Dead Water

29

President Lamar had called Coverley Merritt into the Oval Office. "Have a seat, Coverley." Merritt sat down across the desk from the president. "I'm going to make some changes; some of them involve you. I'm not convinced that this DPO is really necessary. Under my administration, the heads of agencies are going to work together, or they'll be looking for new jobs. Therefore, I'm going to eliminate this. You're a good man, and I don't want to lose you — or worse, waste you — so I'm going to have you assist Elliott Ragar of the NSA. I want to get through this biological problem before I announce it; we don't need any distractions. I just wanted to give you a heads-up. I'd like you to keep this under wraps until I make it official. If you have some extraordinary people under you, I'd like you to make a list and submit it to me. Good people are hard to find. Be sure that loyalty weighs in any decisions you might suggest. For now, it will be business as normal; just be aware that change is coming. Do you have any questions?"

"No questions, sir. However, I'd like permission to speak freely."

"Go on." Just then, the president held his hand up to stop Merritt as a knock on the door came and coffee was delivered. The assistant set one cup in front of the president and the second one in front of Merritt. Once the president's assistant had left the room, closing the door behind him, Lamar motioned for Merritt to continue.

"I'm not making comparisons here, understand. Your predecessor found the different directors quite often did not play well together. This new department he created eliminated much of the friction. I applaud your expectations, but quite honestly, sir, I believe you will find that particular expectation much harder than one might think."

"This is not a frivolous decision, Coverley. However, for me, I believe it is the correct one."

"Whatever you say, sir, I serve at the pleasure of the president."

"Good. I believe you will enjoy your position at the NSA. I'll be in touch, and keep me up to date as you find necessary. Thank you, Coverley. I do appreciate your support."

"Yes, sir." Merritt left, nodding toward the president.

Elliott Ragar, Matt Sanderson, and Charles Rockford had decided to meet privately. They had arranged to convene at a restaurant a short distance outside Washington. They had requested a table in the far corner. While there were a few men also dressed in suits, most were in casual wear.

Ragar spoke. "As we all know, Backersley lost three agents yesterday and last night."

Both Rockford and Sanderson nodded.

"He is supposed to turn over anything he finds to us. Either of you received anything?"

"Not a thing," answered Rockford.

"I haven't heard from him," replied Sanderson. "His ego is going to toast him one of these days."

"We'll be lucky if it doesn't toast all of us," snapped Ragar.

Sanderson added, "My people tell me that he has an intelligence unit there, as well as a response team. It's believed that Robert Randall is leading the response team."

"Christ, isn't that the same SOB that caused all that shit in Italy two years ago?" questioned Ragar.

"Yeah. He's good at his job but can't see past his own ass. He doesn't care who gets caught in any crossfire. If he's out there, and Backersley turns him loose, there'll be hell to pay."

Starr's attention picked up. The little dot representing Ellhad's truck was on the move.

"We've got movement on the truck," he stated over his comm set.

"Okay, Starr, he's all yours. Don't screw this up," asserted Styles.

"You do your job, sonny boy, and let me do mine."

"Keep us posted."

"Roger that."

Phillips interposed, "Confirmation on the truck's location."

"You got anything else going on?" queried Styles.

"All other cameras show quiet. Hold on. The truck is still moving."

"Starr, Phillips says the truck is moving."

"I can see that. I got a good idea. Don't call me; I'll call you."

"Don't get so touchy." Styles grinned as he spoke.

"Tell him that Ellhad is about ten minutes from him," offered Phillips.

"Phillips says he's about ten minutes out from you."

"How does Phillips know where I am? Never mind. I retract the question."

"You're finally learning," Phillips responded after donning her own comm set.

Styles called out, "J. C., you got your ears on?"

"Loud and clear. I just finished the preflight on the chopper. All the gear is loaded up. I did not touch your favorite toy."

"No reason to; I won't need it here, at least not at this location. We may grab it. I don't know yet."

"I'm going to take this bird over to a small uncontrolled airport that's only about twenty miles from you. That's a good staging place for me. I can be on-site in under ten minutes if need be. Just tell me when you want me airborne."

"Roger that, J. C."

"I've got the truck in sight. I'll check back in," interjected Starr.

"Roger that, Starr. Do not let him spot you."

"He won't."

Styles found a spot where he wanted to park the Yukon. It was in the middle of a large cluster of shrubs that also had a monster maple tree with branches hanging directly overhead. It was a good hiding spot from both the ground and the air.

"I'll be right back. Get your gear ready." He made a quick ten-minute sweep of the area and came back satisfied no one was nearby. He saw Phillips just tucking her ponytail up into a camo watch cap, pulling it down to the top of her ears and farther down the back of her neck.

Surveying her, he said, "Good job. Now let me paint you." He applied a combination of green and brown paint to her face, neck, ears, and hands. Finished, he stepped back and nodded. "You'll be invisible from twenty feet away in the woods." Next he applied the paint to himself. Finally, he grabbed his own gear. Phillips noticed he had three throwing knives. "One last thing," Styles said. "Hold out your fingers." Doing so, Styles applied Nu Skin to her fingertips, then his own. "This will eliminate fingerprints."

