The Butterfly Dragon: We Who Stand On Guard - Episode 9 (Updated October 8, 2024)
Chapters
- Exit The Wall (Finished August 31, 2024)
- Containment (Finished September 3, 2024)
- Intelligence Failure (Finished September 3, 2024)
- MUF Recover (Finished September 3, 2024)
- Detention (Finished September 9, 2024)
- Visiting Hours (Finished September 9, 2024)
- The War Of Politics (Finished September 14, 2024)
- Hard Intelligence (Finished October 1, 2024)
- Rītupes iela (Finished October 1, 2024)
- Reckoning (Finished October 2, 2024)
- Spotter (Finished October 2, 2024)
- Closed Session (Finished October 4, 2024)
- Interrogating An Ally (Finished October 4, 2024)
- Questions And Answers (Started October 8, 2024)
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I'd like to point out that it was the incredible Gary Sinese Foundation that brought the issue of Veteran's rights to my attention. I've always had little respect for those who'd forget the great contribution made by those who've risked life and limb to defend those values that so many of us espouse. Perhaps the true measure of one's principles are by that for which they'd risk their life.
"None can speak more eloquently for peace than those who have fought in war."
Ralph Bunche, Nobel Peace Prize 1950
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ALS (also known as Lou Gehrig's Disease) is a progressive neuromuscular disease in which nerve cells die and leave voluntary muscles paralyzed. The ALS society provides a variety of programs to combat this disease and help those with it to survive.
Muscular Dystrophy Canada
Muscular Dystrophy Canada’s mission is to enhance the lives of those affected by neuromuscular disorders by continually working to provide ongoing support and resources while relentlessly searching for a cure through well-funded research.
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The Global Foodbanking Network
Ensuring that people the world over have enough food day to day in order to survive and lead healthy lives. In this challenging day and age services like this are becoming more and more essential. This is a world wide charity.
The Edgar Allan Poe Museum
Because Barris told me to put it here. If I didn't, he said he'd walk. Geez. Stardom really gets to some people's heads. Maybe I could kill him and bury his heart beneath the floor boards! Or I could encase him in behind a brick and mortar wall, for shaming my family name of Amantillado!
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Shhhh! Digital Media
Brian Joseph Johns
Opening Notes:
According to my research of how most special operations unfold, when it comes to chatter between team members (or squads), there is no character building banter between them and the reason for this is because the comms are specifically for relaying timing and mission critical data between squad members. So you'll never hear lines during an active mission by members of such teams like:
"Remember that time we were in that bar in Tangiers, and old Roger stood up and threw his beret at bartender?"
When you see that kind of activity in the movies or read it in the pages of a book, most often this is because the writers need to use every opportunity they can to acquaint you with the operators taking part in such a mission. That's a necessary part of the story telling, because they're people, and if you don't understand that and that they have their hopes and dreams too, then why would you even care, other than the natural propensity of most people to have some degree of compassion towards their fellow humankind.
Soldiers do joke and quite often, but rarely if ever in the midst of an operation. Focus, not levity is most often key to their success, and we're talking about professionals.
Perhaps that speech before their last stand might have such elements of levity, and call upon their love of whatever it is they're protecting, but while they're doing they're thing, there's no small talk, unless they did so in an instance to declare their independence from me and what I'm saying here. When they speak to each other, they own their communications. All of them.
So in a story like this, my use of banter between operators is a means by which I'm letting you know that these people doing these difficult tasks that often happen unbeknownst to us in order to protect and preserve the peace, the world over, have hopes and dreams as much so as any one of us. The difference is, that they often put their lives on the line to ensure that we have ours.
Hence, we owe it to them to remind the world that there's people inside of They Who Stand On Guard.
Brian Joseph Johns
Shhhh! Digital Media Presents:
The Butterfly Dragon: We Who Stand On Guard - Episode 9
Exit The Wall
Müncheberg November 13, 1947
A seemingly innocuous warehouse stood soundly, despite its brick structure having been built in 1947, by a team of construction workers whose only reality in post war Germany had been experienced from the east side of the wall that had up until very recently divided Berlin in two.
The warehouse had been erected to house food stores in the midst of a growing crisis at that time resulting from the economic adjustment to rule under the United Soviets Socialist Republic. It wasn't so much that there wasn't enough food to go around in the great Soviet empire as it was that distribution had up until that point been precariously scarce, Stalin having used distribution and supply to slowly but purposefully constrict the recent threat of westernized Russians. Those who'd fought valiantly alongside the allies, and in doing so, had been 'infected' with western ideas and possibly, their virtues.
Eventually the supply lines began to flow once again, however food had not reached the warehouse until far into 1953, at which point most of those who needed it to survive had long since perished.
Almost fifteen years later, in 1967, the very same warehouse, at that time was used to store parts for a local production-line for the advanced munitions project in the form of depleted uranium. This post-fissile uranium biproduct was used as the hardened core of armour piercing rounds intended for the eventual successor to the Soviet T-62 Main Battle Tank, keeping in mind that the 62 did not refer to the year of production, but rather the angle of the front armour relative to the plane of its bottom surface, while the round itself was not considered a tactical nuclear device. There was no nuclear detonation upon the round's impact, and radiation was not intended as part of the munition's effectiveness rating contravening its minute but significant presence.
Despite the fact that it would be years before such munitions would be deployed as part of the Warsaw Pact tactical deterrent against NATO, the facilities in the warehouse had been specially designed to store the fissile biproducts of its Obninsk Uranium-Graphite reactor in the hopes that the material would eventually be used in the manufacture of depleted uranium core rounds.
Over time and as the focus of the Soviet deterrent transitioned from its front line in Berlin, to its deployment of stategic nuclear arms, that very same warehouse became the storage front for all weapons grade uranium and plutonium for the nuclear first-strike facilities nearby. Those whose armaments were intended to annihilate NATO armour and infantry regiments stationed on the Western front.
When the Soviet Union had slowly collapsed, the people of East Germany eventually gaining enough courage to begin stripping bricks away from the wall that had contained them in a prison since 1945, the very same warehouse and its military administrative team had been reassigned to other priorities as everything came grinding to a halt.
Then, on November 9th, 1989, the momentum of people actually taking the wall apart reached a critical mass, and from both sides of Berlin, they began tearing down the last vestiges of their prison and what had separated a people for decades.
The Stazi and other Policing authorities, those who'd kept the order up until the very fabric of their society began to crumble were nowhere to be seen, most of their former members helping to tear down the wall that had kept them from their sisters and brothers in West Germany for more than four decades.
Containment
Müncheberg November 27, 1989
The smell of vodka, whiskey and wine permeated the air, a group of adventurous Germans in their mid-twenties, stumbling blind in the night clasping their bottles firmly, occasionally screaming joyously over their newfound freedom.
They walked (stumbled) along the boulevard, all five of them, two women and three men, occasionally slowing enough to take a gulp from their bottles. Their laughter broke the local silence, though it was one of the few places in the former Eastern Bloc that was silent and without those partaking of the lack of order.
Their trail took then onto the property of a warehouse, whose outer boundaries had at one time been protected by a security fence, most of which was now strewn across the property which it had previously occupied. In most of the former East Germany, fences had become targets of opportunity shortly after the fall of the wall.
They failed to notice several men who stood outside of the superstructure of the warehouse, one of them tossing a cigarette to the asphalt before he spoke.
[Hello? Speak German at all?]
"Hallo? Sprechen Sie überhaupt Deutsch?"
Berlin November 27, 1989
"Кто эти придурки вообще? Разве они не знают, что находятся на коленях у смерти?"
[He said get your asses out of here. Please. Actually the please was from me. You don't want to mess around. We don't give second warnings.]
"Er sagte: „Verschwindet von hier!“ Bitte. Eigentlich war das „Bitte“ von mir. Ihr wollt nicht rumalbern. Wir geben keine zweite Warnung," one of the other men addressed them.
[Come have a drink with us! Aren't you excited that we're finally free?]
"Komm und trink etwas mit uns! Freust du dich nicht, dass wir endlich frei sind?" one of the women flirted.
The man who'd addressed them then stepped out of the shadows surrounding the warehouse and into the light. He revealed an AK-47 tightly clasped in his hands.
They immediately recognized the silhouette of the weapon, and became silent, quickly retreating in a direction directly away from the warehouse, back the way they'd come.
"Did you get that Donahue?" a voice came in over the bulky radio headset of a fully equipped soldier, who laid prone seventy meters away from the warehouse, the scope of his weapon centered on the man who'd addressed those out for an alcohol and freedom fueled stroll.
"Those partiers? They're retreating. I think the TANGO showed 'em his ALFA KILO, over," Donahue replied, sliding one of the filter dials on his infrared goggles.
"Did you get that BRAVO? Civilians vacating the area. Looks like we're a go. Lets give them a little berth, so these crooks don't think they were in on our operation, over," the CO addressed his team over their radio headsets.
"BRAVO one, copy that," Fletcher, the only Canadian on their team responded.
"BRAVO two, copy," Donahue, a member of the American 81st Airborne added.
"BRAVO three, copy," Sokolov replied, a Spetzna part of an emergency team assigned by Gorbachev to act as a liaison between NATO and the Soviet Bloc forces amidst the unstable cohesion of the crumbling Soviet empire.
"Keep BRAVO three covered, ALFA. He's the only one of us that's actually been inside that facility. Charlie will be coming in through the back and they'll deal with the reinforcements and rendezvous with you at point UNIFORM. We're to hold the facility until the arrival of the now western friendly Soviet Third Battalion and the GSG-9 NBC team, at which point we're to extract to point November Oscar, over," the CO refreshed the his team.
"You get through this Donahue, and you'll have the choice of cream of the crop in terms of your future in the company..." BRAVO one said to Donahue, who was only an arm's span away.
"Damned spook material is he? Well lets get him that promotion," Sokolov smiled as he spied their entry point through his infrared goggles.
"Different tasking... same pay grade," Donahue responded to Sokolov.
"BRAVO team, on three. ALFA is in position and we're taking down the TANGOs at point ECHO FOXTROT. ALFA, you are weapons free... and... TANGO down. Three... two... one... BRAVO team, code ZEBRA!" the CO ordered the commencement of Operation Containment.
On the opposite side of the warehouse, a sudden thunderclap startled the men who'd only moments earlier were insisting on the departure of a group of partiers.
All four of them immediately turned to face the warehouse, looking in the direction from which the thunderclap had echoed.
Donahue fired first, taking down the smoker.
Fletcher and Sokolov fired simultaneously, the second and third exterior guards dropped.
[I've got a situation here! I need backup!]
"У меня тут ситуация! Мне нужна подмога!" the fourth guard fell prone to the pavement, facing in Donahue's direction looking for any signs in the surrounding darkness of advancing assailants.
The warehouse door suddenly flew open behind him and a solitary man wielding an AK appeared behind him.
[Thank St. Peter, there's multiple hostiles advancing...]
"Слава Святому Петру, наступают многочисленные враги..." the prone guard responded to his reinforcements.
The man who'd just arrived then turned his AK-47 on the guard, firing several rounds into his back, killing him dead.
"Did you get that, Donohue?" asked Fletcher.
"I sure did. What the f#ck was that?!!!" Donahue replied as the gunman kicked the bodies of the other three guards, making sure that they were all dead.
He then returned to the door he'd kicked open moments earlier and retreated into the building.
"Code X-Ray!" their next operation code came in over their headsets.
They all three of them got to their feet and advanced towards the same door used by the man that had just killed his own.
"Stack up! Get a breaching charge on that door, over," Donahue ordered his team.
Fletcher immediately began wiring the door with a placed directed charge explosive package, compliments of Semtex and NATO.
"Charge in place, over," Fletcher retreated to the left side of the door, while Sokolov took the right.
"On three, two, one... blow!" Donahue ordered the package detonated.
The metal door disappeared inward into the building, itself a weapon for a moment.
Donahue immediately stepped in through the opening seeking targets within.
Sokolov and Fletcher followed him, covering both flanks as they advanced along their pre-planned trajectory.
A man suddenly appeared, peering out with his AK leveled at Fletcher. Fletcher quickly dropped to the floor as Donahue fired. A pair of 7.62x.39 caliber rounds flew just over Fletcher's head, the man who'd fired them now dead on the floor ahead of them.
Fletcher was up and on his feet again, covering Donahue's left flank.
Further in the building as they traversed the concrete lined hall, the sound of sporadic small arms fire broke their occasional silence as they arrived at their goal.
Strangely enough, the door was wide open, and the room beyond was well lit.
Donahue went to peer in, Fletcher gesturing him to step aside.
Fletcher pulled a mirror, much like one you'd find on a bicycle and held it out allowing him to see around the corner and into the doorway. He panned the mirror, shifting it left and then right, finding nobody in the room except for a solitary bald man, who unarmed, sat at a table smoking a cigar.
"He's unarmed," Fletcher assured Donahue.
"Americanz? Come in! Let's do bizness!" the man invited them into the room.
Donahue slung his rifle and pulled his sidearm, signalling to Fletcher to do the same. He then directed Sokolov to watch their six.
Donahue's sidearm entered first, Fletcher covering the other side of the door as both entered.
After they'd thoroughly checked their corners, they approached the man, carefully examining him to make sure he wasn't equipped with an explosive device or trap of any kind.
"On your knees, hands up reaching for the ceiling. If you move even немного, someone's going to be cleaning your мозги off of the wall. Do you understand?" Donahue ordered the man.
"Americanz! Do bizness! I understand!" the man doused his cigar carefully on the table, obviously intending to keep it for later.
He then got on his knees, keeping his hands high as Donahue had instructed.
"Get a restraint on his wrist," Donahue ordered Fletcher.
Fletcher holstered his sidearm as Donahue covered, fishing a restaint tie from his webbing, and carefully wrapping the man's wrists and tightening the tie around them behind his back.
"Bravo team, point NOVEMBER OSCAR secure. Holding, over," Donahue spoke into his headset while giving Fletcher and Sokolov instructions with hand signs.
Fletcher and Sokolov moved to cover the only point of entry into the room, while Donahue moved their prison into the far corner as they awaited the arrival of the other teams.
"Sir, I've got three unknowns advancing to contact outside of the door," Fletcher relayed to Donahue.
"Hold your position and keep all armaments directed away from the point of entry. Send one representative and one alone to advance and be recognized!" Fletcher ordered these new arrivals.
"Bravo, that's team Delta. GSG-9. The NBC team should be with them, over," ALFA reported to Donahue.
"Stand down Fletcher. They're ours," Donahue ordered Fletcher.
The squad members of team Delta covered the entry point as the five members of the NBC team entered the room, wearing specialized hazard suits.
The one on point suddenly removed his headgear and mask, revealing the face of an aging soldier beneath.
"Dimitri!" he spread his arms, bidding Donahue's prisoner to get up and onto his feet.
"I thought you'd never come. Now get these cuffs off, they're so tight! How can we enjoy vodka like this?" the prisoner requested of the man who'd just removed his mask.
"I'd advise against that... This man just shot one of his own in the back," Donahue told the man who'd removed his mask.
The same man then proceeded to remove his nuclear, biological and chemical protective gear, revealing an officer of the rank Major, in a West German military uniform.
The same man then cut the restraint from their prisoner and freed him.
"ALFA, are you getting this? over," Donahue asked their own commanding officer.
"Are they not on the payroll for this?" asked Dimitri, the former prisoner.
"That depends upon how much they value their future, doesn't it?" asked the Major.
"What are you talking about? ALFA, do you copy? over," Donahue once again addressed his commanding officer.
"Do you have the finances? Corvo?" asked Dimitri of Major Corvo.
"Do you have the product?" asked Major Corvo.
"Already loaded into the truck team ALFA secured in the docking bay," Dimitri explained.
"How much?" asked Major Corvo.
"One point five kilos of weapons grade uranium as we previously discussed," Dimitri assured Major Corvo.
"What the hell is going on?!!!" Donahue challenged Major Corvo.
"I didn't sign up for this!" Fletcher backed his squad leader.
"This is not how we procure peaceful future with the world and the Soviet peoples!" Sokolov agreed.
"But this is how the world works. You have a chance to make a lot of money if you just pretend you didn't see this, we'll pay you handsomely to forget it. One empire falls, and other empires rise who all want the secret to build big, BIG fire. Prometheus all over again. This time however, there's a lot of money involved. We're not thieves, stealing the secret of fire from the gods. We're gods, selling the secret of fire to the highest bidder, and nobody need to know. Soon, the Soviet empire will be stories in history books, and we'll all be a bunch of isolated countries like we were before. Those of us who play our cards right, are going to have a bit more money for a better start in this new life. So what do you want? To preserve some misplaced notion of right, and take all the weapons grade uranium and give it to NATO and the Atomic Energy Commission, or do you want to see each of the countries that made Soviet what it was have a good start, by doing business with what we brought to the table anyway? Decades from now, who is going to remember?" Major Corvo explained to Donahue.
"I will. Every f#cking waking moment of my life," Donahue responded.
