.

  Alfonso spoke many languages. German being one of his strong suites. Most other agents in the field had to wear a special universal translator earpiece. Amalia politely declined the offer but thanked him anyhow.

  Her date returned momentarily wearing a big smile and carrying a scone and chi tea in both hands.

  She barely waited for him to sit before