"Better than gloves."

"Oh yeah. Are you ready?"

"Absolutely."

"Okay, be sure you have your comm in place. Stay ten feet behind me and off to my right. When I stop, you stop. When I move, you move. Don't use the comm set unless I do. We'll use basic hand signals. Every minute we'll pause, and you use your smartphone for a camera view. We don't want to walk into anything. You good?"

"Yeah. Thanks for the shot at this."

Styles turned and stared at her hard. "If you weren't ready, you wouldn't be here."

She nodded.

Phillips's heart was racing. She was ten feet to Styles's right when he motioned for her to stop and signaled her to look up and to her right. She got down on one knee and scanned hard. Then she saw what he'd seen: a guard in a tree platform. She saw Styles motion with a slashing gesture across his throat. She knew what that meant. She very carefully and quietly repositioned herself next to the base of a medium-size tree. She used a low branch to rest her AR-15 on. She quietly clicked the safety off. She turned on the EOTech scope. Looking through it, she placed the holographic red spot on the bridge of the guard's nose. She breathed in once, twice, and when the air was out of her lungs, she gently squeezed the trigger. To her ears, the action was loud, and she instantly was afraid she'd been heard. She saw the guard thrown backward out of the tree stand, never attempting to break his fall. He hit with a thud. She froze. Then she remembered to breathe again. She looked over at Styles. He nodded and then motioned for them to move on. He signaled one of three, meaning two more guards to go. Forward they moved. They came upon the two up in the trees, with Phillips removing one more, and Styles the second.

They were just behind the tree line observing the cabin on their end. He motioned for her to take out the guard on the roof closest to them while he zeroed in on the second at the other end of the small complex. She moved off slightly to the right for a better sight line. She took up her position, lowered her rifle, and nodded that she was ready. Styles motioned back, In three.

Both took aim, and three seconds later, two rifles spat out two barely audible rounds that penetrated one guard in the center of his forehead, while the second entered just in front of an ear. The action of the weapons reloading was the only noise actually heard. The two men crumpled silently.

Styles nodded approvingly at Phillips and directed her to start at the first cabin while he took the second. He had decided that each taking a cabin would reduce the time factor, with the added benefit of demonstrating to Phillips his faith in her. They advanced on the complex. Taking care, they reached the first two doors and simultaneously entered. Styles's was empty, but he heard a slight thud next door. Ten seconds later, he was back outside and watched Phillips exit. She nodded. Slowly they made their way to the next two cabins. There were men in each, one in Phillips's and two in Styles's. In three seconds, those men were down, and as before, a quick search of the bathroom and bedroom revealed the cabins were clear.

Back outside, they made their way to the fifth cabin. Several voices could be heard inside. Styles motioned that he would go in first, with Phillips right behind. They entered as virtually one and found four men sitting around the kitchen table playing cards. They looked up and with surprise on their faces were all shot in the middle of their heads. The remaining cabins were empty. Checking the back, they regrouped as they heard voices coming from the front. They were talking excitedly.

"Sounds like reinforcements," whispered Styles.

"Yeah. The loudest one is throwing a fit about not seeing the guards on the roof."

"Let's go."

They quickly made their way back around one end of the cabins and came face-to-face with two guards heading for the ladder that led to the roof. The two groups saw each other at the same instant. Styles was faster. From his hip, he shot both men in the chest. He heard Phillips shoot twice and saw both men's heads jerk hard.

They scurried to the front corner and looked around carefully. One man was close to the other end of the cabins, while the second man was just entering one.

"I'll take the far guy; you watch that door," Styles directed.

Styles took aim and shot the far guard right between the shoulder blades. He put two more rounds in him to be sure. He simultaneously heard a screen door open, and Phillips's AR spat twice, sending that guard bouncing off the doorjamb and falling back inside.

"Make sure he's dead," Styles instructed.

As Phillips headed for the cabin door, Styles took up position in front of a truck. No one else appeared.

Rejoining him, Phillips confirmed he was down.

"That clears this. We'll hit the roof and prop the guards in position. Then we secure the house. Remember, you hold up outside and keep watch. Don't come in until I signal you. If anyone should approach, warn me; I don't want a body lying outside if we can help it."

Phillips nodded. Ten minutes later after skirting the trees, they were at the main house. Phillips veered off, found a good spot, and set up to monitor everything. Once she was out of sight, Styles looked and saw two more guards outside of the house. Both had arms at the ready. Five feet behind the tree line, he took aim and center punched each man in the middle of his forehead. Quickly, he crossed the drive and dragged each man around to the side of the house, depositing the bodies behind shrubbery. Then he carefully approached the front door. He hugged the wall, hoping it would keep him out of sight from the security cameras. He got to the door undetected. He turned the knob and found it to be unlocked, which surprised him. He eased it opened and looked in. No one in sight, and no sounds could be heard. He opened it slightly farther, slipped inside, and silently closed it behind him. He immediately crouched down and surveyed the room. It was a massive entrance hallway decorated in lavish silk hanging from the ceilings and opulent Middle Eastern furnishings that continued into the massive living room.