"A lot of money can change a lot of memory you know," Major Corvo offered Donahue his last chance.
"ALFA? What gives?" Donahue addressed his commanding officer.
"I was going to tell you Wesley, but we shipped before I could talk to you," a sullen voice came back over the headset.
"What about my men?" asked Donahue.
"They're welcome too. Thanks to your team taking down three of guards, that's enough for each of you, because if you hadn't, we'd have had to pay them as well," Major Corvo explained.
Donahue looked to Fletcher with intensity. Fletcher nodded once.
Donahue then looked to Solokov, who also nodded.
"We're in," Donahue agreed, his hand secretly shifting to the pin of a flashbang on the back of his belt as he readied it for what he had to do next, knowing full well that all three of them would likely die in their effort to stop this fallacy of justice.
"Good. However, there's one thing we need to do in accounting to shore up some past grievances. Dimitri? Kill this traitor," Major Corvo pointed to Sokolov, tossing Dimitri a 9mm handgun.
Dimitri caught the handgun by the grip and immediately fired it at Sokolov's head, killing him instantly.
At that point, Donahue threw the flashbang, using its pin to eject it from his belt, aiming directly into the center of the room behind him, where most of the other men's attention was.
As Dimitri turned, attempting to fire upon Fletcher, Donahue threw a solid punch in the same motiong he'd used to launch the flashbang.
Dimitri collapsed before he had a chance to fire his gun and in the moment he hit the floor, the flashbang burst.
Donahue ran for the door, Fletcher behind him covering their retreat as they ran for the concrete hall and for the side exit in through which they'd infiltrated the building.
"Let him run. There's enough of us in on this to keep him and his friend contained..." Major Corvo assured the rest of the men.
Debriefing
Berlin November 27, 1989
NATO OPERATIONS HQ
Donahue sat leaning forward, his elbows perched on his knees as he peered across the table in front of him. Three ranking officers sat before him, flanked by an armed guard on each side, all men in the room of sufficient clearance to hear the proceedings.
"I'm telling you again, Sir, that the WHISKEY GOLF UNIFORM target package was not secured by the team, but was sold into the black market..." Donahue repeated himself for the tenth time to his commanding officers, who looked at each other with disdain for Donahue's version of the report.
"Lieutenant Donahue, we did NOT want to bring this up, but your last psyche evaluation isn't helping to lend any credibility or credence to your claims. Your propensity for fixation on accusations of corruption within the intelligence network here is undermining leadership's confidence in your abilities to perform your duties. This latest report certainly underlines that fact, not to mention it contradicts the reports of every one of the men with whom you completed this operation, with the exception of Fletcher..." the Colonel spoke harshly.
"...and that should be enough, Sir!" Donahue shot back.
"Lieutenant! If you interrupt me again, I'll have you in the brig for insubordination!" the Colonel replied unblinkingly.
"Fletcher has his own history of problems. I'm even beginning to wonder how it was that the two of you both ended up involved in this operation, considering your psyche profile. Perhaps that's the truth of what led to the death of Sokolov, a Soviet officer who was hand picked by Gorbachev's own advisors. Donahue, there's only two versions of this report that are going to fly. The first one is that the operation was a success and that the WHISKEY GOLF UNIFORM** package was secured and successfully delivered into the hands of the IAEA**, and that Alexei Sokolov went above and beyond the call of duty valiantly before succumbing to his wounds. The second version is that the WHISKEY GOLF UNIFORM package was secured, but due to incompetency by officers Donahue and Fletcher, the operation failed in at least two of its goals, while sustaining a casualty in the form of Alexei Sokolov. Which one is it going to be?" the Colonel looked Donahue square in the eyes.
"How many of you are in on this?!!!" Donahue shot back.
"I beg your pardon?!!! Did you just say what I thought I heard you say?!!!" the Colonel verified with Donahue, with furious vehemence.
Donahue was about to respond, and then by some miracle, he held his tongue, instead saying:
"How many of you will sign for the first version, Sir?" Donahue asked him.
"All three of us," the Colonel looked to his supporting officers, who both nodded in agreement.
"Then that's the version of what happened that history will remember," Donahue said, looking down.
"Dismissed Lieutenant," the Colonel spat at the floor after speaking.
Donahue stood and left the debriefing room.
Intelligence Failure
Velica Dyndy, Gomel
Belarus
August 1999
A man with thinning hair in his late thirties, sporting a factory worker cap atop his head and a thick, well groomed moustache hobbled into the greasy spoon diner, one of two competing such businesses along Velica Dyndy Road in the Belarus city of Gomel. Both restaurants were within a short walking distance of no less than six factories, whose sum employment totalled more than thirteen hundred workers in the former member state of the USSR. Most workers of those factories ate at one of the diners or the other, their population roughly divided between the two, while most all of them kept a weekly tab.
[Kestrech my good man, here's the money for my weekly tab. See you next week.]
"Kestrech мой добры чалавек, вось грошы на маю штотыднёвую ўкладку. Да сустрэчы на наступным тыдні," one of the diners stood from his table and left a wad of cash in a tray near the register.
Kestrech, who was now sweeping behind the counter stowed his broom to deal with the cash, waving good-bye to his customer as the man with the groomed moustache passed him on the way to a table nearest the grill. Kestrech nodded to the man, knowing him by appearance but never having spoken with the man at any length.
The man with the groomed moustache sat at the table, sitting nervously across from its occupant, who looked up from the afternoon edition of the newspaper.
[You made it, Pavel. Good to see. How was your day?]
"Ты здолеў, Павел. Прыемна бачыць. Як прайшоў дзень?" asked Donahue of Pavel, his accent and appearance perfect for the surroundings.
[Good. A steady production run at the factory, so the day went quick. Those days when the machinery breaks down are the longest.]
"Добра. Вытворчасць на фабрыцы стабільная, таму дзень прайшоў хутка. Тыя дні, калі ламаецца тэхніка, самыя доўгія." Pavel responded, removing his cap and placing it on the table next to him.
[True. Funny how when machines break down, we break down.]
"Праўда. Пацешна, што калі машыны ламаюцца, мы ламаемся." Donahue responded, providing his response to Pavel's koan, letting him know that it was alright to proceed with their exchange.
[Not so funny if its your factory though.]
"Не так смешна, калі гэта ваша фабрыка." Pavel replied insightfully.
A pretty young woman in a snugly fitting dress and apron arrived at the table, a notepad and pen in her hands.
[What can I get you today?]
"Што я магу даць вам сёння?" she asked them, looking first to Donahue and then to Pavel, and then to the bald spot on the top of his head.
Pavel quickly returned the cap to his head, clearing his throat before he returned her glance with an awkward but friendly smile.
[Could you top up my coffee?]
"Ці не маглі б вы дадаць маю каву?" asked Donahue.
[Pardon?]
"Памілаванне?" she cupped her hand to her ear, trying to hear over the grinding hum of the big fan above the grill.
[I said, could you top up my coffee, please?]
"Я сказаў, не маглі б вы дадаць мне кавы, калі ласка?" repeated Donahue slightly louder.
[Certainly. What can I get for you?]
"Безумоўна. Што я магу атрымаць для вас?" the waitress turned her attention to Pavel once again.
[I'll have the dinner omelette, with a side of bacon and a coffee, thank you.]
"Я буду амлетам на вячэру з беконам і кавай, дзякуй." Pavel told the waitress, who wrote down his order before walking away to place the order on a spiked stack.
Pavel took in her entire figure as she walked away.
Donahue quickly kicked Pavel under the table.
[You keep your eyes off of my daughter!]
"Ты не адрывай вачэй ад маёй дачкі!" the cook/manager of the diner yelled at Pavel, who retreated slightly.
[No you don't. You keep your attention on me!]
"Не, не трэба. Ты трымай на мне ўвагу!" Donahue addressed Pavel, then blowing him a kiss.
The table remained quiet as the waitress poured their coffee, and then a few minutes later, placed Pavel's dinner omelette and bacon on the table in front of him before disappearing into the back.
[So? What did you find out about Dimitri and his associates?]
"так? Што вы даведаліся пра Дзмітрыя і яго паплечнікаў?" Donahue asked Pavel as he appeared to be reading the newspaper.
[He's just like the others. They've gone cold for some reason. Nobody's talking anymore.]
"Ён такі ж, як і іншыя. Яны чамусьці астылі. Больш ніхто не размаўляе." Pavel leaned in closer to Donahue to reply.
[What do you mean, they've gone cold?]
"Што значыць, яны астылі?" Donahue looked up from his newspaper.
[There's something else going on. Something's finding them out. Getting at their secrets from within.]
"Там нешта яшчэ адбываецца. Нешта іх знаходзіць. Даведацца іх сакрэты знутры." Pavel's eyes darted left and right nervously.
[What do you mean, finding them out? What kind of nonsensical talk is that?]
"Што вы маеце на ўвазе пад выяўленнем іх? Што гэта за бязглуздыя размовы?" Donahue grilled Pavel skeptically.
[I'm telling you that someone... or something... is getting at us one at a time. The entire former coldwar intelligence network is broken. Something is finding and digging up operatives, roots and all...]
"Я кажу вам, што нехта... ці нешта... кідаецца на нас па адным. Уся разведвальная сетка былой вайны зламана. Нешта знаходзіць і выкопвае аператыўкі, карані і ўсё..." Pavel spoke in a stressed manner, his expression suddenly changed to a distant smile as the waitress walked by.
Donahue, paused, a smile stretched across his face and he suddenly broke out into laughter. Not overtly so drawing attention to himself, but rather as if in response to having heard the punchline to a good joke.
This continued for another half a minute before Donahue stopped, wiping his eyes with a nearby napkin.
[If such thing were happening or even possible, surely they would already know?]
"Калі б такое адбывалася ці нават было магчыма, яны б ужо ведалі?" Donahue made sure nobody was nearby before continuing.
[Try sitting on this side of the table, why don't you? You have access to the bigger picture, while I have to stand on box to see anything at all. They're falling to something invisible, one at a time.]
"Паспрабуйце сесці па гэты бок стала, чаму б вам не сесці? У вас ёсць доступ да больш шырокай карціны, у той час як я павінен стаяць на скрынцы, каб убачыць што-небудзь. Яны падаюць на нешта нябачнае, адзін за адным." Pavel's expression remained firm this time as he looked into Donahue's eyes.
[They're dying are you saying?]
"Яны паміраюць, вы кажаце?" Donahue confirmed, now believing that Pavel was onto something important.
[No. Its like they're being reconnected to an entirely different network. They were connected to the game that NATE*, Russ* and the Easter Bunny* were playing up until recently, and now they're disconnected from that and reconnected to something else... All of their intel goes in that direction, not ours anymore... Its like NATE and the Easter Bunny are cut out entirely.]
"Не. Іх як бы паўторна падключаюць да зусім іншай сеткі. Яны былі падключаны да гульні, у якую да нядаўняга часу гулялі NATE*, Russ* і Easter Bunny*, а цяпер яны адключаны ад яе і зноў падключаны да чагосьці іншага... Уся іх інфармацыя ідзе ў гэтым кірунку, а не наша больш... Гэта падобна на тое, што NATE і былы велікодны заяц цалкам выдалены." Pavel, now much more calm that Donahue was taking him seriously explained his perspective carefully.
[And what about William's Green Underwear?** Do we know where that is headed?]
"А як наконт зялёнага ніжняга бялізны Уільяма?** Мы ведаем, куды гэта вядзе?" Donahue said with a deadly serious face.
[When we lost the trail of the old network, we lost the underwear too. Its like they're all part of something else. There's no trail anymore. The old days have died and gone. Something else is running the entire show now.]
"Калі мы страцілі след старой сеткі, мы страцілі і бялізну. Як быццам усе яны з'яўляюцца часткай чагосьці іншага. Сцежкі ўжо няма. Даўнія часы памерлі і сышлі. Нешта іншае зараз кіруе ўсім шоу." Pavel spoke as he reminisced, only then realizing that those days were now gone.
Donahue checked his watch, and then stood up from the table, reaching into his pocket and retrieving a handful of cash from his wallet.
[Here. That should cover for both of us. Use the extra to get a ticket to Leipzig. Only use the numbers stations in the north western section of the city and send a message to NATE's best friend in Brisbane. I'll see you in two weeks.]
"тут. Гэта павінна пакрыць нас абодвух. Скарыстайцеся дадатковым, каб атрымаць білет да Лейпцыга. Выкарыстоўвайце нумарныя станцыі толькі ў паўночна-заходняй частцы горада і адпраўляйце паведамленне лепшаму сябру NATE у Брысбене. Убачымся праз два тыдні." Donahue left the table and began heading out the front door.
Pavel grabbed the newspaper and turned the headlines to face him as he started reading:
CORVO GETS THE JOB DONE!
CORVO РАБІЦЬ РАБОТУ!
Today, Chief Superintendent Corvo extended the country's rail system by adding a high speed rail system that connects up to the EURO-EXPRESS LINE. When asked if his future includes the possibility of a term in office, he replied: "if for God and the people".
Сёння галоўны суперінтэндант Корва пашырыў чыгуначную сістэму краіны, дадаўшы высакахуткасную чыгуначную сістэму, якая падключаецца да EURO-EXPRESS LINE. На пытанне, ці ёсць у яго будучыня магчымасць паўнамоцтваў, ён адказаў: "калі для Бога і народа".
Corvo's smiling face adorned the photo, but someone had drawn in with a pen a few wounds with stitches, a large lump on his head and a black eye.
Pavel suddenly got the feeling that he was being watched. He turned suddenly to see Donahue standing beside the table once again. Donahue grabbed the newspaper and quickly shoved it inside his jacket and smiled once at Pavel, who returned it with a startled look on his face.
Donahue then turned and left the diner without saying a word, now headed for his one bedroom apartment a few blocks away.
...
Donahue unlocked his apartment, placing the newspaper on the front hall table after he removed his shoes and locked the door.
He then walked the stretch of hall to the living room and his sofa, where he fell backwards onto it, making himself comfortable, rubbing his eyes with his hands.
On the end table, his landline phone rang.
[Hello?]
"прывітанне" Donahue answered.
[So this old man, now on the phone, he must have just made his way home with a knick knack paddy whack, give a dog a bone...]
"Такім чынам, гэты стары чалавек, які зараз размаўляе па тэлефоне, напэўна, толькі што вярнуўся дадому з дробяззю, кінуўшы сабаку косткай..." a male voice on the other end of the line greeted him.
[I don't have a dog, but you know that already, don't you Mr. Warley?]
"У мяне няма сабакі, але вы ўжо ведаеце гэта, ці не так, містэр Уорлі?" Donahue responded lazily.
[That I do. I wanted to let you know that I got the job at FTI.]
"Што я раблю. Я хацеў паведаміць вам, што я атрымаў працу ў FTI." Warley explained to Donahue.
[Glad to hear it. Should make things easier from herein.]
"Рады гэта чуць. Адсюль павінна быць прасцей." Donahue nodded.
[Hold on a second there, its only entry level for now, but I've got my foot in the door in their corporate division at least. I just called to say thanks.]
"Пачакайце, пакуль гэта адзіны пачатковы ўзровень, але прынамсі ў іх карпаратыўным падраздзяленні я прабіўся. Я проста патэлефанаваў, каб падзякаваць." Warley did his best to sound grateful.
[Don't mention it. You had to learn from somebody. I'm just glad it wasn't from Dorner.]
"Не згадвайце пра гэта. Трэба было ў кагосьці вучыцца. Я проста рады, што гэта было не ад Дорнера." Donahue replied, still having other priorities fresh on his mind.
[Yeah, well, at least I'm in, and if and when I hear anything, I'll give you a call. We'll meet for Sushi in Shizouka.]
"Так, прынамсі, я тут, і калі што-небудзь пачую, я табе патэлефаную. Сустрэнемся на сушы ў Шызука." Warley joked.
[Or Shrimp fried rice in Shanghai.]
"Або смажаны рыс з крэветкамі ў Шанхаі." Donahue followed suit.
[You got it. See you then.]
"Вы зразумелі. Да сустрэчы." Warley said goodbye to his former intelligence handler.
Donahue hung up the phone, stretching out on his sofa as he fell into a troubled sleep, dreaming of weapons grade uranium, ICBMs, MIRVs and HNOESMs***.
MUF Recovery
National Airport
Minsk, Belarus
September 2001
Donahue sat on a bench in the international outbound flights terminal, casually reading a newspaper as he watched an undercover security detail of six men covering the doors nearest the cargo loading area for special cargo flight 17B9, which would depart MSQ runway three at 16:30 Minsk time (UTC+3) for RMS, Ramstein Air Command in Rhineland-Palatinate, South Germany.
Donahue opened the newspaper to the international news section, laying the remainder of the paper on the unoccupied bench seat beside him. There on the front page of the international section, Sovlodimir Corvo's proud face smiled, his hands held high for the press as he addressed them regarding the story contained therein the article.
A taskforce (allegedly hand-picked by Corvo himself, though Donahue knew the truth of that claim) had recovered Weapons Grade Uranium from the hands of an international organized crime ring, where it was allegedly destined for Iraq to be used in their flourishing nuclear weapons program. Corvo himself had delivered the news at the press conference only three days before, receiving a standing applause from the members of the Belarus (and international) press for the successful operation.
In another photo further down in the same article, he was seen shaking hands with IAEA representative Terrence Jeremy, who personally commended the politician for his cooperation in the operation to recover the materials unaccounted for.
Of course, Donahue knew that the entire story was manufactured and being used as a publicity stunt to further propel Corvo's political career and ambitions in the region, for the operation in all truth had been accomplished by an international investigation mounted on the grounds of evidence accumulated by Donahue himself nearly a decade earlier.
The truth was that the intelligence aparatus that Donahue had utilized to uncover the criminal network that was secretly accumulating with the intent for sales and export of weapons grade uranium, was all but gone. It had been replaced by another secretive group, who kept their network protected even from the veterans who'd founded intelligence networks and their numerous international contacts decades earlier. The days of intelligence based diplomacy were gone, and now being replaced with what was to come in the form of something much more collective, but secretively and independently so.
Donahue shook his head as he thought about it, Corvo's smiling face looking back at him from the newspaper. The man who'd been responsible for the criminal network was now benefiting from it's being dismantled. There was no mention of Solokov's death anywhere in the story nor how Corvo had initially been involved in procuring the weapons grade uranium for the very criminal network he'd allegedly taken down. Corvo had ridden both sides of international law, benefiting from both but never answering to either one.
As the six undercover security operatives watched from their vantage point near the doors, an ear piercing alarm suddenly went off throughout the airport. Donahue sat up on the bench looking around for the source of the alarm, but finding nothing.
A voice in pristine Belarusian spoke over the speakers, announcing that all flights had been canceled and that every flight on the ground would remain so, and that all incoming flights landing at the airport would remain grounded until further notice.
Donahue stood from the bench, wondering what might have caused such an alarm, at first suspecting that it was a security measure enacted by Ramstein Air Command to ensure the safety of the WGU package before its departure. When he noticed that the security detail had been called away to another part of the airport, he began to suspect something more sinister was afoot.
He checked the nearest ticker tape LED display for information, but it instead spat out flight number after flight number followed by the word CANCELED. Down towards the end of the terminal, he heard a man ranting out loud about something to do with an attack. Donahue quickly walked in the man's direction, trying desperately to pickup more details in the man's words.
He then heard the sound of cheering, and then yelling from several other patrons in the airport, at which point a heated argument broke out between two sides:
[It is America's misfortune. They pushed their power too far and tampered with too many sovereign Governments. The world is merely collecting the bill...]
"Гэта няшчасце Амерыкі. Яны заштурхнулі сваю ўладу занадта далёка і ўмяшаліся ў занадта шмат суверэнных урадаў. Свет толькі спаганяе рахункі..." a man in his mid twenties yelled at another man who stood across a divide between two groups that had formed.
[They are people just like us. They didn't do anything except wake up and go to work today...! Is that a crime?]
"Яны такія ж людзі, як і мы. Яны нічога не зрабілі, толькі прачнуцца і пайсці на працу сёння ...! Гэта злачынства?" another man responded at the man who'd just spoken.
[What happened? What is going on?]
"што здарылася Што адбываецца?" Donahue arrived, standing between the two groups as he queried them about the situation.
[Haven't you heard? America is under attack!]
"Хіба вы не чулі? Амерыка пад ударам!" the man who'd initially spoken replied to Donahue, whose face grew pale with shock.
[What? You mean a military attack? That's impossible!]
"Што? Вы маеце на ўвазе ваенную атаку? Гэта ж немагчыма!" Donahue responded skeptically.
[Someone crashed a plane into the World Trade Center! Didn't you hear?]
"Хтосьці ўрэзаўся самалётам у Сусветны гандлёвы цэнтр! Няўжо ты не чуў?" a woman responded, pointing to the speakers.
[Two planes! Big ones!]
"Два самалёты! Вялікія!" a man stepped out from the crowd and addressed Donahue, his eyes wide.
Donahue began to feel sick, turning around as he watched the two groups once again begin arguing over the morality of the situation.
Calamity had started to break out around him, as several people began fighting, their argument escalating to the point of violence as security rushed to break up the fight.
Donahue recognized the growing situation as it had quickly become a social boiler plate: an excuse for anyone and everyone with a grievance on one side of the proverbial fence or another with regard to political, religious or ideological spheres to deliver their commitment to that viewpoint by way of harsh words and possibly even violence as was already clearly happening.
The security in the facility was quickly overwhelmed with similar outbursts of violence, as years of growing tension rose to the surface. Donahue was certain that this was the case everywhere in every similar facility as news carried the social virus that a war of attrocities had clearly broken out, and the madness spread from place to place as panic set about wreaking its havoc unequivically.
Donahue went to from kiosk to kiosk looking for more information but ultimately finding nothing but chaos breaking out around him, and that's when it dawned upon him.
Even with his forty-five year old stiff knee, he began sprinting as fast as his body would carry him for the cargo area servicing flight 17B9.
When he arrived at those same doors across from which he'd previously been seated upon a bench, he found them to be locked, while beyond and much to his shock, a group of men in airport labourer uniforms were unloading the special container directly to the trunks of a lineup of five four-door sedans, each with four occupants including the driver.
He began banging on the glass beside the door, even backing up and kicking it several times, finding that it did not budge or even crack under the force he'd mustered. He turned just in time to see that uniformed security had caught sight of him in his attempt to break the glass and were now in pursuit, running at him directly with their night sticks in hand.
Donahue began running away from them, staying close to the same wall as he looked for any signs of an exit through which he could leave and circle back towards the cargo loading bay where the flight 17B9 special cargo was being unloaded in the waiting line of cars.
He didn't have a firearm on him, but he did have a fourteen hundred dollar cellular phone and long before the age of smartphones. It lacked a screen, instead sporting an array of numeric LEDs and a touch tone series of buttons found on any phone. He began dialing as he ran, redialing several times as he'd accidentally hit the wrong numbers as he strained for coordination. He finally got the number correctly and waited as the phone rang and rang and rang.
"Dammit!" he said aloud in English as he found a service hall, into which he turned, still sprinting towards the end and the door that awaited him there.
He slammed into the door and it swung open, hitting the adjacent wall leaving a hole in it where the handle had gone past the door stop. He turned right, running into a change room, several naked men turning to face him as he ran into the shower area, nearly slipping on the wet floor.
When he reached the other side, he found himself in an area of employee lockers, other men getting into their cargo area uniforms turned to confront him as he ran past, their words not quite reaching his ears.
He kept his momentum, stopping only to open the exit, which swung inward, forcing him to come to a stop to service the door. He turned to see the security still in pursuit of him, yelling at him in Belarusian as he got out of the door, quickly jamming the handle of a nearby mop through the door handle, slowing the pursuing security just enough to buy him some more time.
He sprinted out into the cargo area and saw the last sedan pulling away as the man loading it chased it trying to close the still open trunk as it sped off.
The men who'd been unloading the special container then jumped onto a luggage cart, speeding off in their uniforms towards a waiting Lada, the three of them jumping off of the luggage cart and into the passenger seats as it too sped off, fishtailing as it veered to lineup with the driveway exit.
As the security guards that had been pursuing him arrived, Donahue, now out of breath raised his hands in the air, gesturing that he'd chosen to surrender to them. One of the security guards smiled at him, as he wound up from behind Donahue and hit him in the head, rending him immediately unconscious.
Detention
Belarusian Prison
February 20, 2003
February 20, 2003
Donahue stood in front of a steel mirror leaning on the edge of a cement sink and countertop, a row of eight other men on either side of him each poised much the same and in various states of the beginning of their day.
Donahue's face was rough with spreading lines of premature age and greying facial hair, dark circles underlined the skin beneath each of his irises. He stared at himself in the mirror for some time, perhaps having just awoken to the fact that it had been two years already since he first set foot in the facility. A very brutal and trying two years.
Beneath his orange prison jump suit, his body was a finely sculpted instrument as he'd spent most of his spare time between the chapters of his reading, exercising in any and every way that he could. His hair was shaved nearly to the skin, giving him the appearance of a military man, though most in the prison with him already knew who he was.
Normally given treaties and diplomatic channels, a man of his vocation would have been kept in protected custody, in a separate facility specifically for political prisoners, but in Donahue's case, Corvo had pulled strings to ensure that he ended up in the general population of a facility for common criminals, though the Department of State of the United States government had been told otherwise, though who would have noticed or even cared for the diplomacy between Belarus and the United States when it was simply a boat barely afloat on a sea of lies.
Donahue pulled a bar of soap he kept wrapped in a plastic bag in one of his pockets, retrieving a dull month old disposable razor from the other. He then placed the black razor on the right side of the counter and the white bar of soap on the left. The inmate to his left stopped mid shave and eyed the soap out of the corner of his eye as Donahue turned the faucet and began spashing water on his face readying himself for his morning shave.
As Donahue bent over the sink to rinse his face, the inmate on his left grabbed the back of his head and smashed his forehead into the steel mirror, Donahue barely managing to get his arm up to block his impact before it could lead to a concussion.
Donahue immediately turned to face the man, who was large and huskey, much of his body covered in poorly crafted tattoos and cigarette burns.
"What gives?! I thought we were on good terms?!" Donahue knew better than to fight that particular man, given his ties to a Baltic region crime syndicate.
"You put your soap on my part of the sink. I've killed men for less," the larger man responded with a thick accent, catching Donahue's hand as he went to retrieve his soap.
"Its mine now. Pick up your black razor and finish shaving and get out of my sight. I don't want you near me again...!" the man said, looking into Donahue's eyes.
The man to Donahue's right, who was similarly proportioned as the man against whom Donahue currently faced off, wiped his face and then turned to intervene, stepping between the two of them and facing the tattooed man.
"Can't we have some peace and quiet in the morning instead of you sounding off at my boyfriend?" he addressed the man with the tattoos fearlessly.
"Looks like he's mine now. Go get your own, unless you want to make this a real beef?" the tattooed man replied, showing him the bar of soap.
Without a moment's notice, the man who'd stepped between Donahue and the tattooed man threw a hard punch, clipping the tattooed man's jaw, sending him to the floor unconscious. He then turned to face Donahue.
"Have you got a problem pretty boy?" he asked Donahue.
"Not any more... Vyacheslav," Donahue replied, again reaching for his bar of soap.
Again, his arm was stopped halfway by the man who'd just defended him. He then picked up the bar of soap and broke it in half, unwrapping it and taking one half for his own keeping and handing the rest back to Donahue.
"Don't use my name unless I give you. You owe me three more halves. One each week," he looked at Donahue firmly.
"Alright. We're square?" Donahue asked.
"When I get all my soap. We're square," the man replied as he returned to his side of the counter.
Donahue turned back to the mirror, readying himself for his shave.
...
At ten o'clock, a buzzer sounded and the cells were once again opened. Donahue, who'd been reading in bed up until that point got up, avoiding his cell mate altogether and instead making his way over to the yard and to his favourite table.
Seated across the table from where he'd chosen to sit was Vyacheslav, whose table it essentially was.
"Did I say a stinking company man could share my table?" asked Vyacheslav of Donahue, raising his voice a little.
"Does the Kremlin know you still have their working class accent?" asked Donahue of Vyacheslav.
"Ha! That's a good one!" a smile broke out on Vyacheslav's face.
"That's not going to make trouble for you. I mean that that guy from the Baltic syndicate?" confirmed Donahue.
"Him? No. He's trouble, and not really one of theirs. He's in line, but probably won't make the cut, especially considering what he did this morning..." Vyacheslav replied.
"...and because of who hit him I'm assuming..." Donahue confirmed.
"Being an ex-coldwar spy for the Kremlin comes with benefits, but being disgraced they'll pretend to ignore me. These new generation don't play spy game the same as us old timers. Those days are gone, as are real spies... I fear... Everything is blackmail now... secrets in the hands of large groups who use them to scare and control others. That's the new future of politics and society," Vyacheslav explained to Donahue, lowering his voice a bit as they got into conversation.
"Corvo too?" asked Donahue.
"He's the other side of old timers. Had his hands in too many dirty pockets to turn over new leaf. Now he's near the top of the dirty pockets, but don't tell him I say that when he comes to get you for to torture you," Vyacheslav explained.
"I was onto his game early on. Its what put me in here," Donahue admitted to Vyacheslav.
"Its not so much the dirt, because everyone in this business has some. Its more the kind of dirt that separates us. Put on good show and act like good man, but in the dark, have hands in too much of the wrong kind of dirt," Vyacheslav looked to Donahue, speaking in a tone full of irony.
"What is the good kind of dirt?" asked Donahue, sincerely curious.
"Loving your wife or husband but still having an affair? Doing politics and using political contacts to further personal business interests? Insider trading maybe...? Such temptation is very human, and most of us familiar with it. But it makes for good fodder when there is no real bad dirt," Vyacheslav reasoned.
"And what is bad dirt?" Donahue continued pressing Vyacheslav for his insight.
"After your affair, you murder lover to keep hidden from wife. That's very bad. You swear oath to serve country, and then help illegally import contraband, killing a generation. That's very bad." Vyacheslav continued.
"What about the black market... materials unaccounted for?" Donahue asked Vyacheslav for his opinion.
"That's very bad dirt on an entirely different level. The kind of thing that even those with the other bad dirt look down upon. Ha! And here we are in this place where we're all criminals and we still have our supposed values just so long as we're not ones who everyone points finger at when asked what's real bad?" Vyacheslav began laughing out loud at the irony of it all.
Donahue sat with a firm look on his face. He could understand why someone as Vyacheslav laughed about the topic, but he couldn't bring himself to laugh given the seriousness of the issue from his perspective.
"If by miracle we all point our fingers at that direction, they all would be pointed outside, at the people who put us here to bury with their secrets," Vyacheslav seemed to have hit very close to the truth.
"You mean everyone in here, or just us?" asked Donahue.
"I mean just us, but I'd bet everyone here believes the same about themselves. Even the truly guilty," Vyacheslav admitted.
"You said you'd share the name of a contact that knows more about the materials unaccounted for market. Are you still game for that?" asked Donahue.
"I am, but I told you I want something in return and if you do, I'll do same for you if it comes my way," Vyacheslav told Donahue.
"Like what?" Donahue asked.
"You and I both know that the current situation will soon lead to incursion in Middle East. Even if United Nations doesn't approve vote, United States will go on its own, even without NATO. They are like wounded predator, if you know how dangerous wounded predator is. When that happens, they'll come waving their wallet, trade agreements and favourable foreign policy changes to every country that agrees help to them. When they come to get you to help their argument for WMD, help me, and when Moscow pull strings for to help me, I help you," Vyacheslav negotiated like a true spy.
"How would you even know whether I helped you?" asked Donahue.
"I would know, every time I wash hands with your soap," Vyacheslav assured him.
"Alright. Assuming they come to Belarus looking for cooperation, I'll agree to help you," Donahue assured him.
"The man you look for is named Gleb Yadviga. He's former supervisor at Kalinin Power Plant. You'll find him now in Minsk, where he retired with wife's family. He has experience with these issues of materials unaccounted for case. Tell him I send you and he might trust you. Just you stick to word, or you hurt my feelings," Vyacheslav explained to Donahue, adlibbing his last statement.
"If I break my word to you, I'll need a thousand lifetimes of soap to wash that off," Donahue responded.
"Ten thousand. You think me cheap?" Vyacheslav smiled.
Visiting Hours
Belarusian Prison
February 26, 2003
Two guards, one in front and one behind escorted Donahue as they walked the orange line to the visitor's area. The first guard stopped as they arrived at a large steel door. They waited a moment and were then greeted by a loud buzzing noise. The sound of an internal mechanism shifting and then clanking was heard as a powerful electromagnet had released the lock.
They stepped through the door as it opened and into the area housing all the visitor's booths. When they arrived at booth four, the guard used his keycard and opened the door directing Donahue to the seat behind the bulletproof glass. They then closed the door and stood on each side of it as they waited for his meeting to finish.
Donahue sat down in front of the thick glass and was greeted by the pretty face of a blonde haired woman in her mid twenties.
"Are you supposed to be my wife? If you are, you'd better have a cake with all the tools I'll need to escape this place because I don't think that I'd be able to last a night alone after seeing you," Donahue did his best to be charming, despite the fact that he felt old, tired and most of all, forgotten.
"You're certainly a lot more charming than your dossier. What'd did you do? Keep your sense of humour tucked away in a hidden alcove or something?" she asked him, a smile on her face.
"I don't think you'd want to know where I kept my sense of humour, thanks for asking. What's this about a dossier? Is that what they're calling it these days? Marriage has certainly changed a lot in the last two years," Donahue responded dryly.
"Wesley, we're in the process of making some arrangements to get you out of here. Things have changed considerably since 9/11. We'd like to discuss these matters in a more candid environment, so I came here to let you know that we'll be taking you out of here tomorrow sometime before noon," the woman assured Donahue, whose poker face was impossible to read.