Staying tight against the wall, he slowly made his way through the massive chamber. He could now vaguely hear what sounded like two voices coming through one of the several doorways that led from the rear of the room. He scanned for any cameras and saw none. He made his way toward the sounds. The door to the room that the conversation was being held was partially open, allowing Styles to observe it was a conference room. Two men were inside and appeared to be disagreeing about something. Styles listened for a few moments and discerned that it was about the decadent behavior of Westerners. Inwardly, he shook his head. He'd already decided that Ryyaki Ali was not one of them. He opened the door slightly with his silenced gun barrel and shot both men dead center in their chests, hoping that would keep them in their chairs. One did, but one fell. Styles quickly entered the conference room and hid behind the door. Thirty seconds passed, yet no one else approached.

Cautiously, he continued his search, closing the door behind him so the two bodies would not easily be seen by anyone just walking past. Three minutes later, he was convinced no one else was on the main floor. Quickly, he ascended the stairs and checked out the second floor, which consisted of bedrooms and bathrooms and two sitting rooms. All were empty. Just as quickly, he descended the stairs and searched the main floor again. No one. This is odd. Only one way left to go — down. He found the stairway leading below and started down. A shadow alerted him, and he ducked just as one of Ali's guards had attempted to jump him from behind. A knife blade had missed him by inches. Whirling, Styles saw the man in front of him was not wearing any shoes. No wonder he was so damn quiet. The man was looking at Styles with a maniacal grin. He tried two front thrusts with the blade at Styles's chest and neck. Styles blocked both attempts with his AR. The guard changed grips on his knife, and in the instant he brought his arm back to try a sweep thrust, Styles brought the butt of his rifle straight out and caught the man in the throat. He dropped the knife and immediately clutched his throat. Styles knew the man was done; he'd crushed the larynx, leaving the man powerless to breathe. Slowly, he slumped to the floor against the wall.

With rifle at the ready, Styles did two 360-degree sweeps. He was expecting men to come pouring out like ants, yet no one came. Weird.

He could faintly hear voices, so he crouched and continued downward. Reaching the bottom of the staircase, he followed the sounds, which led him to a large office. Three men were inside, one large man sitting behind a huge desk, and two others sitting on a sofa just to the right of the desk. Immediately, he knew who Ryyaki Ali was. He paused, listening. They were openly toasting the death of the American president. Styles could feel his blood beginning to boil. He opened the door and shot both men on the sofa directly in the center of their foreheads. He advanced on Ali with the barrel of his gun staring him in the eyes. No words were spoken. Styles walked around the desk while Ali turned to face him. There was no fear in Ali's eyes; if anything, there was contempt. Styles looked down at the three-hundred-pound man sitting in front of him and then hit him with the butt of his rifle in the forehead, stunning him but not seriously injuring him. He clicked his comm set to alert Phillips.

"Come inside; go through the main room and down the hall to the stairs. Go down. Meet me in the office."

"Affirmative."

Robert Randall, the CIA response team leader, stormed into the motel room his men were using as their staging area.

He looked around at his squad and said, "Gear up, boys. We're heading out. Bring the AK-47s."

Second in command Pete Locker asked, "We got the go-ahead?"

"Yeah, I just gave it to you."

He looked at the other two men and stated, "You heard the man. We leave in ten." Turning to Randall, he asked, "We hooking up with Jonesy?" He was referring to the man already on-site in the woods outside the suspected terrorist's property.

"He's waiting for us."

Six minutes later, the four men — each carrying an extra-large black duffel bag — climbed into a black Chevrolet Suburban. With Locker driving, Randall issued instructions.

"Jonesy has reconned the area and given me the layout. We're going to hit the cabins first and then the main house. No prisoners. I expect to find that bioagent at the house, but if it's not there, we beat where it is and how we find it out of whoever. We don't have time to waste here, so we go in fast and hard."

No one else said anything.

Half an hour later, they met up with Jonesy. "You boys ready for a walk in the woods?" he asked jokingly. He was the only one in the group who had what might be considered a sense of humor. It drove Randall nuts, but Jonesy was as good a recon man as he'd seen.

"Of course; that's why we brought a picnic," Randall snarled at him.

"Quite thoughtful. Okay, time to play follow the leader. We're going to circle around and come in on the far side. That's the safest way in."

"Is it the fastest?" Randall demanded.

"No, but it's the quietest and least guarded. It's only about fifteen minutes longer, and I've got the route well cleared. It's quiet, pine needles. Jeez, boss, calm down; you'll get to shoot somebody pretty quick."

"You don't get us there in time, it'll be you."

"We'll get there quicker if you stop bitching."

Randall took a step toward him, but Jonesy was already leading the way into the woods. Five figures, all dressed in black, disappeared into the trees.