"Look, there's another inmate in here that saved my life on two occasions, and I'm not ready to leave unless he has the same opportunity. If you can't swing it, I'll stay here until you can," Donahue kept his face stern and his eyes directly upon hers.
"What's his name?" she asked him.
"Ippolit. First name Vyacheslav," Donahue told her.
"I can't promise you anything, but I will tell you that I will be back here tomorrow to get you, so have your things ready unless you really meant that you'd prefer to stay," she responded, examining his face closely with a look of concern.
"What's the matter...?" he asked her, feeling a bit self conscious about his appearance.
"Are those bruises on your face? Have they been torturing you?!!! I'll take this up with the State Department!" she asked him, threatening the policy to have kept him in general population despite his being a political prisoner.
He looked at her, puzzled at first, and then he caught on. She was looking for anything that would give her negotiating power in coming to a deal to have him released.
He nodded once to her indicating that he'd caught on, before he began punching himself in the face several times with his own fist. Hard enough to leave himself with several purple bruises and a quickly swelling cheek.
She then pulled a digital camera from her attaché case, taking several photos of him with which to negotiate, before her face once again turned sour and she revealed the second aspect of her ploy.
"So, you think I'm just a ditzy blonde bombshell that you can push around and get whatever you want, do you? Those bruises you just gave yourself are for demanding that I help you to get a Russian prisoner out of a Belarusian jail. Now considering that you got off easy compared to the last guy who tried something similar, I expect that you'll keep this our little secret, won't you? I mean about helping to get this other man out," she responded.
"You mean you just tricked me into beating myself up because I assumed that you were a pushover? Wow. You're on a different level altogether..." Donahue rubbed his tender face, now covered in bruises.
She looked back at him, coyly satisfied, before he continued.
"I'll see you tomorrow, and I'll let my friend know that he should be ready too. Oh, and what's your name by the way?" Donahue asked her as he stood.
"Linda. Linda Delmore," she replied.
The War Of Politics
Hôtel Parc Plaza
Luxembourg
February 28, 2003
[Note: I made some changes to this chapter given the fact I'd assumed that I would be writing this particular part as a key historical reference, hence including several people from real life who were a part of the brainstorming meetings for building the case investigating the possible existence of weapons of mass destruction in Iraq in 2003.
I later conceded after thinking about it, that it would be better to have literal unknowns populating the meeting given the fact that the case was mostly built from strategic and tactical intelligence of the United States Armed Forces. The fact that this actually occurred is enough of a reference point in history, without the possible risk of satirizing the events that mostly occurred behind closed doors. In what I'm writing here, there's no sense telling the part of a story that most everyone already knows. Its far more interesting to write (and more importantly, read) informed speculation, because the most interesting of things occur at the hands of the people actually collecting this intelligence for their leaders and policy makers upon which they base their final decisions.]
Linda walked slightly faster than Donahue as he was still in a mode of culture shock having so quickly emerged from a Belarusian prison at one moment, and then quickly to a room in the airport where he was debriefed by a team of company shrinks, who essentially poked and prodded him every way possible before they extracted him.
Vyacheslav too had left with him, even sharing the same ride to the Minsk National Airport, from where their paths parted, but not before Donahue handed him his parting gift.
"A debt of your kind is an investment, not a debt. You make sure that you inspire others as much so as you did me in keeping me in the direction of my compass," Donahue gave the man a wad of roubles on top of which were fastened a bar and a half of soap.
"Laundered too. You are impressive for company man. My first drink in Moscow will be in your memory. Keep good the business and market economy, but remember the people my friend, for they put you where you end up," Vyacheslav shook Donahue's hand firmly, his own envoys leading him towards his Moscow flight.
They parted ways from there, each going in the direction that their envoys led them, their occasional resistance an expression of the reinforcement of their own compass, for in persons such as they, it could never truly be denied.
Three hours onward into the late afternoon and several security checks later, and their flight landed in Luxembourg. After finding limousine waiting for them in the pickup area, Wesley Donahue, now clean shaven and wearing a thousand dollar suit, followed (a much younger) Linda Delmore as they strode towards the luxury suite and attached meeting room.
They were greeted by two men from the secret service as they left the elevator, who coaxed them ahead in the direction of the suite, where another two secret service men waited, standing guard outside of the door.
She was stopped at the door by the men, who frisked both her and Donahue thoroughly before they were allowed to enter.
Donahue followed as they walked down a hall in the suite, stopping when they arrived on the outskirts of a meeting room, several catering buffets and drinks stations surrounding the analysts and expert consultants seated at the boardroom table.
One of the men seated at the table, stood up and to his full height of six feet two inches. He walked over to first greet Linda and then Donahue.
"Ladies and gentlemen, Linda Delmore, Agent Liaison and Wesley Donahue, one of our hunters and collectors," the man introduced their latest arrivals.
"And you are?" asked Donahue, extending his hand.
"Winston Forbes, Senior Analyst Of Strategic Intelligence. That's Mira Brimell, Technical Analyst Of Intelligence Services. We're both from the Pentagon," Winston shook hands with Donahue.
"A pleasure to meet you," Donahue greeted them.
"Wesley here is a company man, isn't that right?" Winston turned their attention to Donahue.
"That I am, but we're all in the intelligence line of work, aren't we?" Donahue responded, fully aware of the division between desk jockeys and field operatives.
"Yeah... well it must be invigorating to work out in the field. Adventuous if anything," Winston asked Donahue, an oddly defensive smile on his face.
Donahue was suddenly smitten by the fact that he already didn't like Winston.
"...Adventurous...? You could say that..." Donahue still very much devasted that he'd spent so long in prison, and then when they suddenly needed him, they'd been able to extract him in a matter of two days.
During the first part of his debriefing earlier in the day, they'd spent the better part of an hour psychoanalyzing him to ensure that he hadn't become a security risk or a liability. A very real risk, especially when an asset has spent a lot of time OOC (Out Of Contact) over the course of an operation.
These risks were further compounded by the fact that Donahue had spent a great deal of that time in prison, on foreign soil. Two years of his life, where they'd literally left him to rot until they were in a bind, needing the expertise of his experiences investigating materials unaccounted for.
During his psyche evaluation, they'd said things to him designed specifically to get under his proverbial nails, emotionally so. Fortunately, Donahue had kept his cool, despite having needed a moment several times during the tests to 'catch his breath'.
When he'd realized that he didn't like Winston, he was also aware that it wasn't an issue of his psyche, but more one of common professional tension between the trades plied between different people. Donahue was trained to recognize the difference, which would help him when dealing with people and knowing whether an issue was his problem or theirs.
"Wesley recently returned from a rather difficult operation to help us build the case..." Winston patted Donahue on the shoulder like an old friend.
"As long as we're serving the ends of justice. Especially when there's so many other issues related to this particular issue..." Donahue replied tactfully.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you the man who literally uncovered a potential materials unaccounted for network after the fall the of Soviet regime," Linda presented Wesley Donahue to those seated at the boardroom table.
Donahue found a place at the table as Winston returned to his.
"You've met Mira already. Across from you is Leaya Patel, of the Stanford alumni and an editor from the Washington Post and finally, our consultant for Middle East affairs," Winston introduced Maya who stood for Donahue before seating herself, Donahue similarly following suit.
"This is Carver Douglas, Domestic Intelligence Analyst from the NSA. Dare I say more," Winston introduced the man, drawing a few chuckles and coughs as he did.
Carver stood and nodded to Douglas who did much the same before sitting down again.
"Finally, this is George Grant, an advisor to Secretary of Defense Rumsfeld. He'll be keeping us on track and making sure that we don't stray into territory where we need not be," Winston presented the man, who stood and spoke.
"The United States Government is in your debt for your work in the field Mr. Donahue," Mr. Grant addressed Donahue.
Donahue accepted his statement, but internally was skeptical given the fact that nobody moved to have him released earlier. That he'd only become important when and where the intelligence he had uncovered had become politically important in the aftermath of the events of 2001. Donahue had to wonder how many others like him had fallen to similar fates, but whose window of release never arrived.
He'd heard that operatives in the midst of World War II had made ever bigger sacrifices than had he, but in the midst of situations where their sacrifice was the only choice to ensure success of the operation. Donahue found himself struggling against the idea that perhaps he had been conveniently forgotten. A case of when his own operation and existence had become a liability more so than a credit to the work of the intelligence community.
"I'm grateful to have had the opportunity to serve my country," Donahue responded, despite the multitude of contradictory thoughts that juxtaposed his words.
"Just to bring you up to date, we've been discussing the matter of chemical weapons production at three sites, given satellite intelligence entries ESI001 through ESI026, alotted for the purposes of this meeting. We have discussed the possibility of, but not delved into the hard intelligence data related to the possibility of nuclear weapons research and production, either dirty bombs with conventional explosives but doped with a radioactive isotope, to full fledged portable atomic weapons such as those found in our tactical field munitions, deployed in Howitzer friendly packages and currently deployed, though not in active service in several stations throughout Europe," Winston brought them all into sync.
"Seeing as we've covered the aspects involving chemical weapons very thoroughly, and assuming that Mr. Grant has seen fit to approve our recommendations to the President, I believe that we should move on to the next item on our agenda and that is the possibility of nuclear weapons," Mira addressed those at the table.
"I'm in full agreement, though I'd prefer to further discuss the matter of the implications of full scale assaults at two of the proposed chemical weapons sites, as both sites are particularly close to historically significant sites connected to the early history of the region," Leaya Patel interjected.
"Though we have no expertise present to remark on the nature of tactics or munitions that will be employed against these sites should the United Nations or the President approve armed strikes, I can say with confidence that any such strikes will be surgical in nature, utilizing high precision laser guided munitions and will involve little if any collateral damage," Winston addressed Leaya's concerns.
"Despite the fact that our enemies chose civilian mass murder and the destruction of sites of modern historical significance when they attacked the World Trade Center, the United States military will use the utmost caution where it regards civilian presence or the presence of historically significant architecture in the area surrounding our selecteed targets, when and if such strategic or tactical strikes are approved," George Grant reminded the people seated at the table.
"Words that sound good when indicating a course of action, but often not representative of the final outcome. I'm trying to ensure that the interests here are not in appeasing the voter appeal of vengeance," Leaya chose her words carefully, without undermining her point.
"Might I remind you that our goal here is not to pursue the social ramifications of any military action, but to determine as to whether there are activities conclusive with the evidence presenting the attempted production or factual production of weapons of mass destruction in the regions indicated at the beginning of this meeting," George Grant responded to Leaya's comment.
"My selection to attend and provide consultation at this meeting implies otherwise," Leaya replied hastily.
"It has and will be noted in our recommendations, that the two sites we've thus far selected as the most likely candidates of where the production of chemical weapons is taking place will receive a target status of extreme surgical tactics, indicating that collateral damage should be avoided at all costs," George Grant assured Leaya, who nodded affirmatively.
"Very well," she adjusted her glasses as she examined the satellite intelligence handouts provided by Winston.
"Do we have your vote on the two selected sites, Leaya?" asked Mr. Grant.
"You do, assuming that what you've promised with regard to efforts to protect the regions surrounding the targets are taken to their fullest measure," Leaya agreed.
"Do the rest of you recognize that sites A and C of the three sites discussed are the most likely candidates for the production of chemical weapons given the satellite, diplomatic and local intelligence afforded us? Put up your hands all in agreement, with the exception of our late arrivals, Linda Delmore and Wesley Donahue," George Grant addressed the rest of the table.
Everyone except Linda and Donahue raised their hands. Leaya, hesitantly and then fully.
"This package is finalized and will be submitted to the President and his committee for approval. Now, we're on to the matter of nuclear weapons as discussed previously. Our goal in this discussion and vote will be to come to the unaminous conclusion that scenarios and sites presented at this meeting are in fact being used for the development of dirty bombs or full fledged nuclear ordnance. Dirty bombs being defined as previously discussed, a conventional explosive doped with nuclear material so as to spread radiation over a region and cause collateral damage with the initial explosion. The collateral damage revealing itself over time with immediate cases of radiation sickness and eventually an increase in Cancer cases overall. Nuclear ordnance on the other hand involves weapons exploiting a fissile material capable of a sustained nuclear reaction, either fission or fusion, that expends the sum energy involving in the atom fusion or fission process, measured in their equivalent destructive power in tons of the explosive Trinitrotoluene otherwise know as TNT. As an example of the destructive power of these weapons, the bomb detonated over Hiroshima during World War II bore an explosive power of 15 kilotons of TNT, and killed as many as 140,000 people. Just so we're clear as to the potential for death and destruction with which we're dealing here. Mira and Winston will be presenting the strategic intelligence centering on the regions of their departmental focus, and from there we'll open the table and get as much input and speculation during the course of our discussion so that we can come to a vote. Winston if you'd please?" George Grant explained to those present.
Winston stood and approached the projection screen, where he began the presentation of their data.
"Again, we'll be using the alphabetical nomenclature rather than revealing any names of these regions in order to protect our intelligence interests. If you recognize these regions at all, we ask that you stick to the alphabetical name when referring to them and refrain from using their real names. We'll be discussing four regions, labeled W, X, Y and Z. W and X contain evidence as being used for the purposes of supply and storage for areas Y and Z. Initial satellite intelligence indicates a high degree of activity in these areas several weeks after we'd received diplomatic and ground intelligence regarding the sale of parts whose primary purpose is for use in the construction of industrial centrifuges..." Winston began, Donahue interrupting him.
"Its important to note that centrifuges, including industrial size though not at scale, are used in the construction of hospitals," Donahue indicated to those seated at the table.
"True. However, Mira and I would like to point out that no hospital on record houses enough parts for the construction of over forty centrifuges in an industrial only setting. There are other uses for these kinds of centrifuges, but in such a high risk region and especially after the events of 9/11, we have to err on the side of caution. Imagine if the two aircraft that impacted the towers had been carrying dirty bombs? Or worse, full fledged nuclear ordnance? Ground intelligence we're analyzing now indicates that there had been a concerted effort from the 1990s onward to procure the materials for such weapons," Winston pointed to a satellite image closeup of industrial sized parts being unloaded from a sizeable flatbed truck of military design.
Donahue noted that Winston's intelligence was correct, especially with regard to the pursuits of active groups, some of whom were initially equipped with conventional ordnance by the United States as part of the ongoing ground operations by the Mujahideen in Afghanistan against the USSR's invasion attempt.
"Given the lack of notice with regard to the region about which we're speaking, those could be parts for one of the car factories Saddam Hussein's son wants for himself," Leaya remarked, drawing a bit of laughter, but only because most people in the room were familiar with the intelligence about Saddam Hussein's son's interest in American and European hotrods.
"Most fissile material, especially that obtained in the 1990s onwards would have been obtained from the secretive market for nuclear materials after the collapse of the Soviet union. That isn't to blame former member states as much as it is to recognize the fact that there were an organized group of people in the know who were aware of the potential for getting such materials to buyers. Seeing as most plants in the former USSR run on weapons grade uranium, there is little to no enrichment required in order to weaponize uranium from those sources. Weaponization of uranium would only be a feature if the material was purchased from the point of extraction ie uranium and or plutonium mining operations anywhere in the world, where the material being purchased isn't initially weapons grade, or if its purchased from reactor sites utilizing non-weapons grade materials which would only be in North America and Europe for the most part. So, the source for the weaponization of radioactive materials is mostly from those two regions. Materials purchased from the post Soviet blackmarket for fissile materials generally only includes weapons grade materials. Little or no enrichment required. Processing certainly, but no enrichment," Donahue explained to those at the table, which severely hampered and altered the direction of Winston's delivery.
"We're examining the possibility of a hidden market resulting from materials obtained just before or shortly after processing. I can't comment on the nature of this investigation except to say that the difference in security measures pre-processing and post-processing are enough to deter most such attempts, leaving our vulnerability at the pre-processing end. That does however affect the asking price for blackmarket materials of that nature, again, another deterent. At this point in our investigation, we are still seeking to ascertain at which point materials have been procured. That's about as far as I can go into the details of this matter. I can say that the investigation thus far supports Winston's presentation on the potential existence of an enrichment program, possibly at the scale he's implicating," Carver Douglas explained with regard to the NSA's involvement.
"I'm telling you that there is already an extensive materials network, moving miniscule amounts of fissile weapons grade material in place. This is after decades of official investigation, and that fact does not back your claims of an enrichment program nor the need for one," Donahue responded assertively.
"Our scenario supports the existence of both a weapons grade and non-weapons grade materials as you'll see. Area Z also contains an aircraft hangar which has been since the mid-nineteen nineties been adapted specifically for the purposes of acting as a manufactory, including the installation of equipment we suspect could be used during the construction process for nuclear warheads, with the fissile material being supplied from points W and X, and being enriched at point Y where required. Mira, could you continue please?" Winston stopped his presentation as he'd already stepped over into the topic that would be discussed by Mira, his peer.
Mira stood and took over at the screen, navigating the presentation software to her files.
"The development of a nuclear program involves a few steps. First, materials collections insofar as fissile material is involved, which makes up the fuel of the bomb. High explosives are also required to create the inward directed blast force that compresses the fissile material and begins the process of nuclear detonation. High precision timers are also required, which themselves take a high degree of technology to fabricate or alternately, can be tracked in terms of international purchases and therefore limited by treaty bans, although that doesn't necessarily prevent such parts from making it to their buyer. When they have procured enough of the parts and materials for the engineering team, they then begin the development of the device itself. This usually would start as the development of a bomb, in order to develop a process. The design for a bomb once tested, would then be adapted to a warhead package for the strategic theatre of deployment. Given that Iraq already has an extensive SCUD missile inventory as discussed before Linda's and Wesley's arrival here, their goal would be to develop a warhead capable of deployment on their SCUD platform. In the event of realizing such a goal, that would put both Israel and possibly even Saudi Arabia at risk of a retaliatory strike, meaning that if Iraq were attacked and had such weapons to utilize in their counterstrike, instead of firing at their attackers, they might instead choose to attempt to draw both Israel and Saudi Arabia into the war, possibly igniting World War III," Mira explained to those in the room.
"Six nations have had nuclear weapons since the late 1960s/early 70s, and none of them have evere deployed such weapons through an act of war. What makes you think that Iraq would respond differently, and I might remind you that the Cuban Missile Crisis was perhaps the closest we've ever come, and that situation certainly would overshadow this one," Leaya responded to Mira's presentation.
"Winston, this seems more to be your area?" Mira addressed her peer.
"Our psychological profile includes many incidents involving spontaneous reaction, without planning or foresight and often involving violence, either interpersonal or through the deployment of his Royal Guard. Most of these incidents involve day to day social affairs and his responsibilities as the head of state. If Iraq were suddenly plunged into war against the United States alone, or with a supporting NATO coalition, the stresses upon him would be far beyond those he's experienced during peace-time, not to mention the company's psyops that would specifically target him and his psychology through the global press and other diplomatic means, meaning he would be very susceptible to rash decisions involving the deployment of such weapons and hence a danger to the world to be in possession of them," Winston explained to those seated at the table.
"Bringing us back to the point that if he is in fact developing a nuclear weapons program, then the time to strike would be early rather than later," Mira finished.
Donahue began laughing aloud, as if a great irony had come to pass.
"I can't believe this. A committee actually resolved to take action? I've been up to my armpits in weapons grade uranium traffickers for two decades, even having spent two years in prison as a result of one of the traffickers, and nobody! Not one desk jockey back home in their comfy chair has the where with all to do something about it until they need my information. What the hell would have happened if I wasn't needed? Would I still be rotting in that prison!" Donahue stood up to deliver his aggressive speech to the people he'd assumed to be his allies.
"Wesley's been under a great deal of stress as a result of his last operation..." Linda began covering for one of her own.
"And now that there's voters involved and another term up in the air, the solution presents itself without delay, but if this hadn't come to pass, then you'd have left myself and other operatives in the cooler for even longer. Maybe indefinitely!" Donahue had reached his limit.
"Are you saying that you are not going to vote on the issue of sites W, X, Y and Z? Before you do that, just consider how many lives you might be saving by participating in this vote, not to mention your own rapidly dwindling career, before you decide to storm out of this meeting! I will make a note of this, and your superiors will be made aware!" George Grant stood to face Donahue, who'd sorely underestimated the man's ability to show a formidable presence when need be.
"That's fine, because I vote in support of all four points! But I'll never support people like you who'd lollygag while operators out there in the field are in need of your support!" Donahue shot back.
"You have some damned nerve, talking to me like that. I spent three years as as prisoner in Libya, during the 1986 bombing campaign. I was co-pilot of one of the F-111s shot down during that campaign at the ripe age of twenty-one. I broke my damned leg when I ejected and crawled for miles when I landed before I was picked up by the Libyan militia who were on patrol. It took three days before they tended to my wounds, all the while threatening to kill me and hang me from a post. Don't you come to me about your sob story of how you were forgotten! Some of us just eat it and move on. Don't think that because it happened to you that you deserve better treatment than the damned pilot and my best friend who died that day!" Mr. Grant dressed Donahue down thoroughly.
"Well you might be happy to know that my work, if a more thorough investigation had been mounted would definitely save lives and prevent operators and airmen from losing theirs, Sir!" Donahue grabbed his things from the table and stormed towards the door.
"I apologize for this... You have my vote as well on all four sites. Thank you for the presentations, but I must stand with my own," Linda gathered her things and ran after Donahue as he left.
Donahue's pace was quick, even pushing past the secret service men. Linda had to jog in her heels to catch up to him.
"Thank you!" Linda said to him compassionately.
"For what? For ruining your big chance to play with the big league?" asked Donahue, mistaking her tending to his wounds as sarcasm.
"No. For sticking up for us and our work," Linda replied honestly.
"I'm guessing that we're even seeing as you got me out of that prison," Donahue responded as he arrived at the elevator, the two secret service men stepping aside.
"If I would have known that you were in prison before they brought me in on this, I would have been working day and night to get you out. We don't leave our own behind," Linda reminded him.
"You mean like I just left you behind when I left that meeting?" the elevator doors opened and Donahue stepped in.
"You didn't leave me behind. You were taking point for me," Linda responded.
"So, with your being a handler, is that part of your pre-requisite for advancing to the vocation of task operator?" asked Donahue.
"Well, I'm looking to be a hunter/gatherer myself, though some tacops experience would be nice," Linda admitted.
"First rule: stay away from hotheads like me. They'll only get you in trouble," Donahue told her as the elevator opened up.
"I like trouble. That's just the kind of gal I am," she smiled as she followed him.
"Well you're in luck then because my middle name is trouble. Wesley Trouble Donahue at your service. Pleased to meet you," Donahue turned to face her, offering her his hand and a good shake.
"Well that was a little more formal than what I got from behind that impact resistant glass," Linda agreed.
"On that note, thank you from the bottom of my heart for getting me and my friend out of that prison," Donahue said to her, careful not to look at her in that way.
It had been a long time since he'd seen any woman in that light, and after years and boundless risk, he'd been cautious about the temptation of anything that went beyond an admiring glance but he'd certainly had his fair turn of convenient nights and early mornings with women, most of whom given the nature of his vocation couldn't stay with him for long, nor could any of them become a permanent part of his life. He was destined to a flurry of fleeting moments with a handful of women he'd likely never see again.
"I think you're underestimating my career motivation in this matter, Mr. Trouble. Its not often that handlers get an opportunity to play the game at the big people table," Linda admitted.
"You certainly threw that opportuntity away by following me, didn't you?" Donahue turned and proceeded in the direction of the nearby sidewalk and the sound of traffic, all surrounded by a mix of modern concrete and steel skyscrapers and classic historical architecture.
"No. I showed them that when the going gets rough, that I protect my own. They'll respect that. After all, we're all Americans are we not?" Linda revealed her propensity for keeping the big picture in sight, catching Donahue off guard.
"We are when they start behaving like Americans," Donahue wouldn't admit that his outburst had caused another division between himself and his quickly dwindling allies.
"Well, in case you haven't figured it out, I followed you because I want to learn from someone who's propensity for statecraft under the guise of a hunter/gatherer is legendary back in Virgina, despite the fact that you stormed out of that meeting before demonstrating any of it. I'm inclined to think that you're just a flash in the pan so to speak," Linda walked quickly to keep up with him.
"A flash in the pan? Ha! Now you're starting to sound like them. Why don't you go find yourself a desk jockey back in Virginia with a nice fat salary, have his dinner ready for him every night and keep him happy in bed! You'll probably do a lot better for yourself than getting mixed up in field work!" Donahue let it all fly as purposely sexist as he could, taking extra measure not to filter his words.
"Ewww... That's definitely your Aries side speaking. If I was born yesterday, I'd probably be in hysterics right now, screaming back at you. You just went directly for what you thought were my buttons, didn't you? You assumed that because I'm a woman and a borderline A/B personality, that I'd break at the first sign of being faced with sexism from someone whom I looked up to. Notice my use of the vernacular of that term: looked up to," Linda replied, causing him to stop before he reached the sidewalk.
"If you broke simply because of my words then you'd be a liability out in the field," Donahue said to her.
"So you were testing me?" Linda asked him.
"No. I meant every word I said," Donahue turned, and looked for a taxi to flag on the streets of Luxembourg.
Two weeks later and Linda was his intern, an asset in training operating under the cover of being his younger sister.
After living together in a two bedroom flat in Washington for three months, over which time they underwent training in tactical operations, they were inserted into Goliševa, Latvia.
Hard Intelligence
Goliševa, Latvia
May 29, 2003
May 29, 2003
Along route P50, there were few vehicles on the road as the day ended in the farming community of Goliševa. Inside the sparse scatting of homes as much so on the streets near the intersection of P50 and Robežas Iela, lights were coming on as the sun fell to the border between night and day.
Perhaps two hundred meters from the intersection, an old rickety farming truck with a canvas covered cargo bed arrived at the border station between Latvia and Russia. The truck stopped and several guards approached, one of them walking around the back of the truck and towards the cab as he inspected the vehicle. The driver turned the key on the ignition, and the old truck's engine spattered a few times before finally ceasing.
[State your business in Latvia.]
"Укажите свой бизнес в Латвии" he requested of the driver.
[I make this run three times over the course of every summer. This is my first trip of this year. Somebody's got to sell these crazy Latvians their chickens.]
"Я прохожу этот маршрут три раза в течение каждого лета. Это моя первая поездка в этом году. Кто-то должен продать этим сумасшедшим латышам их кур." an older man in a working man's cap whose wear and tear was complimentary to the truck he was driving responded, his thick gray moustache hiding his lips as he spoke.
[Step down from there. Let me see your cargo and your papers.]
"Спускайтесь оттуда. Позвольте мне увидеть ваш груз и ваши документы." the senior border guard responded stepping away from the door of the cab to give the old man room to step down.
The door opened and the driver clung to the hardware as he shakily made his way down from the driver's seat. When on the ground, he adjusted his pants and then began hobbling over to the back of the truck, the senior border guard keeping a careful eye on him as they walked to the back of the truck.
By the time they arrived, the other two guards were already waiting for them, their Kalashnikovs slung across their backs.
[Get up there and inspect his cargo. We're looking for chickens.]
"Поднимитесь туда и осмотрите его груз. Мы ищем кур." the senior border guard ordered his subordinates.
The two of them quickly jumped up and onto the open cargo bed under its canvas roof, and began inspecting the contents of the truck.
[Your papers?]
"Ваши документы?" the senior guard requested of the old man.
The old man rummaged through his back pocket, pulling forth an old folded bundle of papers which he then handed to the senior guard.
[Careful or you'll wake the chickens and they'll be squabbling for a half hour at least. Help an old man keep his sanity?]
"Осторожнее, а то разбудишь кур, и они будут ссориться полчаса как минимум. Помочь старику сохранить рассудок?" the old man addressed the guards inspecting his cargo.
There within were row upon row of cages, each containing one chicken, all of which seemed to be sleeping as the light dwindled. The senior guard by that time had unfolded the papers, revealing a wad of rubles. He quickly took them and stuffed them in his back pocket and folded the papers up, returning them to the old man.
[You're free to go. Next time, make sure you have *all* of your papers. There were some missing, but we'll let that go this time.]
"Вы свободны идти. В следующий раз убедитесь, что у вас есть все ваши документы. Кое-что пропало, но на этот раз мы это оставим." the senior guard addressed the old man, calling the guards down from his truck.
[Thank you. If you'd like a chicken for your family, I could give you right now?]
"Спасибо. Если вы хотите курицу для своей семьи, я могу вам ее дать прямо сейчас?" asked the old man of the senior guard.
[No. That will not be necessary. Now please clear the way.]
"Нет. Это не понадобится. Теперь, пожалуйста, освободите путь." the senior guard responded, but by that time the old man was already making his way around to the cab and driver's seat of the truck.
As the guards returned to their stations, the old man climbed back into the cab, and started the truck (after several tries). He then waited for the gates to fully open before driving off along route P50 towards the Robežas Iela intersection.
Three hundred meters away and within the safety of an abandoned farmhouse, Linda sat behind the screens of a pair of laptops in the darkness. One of the screens depicted a FLIR image of the exterior of an old building with a large garage. The second screen held an image from within that same garage, Linda using a joystick to pan the camera left and right and then up and down. She then used a wheel on the joystick to zoom the camera in and then out.
"ALPHA, we're go. Status green, repeat, status green, over," Linda spoke into her headset.
"Copy that. I'm in position, at recon point GOALPOST. Over," Donahue replied over his headset.
"That's good to hear because you might want to know that our package just arrived. An old cargo bed truck with a canvas cover on back. Looks like a livestock truck, over," Linda informed Donahue.
Linda watched as an old man stepped down from the cab of the truck and opened his arms to greet another man. They patted backs and then parted, speaking to one another. The other man handed the old man an envelope and a bottle of (assumedly of vodka) and pointed him in the direction of another vehicle, an old Lada which was waiting to take the old man to his motel room.
"They probably kept the old man blind and deaf about this whole deal. He's just a driver and he's safe as long as he asks no questions. He just drives the truck to its destination, gets taken to a motel room for the night, and returns in the morning to take the truck back over the border, over," Donahue explained to Linda.
"Can't have too many in the know, can you? over," Linda responded.
"Operations like these are usually segmented. That is, all the people involved in transport are kept in the dark as much so as those involved in the packaging are, over," Donahue told her.
"That is until they all start developing cancer, over," Linda suggested.
"That's highly unlikely. Their best bet for being detected is by emissions greater than the natural background radiation, so these guys go to great lengths to ensure that their packaging leaks just a little bit over the regional natural background emissions. Unfortunately for them though, its also just enough for us to detect it with our new ranged detectors, over," Donahue finished his lesson, alluding to the detectors that were housed in Linda's cameras on the scene.
The man who had handed the old man his payment and bottle got into the truck and then pulled it out in a three point turn, then backing it into the garage where he stopped it and turned off the ignition. The old truck coughed and spattered as it had previously, before becoming silent as the man stepped down from the cab and around to the back of the truck where six other men had gathered.
[Collect the cargo.]
"Соберите груз." one of the men ordered in a deep voice, a larger man with a thousand dollar leather jacket, dark bushy eyebrows and GQ hair.
One of the men stepped up into the back of the truck, and went to each of the chicken cages, withdrawing three eggs from each cage and depositing them carefully into a bucket he carried. When the bucket was full, he took it to the back of the truck and handed it off to another man, who in turn handed him an empty bucket. The whole process continued until there were three buckets full of eggs. When that was done, he jumped down from the truck and joined the other five.
[Take a random egg from each bucket.]
"Возьмите случайное яйцо из каждого ведра." the man with the GQ hair style ordered, going over to a nearby table with a lamp and tools.
One of the men reached into each of the buckets, retrieving an egg randomly until he had three, at which point he placed them on the table.
The man with the GQ hairstyle then grabbed a small mallet, and lightly hammered one of the eggs on its side.
[What are you doing? Are out of your mind?]
"Ты что, с ума сошла?" one of the men stepped forward, urging the man with the GQ hair to stop.
He ignored to plea of the man and instead grabbed up the now cracked egg in his hand and separated to two halves to reveal a wad of cotton with something heavy within. He stripped away the cotton and there in his hand was a nearly spherical ball of lead, appearing almost like hand rolled plasticene.
"ALPHA, the detector just kicked in. I'm reading just over three hundred RADS. Trying to zoom in on the packaging, over," Linda signalled to Donahue.
"Alright. That's our stuff. Any clues as to which vehicle they're going to use to evacuate the packages yet? over," Donahue asked her.
"There's three. Two out back and one out front. Four if you count the one that went to drop off the driver, over," Linda responded.
"How thick is the lead packaging? over," asked Donahue.
"Has to be at least half an inch thick. Judging from what I can see of the one in his hand, its likely in that ballpark, over," Linda told him.
Donahue did some quick math in his head, a cold smirk crossing his face when he'd realized what Linda was telling him.
"Well I'll be. That's the same package from back in 1989. He kept it in storage for all these years. That bastard, over," Donahue informed Linda.
"What package, over," Linda asked him.
"From a failed operation, though in the company books, they ranked it a success even though Corvo got away with the goods, over," Donahue told Linda, his voice indicating that he was clearly not happy about the deal.
"You mean Sovlodimir Corvo? I thought he was friendly with the west? over," Linda seemed shocked by the idea.
"He's friendly alright. Real friendly. So friendly in fact that he's been running a uranium and plutonium blackmarket for the last fifteen years, since the fall of the wall. Collaborators all over the place protecting him. There's big money in it. over," Donahue explained to her.
"They've reached the end of their meeting and are leaving. Looks like they're splitting up the packages, sending one to each vehicle, over," Linda told him.
"I've got to relocate to get a better angle in case they leave along Robežas Iela instead of P50 as I'd hoped. Give me a minute, over," Donahue ran along the catwalk of the water tower to the ladder and slid down, slowing his descent as he approached the ground.
He then sprinted east for a hundred meters before dropping to the dirt, gasping for breath as the first car pulled out.
He quickly pulled the rifle from his back and leveled it, aiming at the license plate of the car. He pressed the trigger lightly but not all the way and his sights photographed the plates before he pulled the trigger and deployed the tracking gel, hitting the license plate square on in the center. Anyone examining the plates would think they'd been hit by bird guano.
He cocked the bolt on his rifle and took aim, waiting for the second car. Both cars came from around the back of the building at the same time, both pulling onto Robežas Iela and traveling south towards Belarus.
"Damn! I can't see the third car! Taking a shot at the second, over," Donahue once again pulled the trigger, first taking a photo with the sights and then firing the tracking gel pellet. It too hit off to one side of the license plate.
"Tell me you got the plates of that third car, over," Donahue asked of Linda.
"Only two of the digits. The first two. One and five, over," Linda told him.
"Let's hope that's enough to cross reference it against the model and year. I'm heading back to base. We'd better get to the motel and see if we can find the old man, over," Donahue told Linda.
"I'll be waiting, keeping the coffee warm, over," Linda assured him as he got to his feet.
"I could use a shot of rye whiskey right about now, but coffee will do fine until this op is done, over," Donahue replied as he kept himself half prone, stealthily making his way back to the abandoned farmhouse where Linda was already packing up their gear.
...
Donahue drove the old Volvo as Linda forwarded the last of their photographic evidence to her contact via the satellite dish atop of their vehicle.
"Any problems sending?" asked Donahue anxiously as they progressed through the municipality of Strauija on towards their goal, Pudinava and the local tavern where their suspects had taken the old truck driver.
"A bit of channel noise, but that's common with roving satellite connections. They got it all," Linda assured him.
"Alright. We go in, case the place, find a seat and keep an eye on him, without keeping an eye on him. You got it?" Donahue confirmed.
"And if he leaves?" asked Linda.
"Then I'll dismiss myself to use the little boy's room, and follow him. You remain behind to meet up with our backup and keep them in the loop, got it?" Donahue looked to her from the driver's seat.
"I think I can handle that," Linda nodded affirmatively.
"The worst case scenario is that there's a spotter amongst the locals and if they make us, he's probably as good as dead and we lose our best chances at a material witness," Donahue reminded her.
"This is the place here..." Linda said, checking her notes.
"Great, there's hardly any parking. We'll just settle in on the side of the road. Get your gear stashed in the back, under the tarp. We don't want anyone making us by our tech," Donahue reminded her.
"You think I was born yesterday?" Linda asked him.
"No. The day before," Donahue responded as he put the car in park and engaged the parking brake.
Rītupes iela
The interior of the tavern itself was dimly lit, faces old and young alike spread throughout. A DJ was setup on a stage and was for the moment, playing traditional Latvian folk music, to which many of the elderly folks tapped their feet, while those younger engaged themselves in conversation with one another.
On at least three tables, were playing cards dealt and groups seated around them with piles of the local coin currency before them. As for the hospitality of drink, there was ale and cider (the most popular), and of course the local potatoe whiskey that hung somewhere between Gin and Vodka in terms of flavour. The local joke was that you could either drink it, drive it (by pouring it into the fuel tank), or even use it to strip the finish from your car. Few drank it, and those that did nursed it ever so sparingly.
The waitress was husky woman who'd worked hard in the fields for most of her life before settling down with her husband to take over the tavern which had been passed down through many generations. By the time she'd found her way to where Linda and Donahue were seated, they had already cased the place, knowing all of the windows, exits and cover points within the building.
[Good evening. What would you like to drink or eat?]
"Labvakar. Ko jūs vēlētos dzert vai ēst?" she asked them.
[Could we start with some cider on ice, and a plate of sklandrausis?]
"Vai mēs varētu sākt ar sidru uz ledus un sklandrauša šķīvi?" asked Linda, her accent nearly perfect.
[Would you like a side of pīrādziņi?]
"Vai vēlaties pīrādziņu pusi?" asked the waitress.
[Not right yet, thank you.]
"Vēl nav pareizi, paldies." Linda responded.
[I'll be back in a moment with your cider.]
"Pēc brīža es atgriezīšos ar tavu sidru." the waitress replied, then heading back to the bar and preparing their drinks.
"Looks like they know him quite well?" Donahue said to Linda, keeping his voice down even under the cover of the Latvian music.
"Must be generous with his money," Linda replied.
"Which means they're looking out for him," Donahue added.
Linda then observed something that the driver had intended to keep hidden. Someone slid a fold of paper money to him innocuously across the table. Linda observed that beneath the table, the old man handed off a package of what appeared to be Russian cigarettes.
"That's his cover..." Linda pointed out to Donahue.
"So it is. So he's their local supply of import tobacco. Keeps the locals from asking dangerous questions," Donahue agreed.
The man who'd just accepted the package of cigarettes examined them carefully, and then slid another wad of cash towards the old man, who accepted it and then got up from his seat, grabbing an old rucksack beside him and following the man out of the doors.
As he passed the waitress and her tray of two glasses of ice topped cider, she remarked to him in Latvian, apparently upset with him over the matter of his secret market.
[I told you to keep that business out of my doors here.]
"Es tev teicu, lai šis bizness nav pieejams šeit." she said to him, stopping long enough to look him in his eyes.
[I am sorry Sofija. It won't happen again.]
"Man žēl Sofija. Tas vairs neatkārtosies." he replied to her, withdrawing from her both humbly and recklessly.
He continued onwards following his customer out of the door, and she towards Linda's and Donahue's table.
[Here is your cider. Another five minutes for your sklandrausis.]
"Šeit ir jūsu sidrs. Vēl piecas minūtes savam sklandrausim." the waitress gave them each their mug of cider and left them to service some of the other patrons.
"Have we got an ETA on our backup?" asked Donahue.
"Should be here any moment now," Linda responded.
"Why don't we take him on the tobacco, just to protect these people from becoming involved in the other aspects," Donahue suggested.
"Lets. I was just thinking he might actually make a run for it," Linda got up from the table, leading the way as they both stepped out front of the tavern in search of the men and their transaction.
The old man had just finished handing the purchaser the last of six cartons of Russian cigarettes and was now on his way back to the tavern with his backpack.
[Sir, may I see what's in your pack?]
"Kungs, vai drīkstu redzēt, kas ir jūsu paciņā?" Donahue asked the old man.
He looked towards his customer, who was now fleeing in his car.
[I was just trying to make some extra money. I'm a poor chicken farmer and barely make enough to get by. Could you cut me a break?]
"Es tikai mēģināju nopelnīt papildu naudu. Esmu nabadzīgs vistu audzētājs un tik tikko nopelnu, lai iztiktu. Vai jūs varētu pārtraukt man pārtraukumu?" he asked Donahue, Linda now behind the old man.
Without warning, a fleet of black sports trucks rounded the corner and slid into the parking lot, six in all. Out of each got four men, their weapons drawn.
[Hands in the air, looking up! All of you! No sudden moves!]
"Rokas gaisā, skatiens uz augšu! Jūs visi! Bez pēkšņām kustībām!" one of the men yelled.
Four of the men came running over and quickly grabbed the old man, rushing him off to one of the trucks while another eight men came and apprehended Donahue, two of them pulling Linda aside.
"Agent Linda Delmore?" asked one of the men as he reached inside of her spring coat and retrieved her passport.
"You'll have to check that with the Embassy. They know I'm here," Linda kept her hands in the air as the rest of the men took Donahue, now handcuffed, and forced him into the back of one of the trucks.
"We're with the Defence Intelligence. We've been instructed to obtain you so that you may be debriefed with regard to your current operation. Could you please come with us?" asked the same man who'd initially addressed her.
"Sure," Linda said as she watched one of the trucks driving away with Donahue in the back.
"You may lower your hands. We just had to make sure we had the right person. We're a forty minute drive from operations HQ. You'll be debriefed there, your passport returned and given a flight back to the United States. I'd only ask that you don't talk during the trip nor make any kind of sudden moves. Its been a long day for us all as you can probably imagine," he addressed her.
"Certainly. Where are they taking my...?" Linda started.
"Keep your questions for your debriefing," the same man terminated their conversation and they all got into one of the trucks, Linda between two of the men.
She looked over to the other trucks leaving, the old man in one of them, seated similarly between two of their captors in the back seat, both Donahue's truck and the old man's speeding off in the opposite direction as hers.
Reckoning
They had been driving for nearly an hour, ever deeper into rural Belarus when the lead truck, the one containing the old man took a sharp right down a gravel road which eventually disappeared altogether, the two trucks traveling cautiously along the soft dirt and into a limestone basin. The trucks stopped at the lip of a small abandoned quarry as Donahue's stomach sank upon his realization of the eventuality of their fate, the moon the only witness of their final end.
Not far from where they'd stopped, an armoured limousine sat silently, its tinted windows reflecting the starlight above as the men pulled both Donahue and the old man from the trucks.
[I have to go to the washroom. Please...]
"Мне нужно в туалет. Пожалуйста..." the old man pleaded with the men who held him firmly as they descended into the quarry on foot.
Their grip remained, even tightening slightly as they stepped down into the limestone bed, avoiding the occasional puddle as they proceeded forth.
When they arrived before two recently excavated holes, each perfectly rectangular and deep enough to avert any hope of discovery, the old man began wimpering as he pleaded for his life.
[I didn't tell anyone! I was loyal to you all along! Please, I'm begging you...]
"Я никому не говорила! Я была верна тебе всё это время! Пожалуйста, я умоляю тебя..." he fell to his knees, begging to his captors, who merely hefted him back up and turned him to face the hole.
[It's alright. You're going to be fine. Just keep your balance.]
"Всё в порядке. Всё будет хорошо. Просто сохраняй равновесие." one of the men said to him, Donahue instantly recognizing the fact that the man's accent wasn't Russian.
Nor was he Belarusian or even Latvian.
[Alright? Are you balanced?]
"Хорошо? Вы сбалансированы?" asked the man as he let go of the old man.
The old man's wimpering ceased as he found his captor's words words soothing. He thought to himself: maybe they were just going to scare him. Everything will probably be alright.
That's when the man pulled a handgun from the inside of his jacket and affixed a twist-on silencer to its muzzle. He then held it to the old man's head and pulled the trigger.
The old man's body fell lifelessly into the hole and his last moment was punctuated with a thud that seemed to echo into the night.
As the old man died and fell into the hole, the first shipment of blackmarket uranium arrived in the hands of the buyer. As the old man had ended up in a hole in the ground, so too would the uranium with that customer, for it would be used to build warheads for a variety of missile silos that made up the nuclear deterent employed by Pakistan against India.
Donahue jumped, startled when one of the men behind him cleared his throat as he stood at the edge of his hole in the quarry.
He heard the door on the limousine open and out of the corner of his eye, someone stepped out into the night and began walking in his direction.
"I wanted to savour this moment, my old friend," Corvo spoke calmly as he rounded the edge of the quarry, looking down upon Donahue.
"They'll find me..." Donahue said defiantly.
"No they won't. Nobody will find you. You will simply decompose under a few tons of limestone silt, your bones dissolving in a matter of weeks until there is no evidence left to confirm you were even here," Corvo's found his ears from behind.
"Someone will come," Donahue continued, slowly resigning himself to his final resting place.
"No. Your file will indicate you as missing in action, presumed dead. Linda, your co-conspirator will be coaxed away from prying too deeply into your fate. She'll be rewarded for her silence and distracted with success. You see, the ideals that you seem to think bind everyone together in this world simply don't exist. When the market forces guaranteeing success for some, cease supporting your right to exist, most will simply follow blindly and enjoy their bounty in it all. Your life's work will become the kind of tale they use to remind people of why they should leave well enough alone. The value of keeping the secret of your fate will bear more reward for those that do, than it will for those who take up your fight thereafter. Ideals. Loyalty. They hold no meaning against the forces that oppose them," Corvo stood looking down upon Donahue as he spoke.
"Why? Why sell out your fellow humankind? When that weapons grade uranium finds its way into warheads, and it will, it will be you that is solely responsible for that fact. Every death brought about by the detonation of any of those warheads will be blood on your hands," Donahue knew this was the end, and yet he still wanted to know the truth.
He wanted the truth more than anything. Even life itself.
"World War One was a war waged against humanity. The growing labour movement was gaining momentum, and the powers that be needed a plan to halt it dead in its tracks. World War Two, the same. Every single time the people are on the brink of rising up against the powers that contain them, something is devised to prevent it, and with good reason, for every such attempt that has succeeded, has ended in holocaust against humanity itself. Bloodletting. Murder. They're the same thing, though one is sold as a cure. There is no revolution but mass murder, and in the midst of every revolution, there are those who draw up their plans to be in charge when it succeeds. Its just humanity attempting to replace the devil they know with one they don't. As you get higher in the hierarchy of responsibility to your people, you become aware of this constant chaotic force within humanity itself, and the only way to save your people is to tame it, or destroy it. We know that its coming. The data and the numbers prove it. This time around, the enemy of our enemy is our friend, though the war that's coming won't see many of us left. All the less to rise up and commit attrocity worse even than the most devastating war of humankind. I - we are just picking the lesser of two evils. We are saving humanity from its own worst enemy. Itself," Corvo paused for a moment to consider what he'd said to Donahue.
"You were always fighting on the wrong side. The one that would lead to attrocities beyond your worst imaginings. Nevertheless, I forgive you. On behalf of humanity, I forgive you. Farewell," Corvo nodded to one of the men, and then walked carefully along the lip of the quarry back to his waiting limousine.
As Donahue's grim reaper closed in on him, the second of the three shipments of weapons grade uranium found its way to the second buyer, completing their strategic nuclear weapons program and bringing an entirely new nuclear power into the global fold.
As Linda woke up from her slumber, the vehicle she occupied arrived at SHAPE*****, where she was led into the Intelligence facility where she was finally debriefed. At that same moment, a few hundred kilometers away, the third shipment of weapons grade uranium found its way into the hands of its buyer, but by that time it was already too late.
Linda was transferred back to the United States, before she was tasked with an investigation near Vietnam. She was stationed there from where her path would cross that of Zheng Ni Wong, Doctor Stephen Briggs, and Professor Bryce Maxwell.
Spotter
The crosshairs were perfectly centered on Mr. Fenmar's mouth, the software quickly translating his words based upon the movement of his lips, even from a distance of nearly three hundred meters. The ocular quickly jumped to Alex's mouth, translating his words and then back to Mr. Fenmar's.
Richard said something, though his back was to the scope and hence the detection equipment. Instead, onscreen was presented a series of statements, each with a scalar representing probability of that being his statement.
Mr. Fenmar then wound up his five wood from the fairway and landed his ball on the putting green.
"Damn. Come on big guy. Where's the go code?!!!" Foller said impatiently as he peered through the scope.
"EARWAX, have you heard anything from BRAVO ALFA SIERRA, over," Linda's voice came in over Foller's headset.
"That's a big negative. He's playing the strong silent type, and they seem to be biting, over," Foller reported back.
"Wait a second... that's their last hole. Looks like their game is over and I'm fifty bucks richer, Ladybird, over," Foller addressed Linda over the headset.
"Damn. I thought BRAVO ALFA SIERRA had it for sure. So he's not calling this in, is he? over," Linda responded.
"That's another negative, Ladybird, but we got the whole transcript not to mention his up close and personal recording, over," Foller watched as all three men made their way back to the golf cart, and then to the club house.
"Alright. Let's give his suspects time to clear out and we'll rendezvous with him at point Whiskey, over," Linda informed him.
"Roger that, Ladybird. Over and out," Foller began the task of packing up his equipment while Linda got into her golf cart and found her way back to the club house, avoiding contact with both their suspects and Stanton.
Richard and Mr. Fenmar decided against sticking around, instead walking with Stanton out to the parking lot from where they said their goodbyes, exchanging business cards and handshakes alike. When both were gone, Stanton made his way to his truck, and began his journey to point Whiskey.
Forty minutes into his journey, he came upon a stalled car and an attractive blonde haired woman who struggled with the engine, trying to figure things out. Her hapless husband appeared just as lost as she when Stanton stopped to check up on them.
He pulled his truck over to the side of the road and got out, heading over to check under the hood similarly as were they.
"I've gotta say Foller, you're very convincing as the husband struggling with engine issues," Stanton said to him as they checked the engine.
Linda returned from the trunk of the car with a jug of water in one hand, and anti-freeze in the other.
"So what happened? Did they bite?" asked Linda, handing him the water and Foller the anti-freeze.
Foller reluctantly accepted the anti-freeze, smirking at it once before putting it down.
"They did, but no mention of their exact customers, or where they're getting the weapons grade uranium from. They alluded to the Middle East, likely trying to entice me with the prospect of getting paid in currency funded by oil capital gains. Hard currency almost as strong as a gold backed dollar. They also confirmed their knowledge of the CAD designs we found on Wesley's drives, meaning they're moving in on both the tactical and strategic arms markets," Stanton explained to Linda as he filled the radiator with water to the halfway point.
"I can't help but admire them. That's a pretty darn bold move," Foller said as he filled the radiator the rest of the way with anti-freeze.
"Dina confirmed for me that her intelligence network uncovered the fact that the first shipment Donahue and I were tracing ended up with Pakistan, for their strategic warhead program," Linda confirmed for Stanton.
"Likely a political move on Corvo's part, to support anti-American rhetoric in the wake of 9/11 and just after they went into Iraq," Foller brought up.
"Makes sense. The public would assume that all the diplomacy between Pakistan and the United States led the way to Uncle Sam giving Pakistan the weapons grade uranium they needed to complete their strategic warhead program. At the same time, radicalized cells throughout the region would also name Pakistan as a target, in addition to creating a diplomatic nightmare between Uncle Sam and India," Stanton quickly put it all together.
"Why not sell to Iran?" asked Linda.
"It would have only served to strengthen the US led coalition, and might have led to a full fledged coalition invasion of Iran, turning the people of Iran against the west, possibly even triggering a full fledged war between the various factions in the Middle East before they're all properly armed for such a showdown. Whoever organized these sales of MUF, is playing a political game too," Stanton responded.
"I thought the people of Iran were against the United States. Most of the ground intelligence indicated it, with a few minor exceptions," Linda brought up.
"Remember that it was still less than twenty-five years after the fall of the Shah, and he'd pushed for reforms to modernize Iran, including education across the board inclusive of women. Despite the fact that when his regime fell hard to the Ayatollah Khomeini, there remained a lot of scholars and politicals who supported the progressive ideas advocated by the Shah, not to mention the public and many students who'd tasted that progress in their own lives. Many of those same people held vigils for the United States in the aftermath of 9/11. A precarious balancing point that if pushed, Iran would have become even more of a danger than Iraq. The people we're dealing with don't want absolute chaos. They want chaos that they can direct, backed with nuclear arms, if what Donahue told us has any truth to it. Considering that Dina's intelligence confirms most of his account, and she backs his theory, we'd do well to take it into consideration," Stanton reasoned with Linda.
"So you didn't take them down because...?" Foller asked Stanton.
"...because we don't want to alert their contact network that we're onto them, and we want to find all the players involved. See if this all leads back to Corvo, and find any collusion amongst our own," Stanton put the cap back on the radiator, taking both the water and the anti-freeze to the back trunk of the car and putting them in.
"Alright M'aam, you might want to give that a try," Stanton said to Linda, who tossed him a rag with which to wipe his hands off.
"Thank you. You're a gentleman and a scholar. I guess its true what they say about Canadians?" Linda said to him as she got in the driver's seat of her car, Foller making his way around to the passenger seat.
"I guess it is. Probably not that much different from what they say about Americans. Meet you back at operations," Stanton agreed without clarifying what it was the proverbial they had said.
Closed Session
Lydia Fonnerman and Edward Nack stepped through the service doors and into the House Of Commons in Ottawa, several members of the Protective Policing Unit, covering their tracks from their transportation (which had been escorted by members of the OPP Special Security Unit) and into the hundred and fifty seven year old building. A building that housed the operations of Canada's Government, as well as hundreds of civil employees who kept that same Government going.
Both Lydia and Edward carried briefcases, despite the fact that much of their reference material was in digital format and what wasn't, was encoded in MUSTARD (Machine Unreadable Symbolic Trigrade Ambiguously Recorded Delineation). A unique iconic language created specifically to foil AI based decryption and decoding tools. It operated according to the moiré effect, meaning that cameras observing the coding would be unable to record any contextual information related to meaning or interpretation. Further, when encoded digitally (downloaded into a computer for example), the context remained hidden unless it was printed on specially designed printers which restored the moiré based context.
With those two security features in place, the third aspect of trigrade (triple) security of MUSTARD was based upon the fact that it required a specialized tablet to read it. A tablet whose design parameters standardized non-networking capability to prevent any leaks of contextually accurate decryption. In other words, the software reader would be rendered inoperable in the presence of ANY onboard networking devices such as WIFI, Bluetooth or NFC. Not to mention that the decoder tablet was rated at the highed TEMPEST military standard as being resistant to electromagnetic eavesdropping.
The fact that they had deployed this technology with their NATO partners in relation to this closed session of the cabinet, only underlined the importance of the discretion of what they were speaking. The discretion came at a price tag of fifty-six million dollars developing MUSTARD technology (almost a decade earlier with the assistance of MindSpice), for some saw it a small price to pay to ensure that an enemy they did not know never ended up with intelligence related to their investigation thereof. Ironically, MUSTARD's development was made possible by the the first generation of MAZ enabled technology. MAZ had helped to design and form of encoding impossible for machines to read without extremely expensive to develop and reverse engineer, specialized hardware. So specialized that Engineer Gabriel Asnon himself signed off on it.
Lydia and Edward arrived at the elevator, which was waiting with open doors. After they'd stepped into it with their escorts, the doors closed and the elevator descended six floors beneath the House Of Commons, opening for them to reveal a floor that few if any had ever seen, except those with official business thereto and by.
They were led down a hall, along which whose walls were lined with paintings and photographs of those who'd served the country at some secretive capacity. They were there as a reminder that although some of Canada's (and NATO's) greatest heroes were largely unknown, that they'd never be forgotten. Ever.
Lydia had been down this hall thrice in her life previously, while for Edward this was his seventh time, this ratio more reflective of how society had advanced to recognize women's role in Canada's (and NATO's) security. In this case, trust was the better part of valor, and Canada had been an early adopter to this role.
As their security escorts led the way, two large wooden doors were opened for them and they were welcomed into the closed session of the cabinet, and led to the table from which they would present their findings with regard to a recent investigation into a threat to national security.
Lydia sat, Edward only after she had given their respective roles, for he'd served under two previous intelligence directors, though she had endeared herself to him for her courage and tenacity.
A representative substitute for the Governor General of Canada sat in the chair overseeing the closed session. A security measure taken especially under extenuating circumstances to protect those who bore such weight as national security.
"All rise please for the national anthem," one of the house representatives announced.
All present in session (including the Prime Minister himself) rose for the country's national anthem, for its importance was only more so in unifying the people against threats to the nation and their sovereignty. The anthem was played a second time, this time in the national language of French.
When the anthem was finished, they remained standing for "God Save The King" (during Queen Elizabeth's reign it had obviously reflected her oversight of the Commonwealth), reflecting the tradition of the monarchy and its important role in Canada.
Finally, a recent addition recognizing Canada's indigenous representation had been added, Oh Great Gitchi Manitou, and the members of the Cabinet, some of whom were indigenous remained standing until the end, before their session proceeded, for the weight of tradition was never too much for a country to bare, so long as it embraced the ingenuity of the new generations and their striving towards progress. Old, young and those between, all had a vested interest in what was to come.
"This closed session of the cabinet so that we may begin these proceedings, is taken before the crown and our Governor General, in hopes that the Constitution of Canada represents its people into the future, preserving what it is to be Canadian for centuries to come. Right Honourable Prime Minister and your Honourable Ministers, we present to you Lydia Fonnerman, Director of Intelligence Of Canada and Edward Nack, Chief Intelligence Analyst who will now present their brief with regard to case investigation: #2104-2009-05-22, pertinent to a threat to the peoples of Canada and the Constitution thereof," the speaker of the house sat down and allowed the session to begin.
"Mr. Prime Minister, Members of Cabinet, our operatives in the intelligence community have recently uncovered a plot against the peoples of Canada, our allies, and other nations whose sovereignty we both legally and morally recognize by way of representation in the United Nations, and of those not protected under the same charter afforded those member states of the United Nations, who deserve such representation immiediately given the nature of this threat to divide us should we ignore their plight," Lydia began her intelligence brief, perhaps the most important address she'd given any official over the course of her life.
"Mr. Prime Minister, members of Cabinet. I am speaking of a threat to us all, and one in violation of our rights as individuals, working in cooperation of the protection of those same rights and ideals, the world over. A threat to our peace, our privacy, our minds and finally our conscience both as individuals and as a whole, against an enemy seeking to pit us one against the other, and to see the demise of our ideals, through warfare and weapons of mass destruction, seeking to prey upon a growing dissent and mislead it towards the ends of the annihilation of law and order, including due process and elected representatives and finally, our founding documents in favour of a new collective order, absent of individualism and consensual cooperation, instead favouring a unitarian mind, absent of individual will," Lydia continued.
"I will present the evidence for these claims in four parts, each addressing the organization and the metholody of this threat, finally arriving upon the evidence indicating the utilization of technology for the purposes of arming and distributing the capability of weapons of mass destruction, with the intent of annihilating those opposing such a movement the world over," Lydia read from the specialized tablet, the MUSTARD encoded address she'd prepared, wearing a COV-ID face mask to conceal her mouth as a preventative measure against lip reading.
In twenty-six other nations the world over, the leading technological economies of the world had similar addresses from their shared intelligence network addressing both the onset of a collective ideology they simply referred to as Mentis (or Oculo Mentis), and their attempt to arm several nations of the world with weapons of mass destruction, including strategic and tactical nuclear weapons.
Unfortunately, almost half of the people who'd heard these addresses were already converts of Mentis, the words falling upon the deaf ears of those who'd been indoctrinated to support such radical steps as the arming of the world.
...
Far off, in the Pacific Ocean, a heavily modified Gearing Class Destroyer retrofit slowed as it neared Cora Hau Island.
George Steadman opened the door to the bridge, stepping over the lip carefully (he'd already several times injured his foot by misjudging his step).
"What's going on helm?" asked George of his Helmsman, Norman.
"I just got word of a radar contact breaching the surface four nautical clicks south. It was picked up by one of our drones and matches the radar signature of an attack submarine," Norman told Steadman.
"Impossible. If it was a submarine, we'd be having this talk in Davy Jones' locker," Steadman insisted, closing the door to the bridge.
"Captain, its common tactics to maintain contact without engaging. Especially with submarine warfare. If its Russian or Chinese, they'd be tasked with gathering intelligence without engagement first. Despite your having procured this destroyer through an illegal purchase of an American surplus Mexican Defense Force allocated Gearing Class Destroyer, This is an American vessel. Any attack upon it would be regarded as an assault upon NATO," Normal explained to Steadman.
"Sailor, we had the IFF****** system dismantled long ago. Our transponder has us recognized as Mexican, but to strategic radar and satellite systems, we're unknown nationality and manufacture, maybe listing our estimated tonnage, but given the fact that there are about thirty other cargo vessels that match our displacement and tonnage, we're pretty well hidden. Especially with our electromagnetic toy," Steadman explained to Norman.
"Sir, I'm just reporting what our drones picked up. What you do with it... is up to you, but remember that crew morale is based upon the strength of your decisions, and given that Zek is running the other end of this ship, I'd suggest that you take my report seriously. Don't let him know," Norman pleaded with Steadman.
Steadman looked the man in the eye, knowing that his advice was sound.
"Keep the drones tracking our new friend. Don't most satellite communications between subs and their operations involve surfacing?" asked Steadman of Norman.
"Correct Sir. They're definitely updating their orders. They might receive approval to sink us," Normal explained to Steadman.
"Only if they can find us. Deploy the cloak for now. We'll maintain our distance from Cora Hau until we know what that sub is up to. If Zek contacts the bridge, contact me immediately, and I'll deal with him," Steadman ordered Norman.
"Sir, if Zek gets to Cora Hau, we're free of him and can do whatever the hell we want," Norman reminded Steadman.
"If Zek leaves, we're also a painted target. He could anonymously tip off local militaries about our cloaking hardware, and they'd track us down once and for all. Dead or alive. Stick with my plan, and we'll keep Zek occupied as long as possible until he gets suspicious. Then we'll dock. Have our weapons ready to fire upon the mainland and maybe we'll storm Cora Hau, and take Zek and all," Steadman suggested.
"Sir, if we were a Missile Cruiser, I'd go along with that, but we only have 5 inch cannons as our heaviest artillery as it is. We'll need more than that if we're going to attempt an amphibious assault," Normal drew upon his naval experience to know that such an attempt would likely fail.
"Then keep us away from port, and cloaked until we find out who that sub is," Steadman ordered Norman.
Norman looked at Steadman, knowing full well that the man would not back down.
"Sir, yes Sir!" Norman responded, careful not to sound as if he was mocking Steadman.
Interrogating An Ally
Donahue sat in a familiar setting he'd found himself within over the course of his experience more than a few times. He never considered that finding himself in such a way was any kind of indication that he was in the wrong business, because he knew he wasn't. He considered it, that he was on the right track, if so many had to abscond with him just to get information based upon his inquisitive path. He was doing something right if everyone wanted to know what he knew.
He was seated behind a table, handcuffs bound his wrists together and behind the chair. On his left side was a two-way mirror, behind which he assumed (correctly) that he was being observed both by Canadian and American intelligence authorities, which oddly enough was part of a common diplomatic process that had occurred similarly a few times before.
A rogue agent had stumbled upon investigations being conducted by an allied nation, but were mistaken for insurgent activities. Said agent was then interrogated in order to find out what they'd uncovered with regard to the legitimate counterinsurgent operation, after which the agent was then debriefed and given time away to recover.
The recovered intel was then used to negotiate information sharing between the two nations involved, dependent upon the value of intel recovered. In the case that actual insurgent activities were discovered, a team of analysts would often work with the hunter/collector to formulate a respectable counterinsurgent operation.
Donahue's case was far removed from all of these potential outcomes, for he'd been rogue for so long that his handling agency (the infamous Company from south of the border) had completely assumed he was missing in action, presumed dead.
The choice of interrogator had seemed obvious for the Americans, but it took some time to convince Canadian intelligence that it was the right choice. For one, having an American represent all of the interrogation interests of an American rogue agent who'd committed a number of crimes on Canadian soil did not go over well with the Canadian Director of Intelligence.
Second, when it came to light that the same operative had taken part in an operation in 2017 in Vietnam amidst the presence of Canadians abroad, even using Canadians as a shield for cover, that had further exacerbated the delicate diplomatic situation between Canada and its immediate southern neighbours.
It wasn't until two highly respected deep cover tactical operatives of the Canadian intelligence community (Stanton and Foller) had spoken up for the selected interrogator, that the Canadians finally agreed, albeit the fact that they'd opposed it was actually part of their strategy to obtain a stronger casus belli in support of the American sharing of regional intelligence. Something the Americans had considered, but in the end ruled out given the fact that Canadian intelligence had been forthcoming with all agreed treaty obligations with regard to intelligence sharing. The American consultant to the embassy had jokingly called the Canadians "sneaky", as a result.
In the end, after all of these diplomatic bumps were finally worked out, they both agreed that Linda Delmore (an American handler/operative) should be the rightful interrogator in the case of the man named Wesley Donahue.
The man who'd trained her, and had according to his dossier, trained another operative named Greg Warley, who was now listed as MISSING IN ACTION.
Questions And Answers
Donahue sat in the interrogation room in a downtown Toronto facility operated by Federal Police. They'd relieved him of his wrist restraints earlier, though the marks on his wrists were still apparent. He stretched is arms out towards the impact resistant one way glass, and waved with the fingers of his left hand.
On the opposite wall, a camera peered through a small hidden aperature but held the same encompassing perspective as the camera on the other side of the glass, which sat directed at his seating, though its frame of view quite accurately covered the entire room.
Behind a table in the viewing room, sat Tricia Camden, Dina Shelhevet, William Halmand, Bradley Stanton, Ernest (Ernst) Foller, Megan Jiordan and Robert Edmunds, the latter two being analysts from the Canadian and American Governments respectively.
"He's a bit cocky for an older guy," Foller remarked, leaning back in his chair, looking briefly over to Stanton.
"He has that right. He took out a cream of the crop agent, much younger and more spry than himself," Stanton smiled sarcastically in response to Foller's remark.
"Yeah? Who might that have been?" asked Foller, now sincerely curious.
"You," Stanton reminded Foller.
"Awwwwe, I never knew you cared so much..." Foller responded sharply.
"He's got a bit of a history behind him, and some bad experiences to go with it. Remember, he's sat on both sides of this glass. He knows what he's doing," Robert spoke up.
"That's why Linda is the one doing the talking. She outsmarted him the first time they met, so she's already got his respect," Dina spoke up, already familiar and comfortable with Linda's style.
"Its not him we've got to keep an eye on. Its these two desk jockey analysts. They'll cover for him when there's something they suspect that we shouldn't know," Foller folded his arms, leaning back and looking to both Megan and Rob intimidatingly.
"Just doing our job," Megan looked to her American counterpart.
"And we're doing ours..." Dina replied.
"Cut it out. We're all professionals here playing for the same team," Stanton reminded them.
"Exactly. She's about to start, and she'll need us to be attentive. To ask the questions that she might miss in the heat of the moment," Tricia backed up Stanton.
"Like Megan already said, we're just doing our job," Robert responded.
"That's better," Halmand added.
"She's about to start. Eyes and ears people," Tricia encouraged them as the magnetic lock on the interrogation room door clicked loudly, and Linda Delmore stepped into the room alone.
"You're pretty confident today, considering I'm being held on some pretty serious charges. Is it Canadian policy to leave kidnapping suspects uncuffed during interrogation?" asked Donahue of Linda.
"No. It was my request," Linda placed his luke warm coffee in front of him as she sat down with hers in her other hand.
"A gesture of trust to soften me up?" asked Donahue.
"That, and to remind you of the fact that there are still things that you don't know about me," Linda opened the tab on her coffee and took a sip after speaking.
"You're telling the guy who trained you this?" Donahue took a sip of his coffee.
"Exactly the way I like it. Seems you really are well trained," Donahue smiled at her somewhat facetiously.
Linda ignored his remark, instantly recognizing it as his attempt to rouse her emotionally. At that point they were two experienced operatives in the midst of a power stuggle while her cheering team watched them from the other side of the glass. He'd use every ploy he could come up with to destabilize her, including the fact that he believed himself to be fighting on the side of the right. She had to remain objective, lest they lose the benefit of their compass.
"Let's start from our operation in Latvia. According to my information, on that fateful night, you were apprehended by Latvian authorities for your part in facilitating the distribution of materials used for the fabrication of weapons of mass destruction. Namely, weapons grade Uranium-235. So what happened on that night?" Linda asked Donahue.
"You mean from the point we lost contact?" confirmed Donahue.
"Yes. Start from there," Linda sat back comfortably in her seat and took another sip of her coffee, crossing her legs as she did, before placing the coffee delicately back on the table.
"They took me into custody... and kept us separated...!" Donahue found himself frustrated.
"They were protecting me from you," Linda told him.
"No they weren't. They were protecting the uranium. They needed you to play along to give legitimacy to their cover story before they got rid of me," Donahue assured her, suddenly finding himself struggling against the memories of that same night.
He recalled how the old man had pleaded - cried - for his life. They lined him up before his grave and shot him in the back of the head. One shot, and the old man fell lifelessly and in slow motion for the last twenty two years of Donahue's life. Every night he slept from that night forward, was the visage of that old man tumbling lifelessly into the pit of his grave.
"The Belarusian Government was forthcoming regarding all information pertaining to your case, and that I remind you is despite the fact that we have no extradition treaty with them," Linda took another sip of her coffee, watching him carefully.
"What did they tell you about what happened to me?" asked Donahue.
"You tell me," Linda inquired.
"I don't know what they told you, but they took me and the driver of that old rickety truck, the guy who was selling contraband Russian cigarettes to the Latvians in that tavern? They took us both for a long drive on a short road, and when we got there, where nobody would find us, they had two holes dug into the earth, one for each of us. They shot the old man in the head. Took his cigarettes first, and then shot him dead in the back of the head, right behind his left ear. Assassination style. Squeaked, like a crying mouse, and that was the last sound he ever made. He just fell dead into that hole... and he's been falling every sleeping moment of my life ever since..." Donahue's hand began to shake as he reached for his coffee.
"What happened to you? How is it that he died, and you lived?" Linda continued.
Donahue remembered that night as it occurred. That one final shot rang out in the night. The old man's startled noise as he was shot. Him falling lifelessly into that hole.
The back-hoe suddenly came to life, the flood lights illuminating the scene as the yellow arm shoveled dirt into the hole. Quickly and efficiently. The machine operator after having entirely covered the hole, then used the shovel to pat the earth down, flat before another group of men carefully laid a span of sod to cover up the recent excavation and within another minute, there was no evidence that the old man had ever existed. Everything that he was and had been was under tons of soil, though there was little evidence that the soil had ever been disturbed.
Laughing in a tavern over a drink with his peers in a small Latvian town only three hours earlier, and then dead as a rock, beneath five tons of soil in a hidden field in Belarus.
Donahue had never known fear until that moment of his life. The moment when he witnessed first hand just how fleeting it could truly be. How meaningless and insignificant one's demise could be. Quickly covered over like the stain on a hardwood floor covered by a rug. A human life that had been amidst the people for sixty years, and that had become an inconvenience. Quickly silenced and covered in an unmarked grave.
Donahue shook as the back-hoe's engine rumbled down until the night air was quiet and dark once again.
"I wanted you to see the whole process. For you to know exactly how your life ends. How well hidden you'll be without even getting into the details of our cover story. Your life doesn't end here, you see. It ends three months from now, in a holding cell in Mogilev, where you will get into a fight with an inmate over the bunk rights in your cell. At that point, we will have your body expunged, here from this very hole, and reburied in a Mogilev cemetary. Cleaned of any forensic evidence before it is laid to rest there, and nobody, including your country's best analysts, will know any better..." Corvo smiled at Donahue from behind his sunglasses, those he still wore despite it being night.
"This is the end of the road, I'm afraid," Corvo said as one of his men stepped forward with the same handgun that had ended the old man's life.
"Look off into the distance. At least behold something that will be worthy of being the last thing you will ever behold. I may be cruel, but I'll grant you the choice as to whether you look with your eyes, or your mind," Corvo watched with satisfaction as a stain upon the fabric of his life was about to be hidden forever.
Donahue could feel the muzzle of the handgun despite the fact that it did not touch his head or ear at all. It just pointed at him, and a particularly vulnerable part of his anatomy, where it would shatter part of his skull and proceed onwards, immediately severing the cord connecting his brain to the rest of his body. A moment he'd no doubt both pee and soil himself, as his muscles instantly tensed. At that moment, he thought to himself that he too would squeal like a mouse, before falling forever into a dark hole. Disappear.
When the shot came, he felt no pain, but regardless, his legs gave out anyway. He'd surrendered to his fate, and all at once, it all ceased to matter. He simply fell and landed in the dirt at the bottom of the hole. It was finally done.
...
"They shot you?" asked Linda.
"Yes. Or so I thought," Donahue responded, still haunted by the sight of the old man's demise.
...
The man who'd been holding the handgun to Donahue's head, suddenly lurched over sideways, falling dead into the pile of dirt beside the hole.
Two of Corvo's men instantly ran to covered their leader, quickly rushing him back to the safety of his armoured car.
Another shot rang out in the night, piercing the chest of Corvo's bodyguard and continuing through, exiting his chest and entering Corvo's left forearm, passing cleanly between the bones while severing the tendon and stabilizer there within.
Corvo screamed as the other bodyguard finally got the door opened on the armoured car, throwing Corvo in before slamming the door closed and jumping into the driver's side door.
He then started the car, driving over the dead body of the other bodyguard as they sped off into the night.
The remaining men quickly took cover, drawing their own handguns as they faced off against their hidden assailant.
Another shot rang out in the night, and another one of Corvo's men dropped. In the meantime, the closest living man to Donahue's grave quickly got up and stood at the lip of the hole, leveling his handgun and firing blind into the hole, at least seven shots before he too fell dead beside the hole as the hidden gunman took him down.
Donahue was clipped just above his left kidney, the round passing through his meat but missing all of his vital organs and arteries. Despite that fact, he remained motionless in the bottom of the pit as another two shots rang out, echoing through the valley as another two of Corvo's men fell.
Donahue lay there, feigning death as he counted every shot. When the final shot came, he'd counted one more than all of Corvo's men. All that remained was silence and darkness.
Donahue remained in his grave for another half an hour, before he worked up the courage to lift himself out of his fate and in pursuit of his destiny.
By the time he was out of the hole, lying on his back catching his breath, it was closing in on three in the morning. He watched as a number of shooting stars streaked across the sky, and took it as a sign that he was still alive. He was really alive.
After quickly removing the license plates from one of the remaining vehicles, he quickly jumped in, finding the keys still in the ignition. He started the utility vehicle and drove off into the night, never knowing who his mysterious gunman saviour had been.
...
"I eventually got my bearings, driving to Brest, and then to Minsk, where I found Vyacheslav's old friend, Gleb Yadviga. I explained to him what had happened, and he helped me to avert the Belarus authorities, and directed me to where I might find the high ranking people connected to the materials network. I started a new life in Minsk, right under Corvo's nose, all the while continuing the investigation on my own. Twenty years goes by quickly when you're obsessed with something like that, however it didn't turn up anything until recently, when a group of people secretly began selling engineering designs for the weapons that could utilize their growing stockpile of weapons grade uranium. The materials network before, was used to provide nuclear deterent capability to a number of nations since the fall of the wall, using old NATO or Warsaw Pact designs. More recently, the group stockpiling these materials made contact with another group with the engineering expertise to design and simulate actual weapons, using modern technology. Both tactical and strategic nuclear weapons. These people are trying to arm everyone in the Middle East, because they know that's the boiling point, where all of this is going to start," Donahue explained to Linda, whose poker face Donahue could not read.
"...and all of this explains how you share the exact same name of one of the engineers who'd been in on this from the start? The man who made contact with us, trying to expose the very network you uncovered, before he was murdered?" Linda looked to where Dina was behind the glass wall.
Even though Dina knew Linda couldn't possibly see her, she looked back to Linda, nodding in understanding.
"I didn't take his name. He took mine. He was given my name by a double operative. Someone who knows Corvo. Someone playing both sides from within the company," Donahue told Linda.
From the viewing room, Robert leaned over and whispered something into Megan's ear. She nodded in agreement.
"Are we sharing intelligence here or building mistrust?" asked Tricia asked both Megan and Robert.
"We were just agreeing on the details of how Donahue's revelation should be classified to prevent it from leaking to the double operative. The details of which we cannot share with you," Robert explained to Tricia.
"Ask him about what happened to the grave site they had planned for him," Dina suggested to Linda through her earset.
To be continued...
* NATO, Russia, Eastern Bloc
** WEAPONS GRADE URANIUM, International Atomic Energy Agency
*** InterContinental Ballistic Missile, Multiple Impact Return Vehicle, Hypersonic Nape Of the Earth Stealth Missile
**** MUF = Materials Unaccounted For
***** Supreme Headquarters Allied Powers Europe
****** Identify Friend Of Foe
Credits and attribution:
Artwork: Amy Wong, Wendy Pusey, Ghastly, Birdman, Brian Joseph Johns, Daz3D, Unreal Engine...Tools: Daz3D, Corel Painter, Adobe Photoshop, Lightwave 3D, Blender, Stable Diffusion (Easy Diffusion distribution), InstantID, Sadtalker, Google Colaboratory, Microsoft Copilot (Windows 11), Hitfilm, Borderline Obsession...
Invideo.IO which was used to produce the ENERTRINSIC INTERNATIONAL INVESTOR PRESENTATION.
Rutherford model representation of Deuterium and Tritium: By Dirk Hünniger; Derivative work in english - Balajijagadesh.
InstantID by: Wang, Qixun and Bai, Xu and Wang, Haofan and Qin, Zekui and Chen, Anthony. Research Paper Title: InstantID - Zero-shot Identity-Preserving Generation in Seconds.
Sadtalker by: Zhang, Wenxuan and Cun, Xiaodong and Wang, Xuan and Zhang, Yong and Shen, Xi and Guo, Yu and Shan, Ying and Wang, Fei.
Research Paper Title: SadTalker: Learning Realistic 3D Motion Coefficients for Stylized Audio-Driven Single Image Talking Face Animation.
Gratitude: Our Mentors, Senseis, Sifus, Sebomnims, lifetime inspirations, family, friends, the Nomads (ask Stanton about that one), the Music, the Movies, the Theatre, the Arts, ASMR, (both YouTube and Bilibili and the many other creators on those platforms), the Gaming and Developer communities and of course, the audience.
Martial Arts (in the words of real experts and at least one comedian): https://brucelee.com (home of the real Dragon and an entire family of inspirations), http://iwco.online International Wing Chun Organization (International presence of a very scalable intensity martial art, protected and developed by Shaolin Nun Ng Mui) and the alma mater of Jinn Hua's own specialized variation thereof, https://iogkf.com International Okinawan Goju-Ryu Karatedo Federation (even Hanshi had his teachers), https://itftkd.sport International Taekwondo Federation (Here there be Taegers), https://tangsoodoworld.com Tang Soo Do World (the path of Grandmaster Chuck Norris), https://www.aikido-international.org International Aikido Federation (how else would Navy Chef Steven Seagal liberate a Nimitz Class Aircraft Carrier from a team of hijackers?), https://www.stqitoronto.com Shaolin Temple Quanfa Institute (The City Of Toronto's own Shaolin Temple), https://www.enterthedojoshow.com Master Ken's Ameri-Te-Do presence (If we can't laugh at ourselves, then we can at least laugh the loudest at others, and other Zen)
Sensei Rokas: Martial Arts Journey
Iaido: Train For Katana Mastery Like Samurai
Special thanks to Aitrepreneur, Mickmumpitz, Hugging Face and the YouTube educational content producers, including those catering to the AI content production pipeline and of course AlphaSignal.
Special thanks to John Paul Young and the Cardboard Brains, whom you can now visit at https://www.ermiescub.com and https://www.cardboardbrains.com.
Something to give you perspective: The very first teacher had no formal education, didn't graduate and was self taught, but only because they had no other choice. We do.
Very Special Thanks to our Armed Forces and Federal and Provincial Police Services, who really do Stand On Guard, especially when it comes to the Charter of Rights And Freedoms and the Human Rights Act, and often without being self righteous zealots secretly protecting religious law. True keepers of the peace.
This content is entirely produced in Toronto, Ontario, Canada at 200 Sherbourne Street Suite 701 under the Shhhh! Digital Media banner.
Tools: Daz3D, Corel Painter, Adobe Photoshop, Lightwave 3D, Blender, Stable Diffusion (Easy Diffusion distribution), InstantID, Sadtalker, Google Colaboratory, Microsoft Copilot (Windows 11), Hitfilm, Borderline Obsession...
Invideo.IO which was used to produce the ENERTRINSIC INTERNATIONAL INVESTOR PRESENTATION.
Rutherford model representation of Deuterium and Tritium: By Dirk Hünniger; Derivative work in english - Balajijagadesh.
InstantID by: Wang, Qixun and Bai, Xu and Wang, Haofan and Qin, Zekui and Chen, Anthony. Research Paper Title: InstantID - Zero-shot Identity-Preserving Generation in Seconds.
Sadtalker by: Zhang, Wenxuan and Cun, Xiaodong and Wang, Xuan and Zhang, Yong and Shen, Xi and Guo, Yu and Shan, Ying and Wang, Fei.
Research Paper Title: SadTalker: Learning Realistic 3D Motion Coefficients for Stylized Audio-Driven Single Image Talking Face Animation.
Gratitude: Our Mentors, Senseis, Sifus, Sebomnims, lifetime inspirations, family, friends, the Nomads (ask Stanton about that one), the Music, the Movies, the Theatre, the Arts, ASMR, (both YouTube and Bilibili and the many other creators on those platforms), the Gaming and Developer communities and of course, the audience.
Martial Arts (in the words of real experts and at least one comedian): https://brucelee.com (home of the real Dragon and an entire family of inspirations), http://iwco.online International Wing Chun Organization (International presence of a very scalable intensity martial art, protected and developed by Shaolin Nun Ng Mui) and the alma mater of Jinn Hua's own specialized variation thereof, https://iogkf.com International Okinawan Goju-Ryu Karatedo Federation (even Hanshi had his teachers), https://itftkd.sport International Taekwondo Federation (Here there be Taegers), https://tangsoodoworld.com Tang Soo Do World (the path of Grandmaster Chuck Norris), https://www.aikido-international.org International Aikido Federation (how else would Navy Chef Steven Seagal liberate a Nimitz Class Aircraft Carrier from a team of hijackers?), https://www.stqitoronto.com Shaolin Temple Quanfa Institute (The City Of Toronto's own Shaolin Temple), https://www.enterthedojoshow.com Master Ken's Ameri-Te-Do presence (If we can't laugh at ourselves, then we can at least laugh the loudest at others, and other Zen)
Sensei Rokas: Martial Arts Journey
Iaido: Train For Katana Mastery Like Samurai
Special thanks to Aitrepreneur, Mickmumpitz, Hugging Face and the YouTube educational content producers, including those catering to the AI content production pipeline and of course AlphaSignal.
Special thanks to John Paul Young and the Cardboard Brains, whom you can now visit at https://www.ermiescub.com and https://www.cardboardbrains.com.
Something to give you perspective: The very first teacher had no formal education, didn't graduate and was self taught, but only because they had no other choice. We do.
Very Special Thanks to our Armed Forces and Federal and Provincial Police Services, who really do Stand On Guard, especially when it comes to the Charter of Rights And Freedoms and the Human Rights Act, and often without being self righteous zealots secretly protecting religious law. True keepers of the peace.
This content is entirely produced in Toronto, Ontario, Canada at 200 Sherbourne Street Suite 701 under the Shhhh! Digital Media banner.
https://www.facebook.com/shhhhdigital
https://steamcommunity.com/id/ShhhhDigitalOfficial/
Produced at Shhhh! Digital Media
200 Sherbourne Street Suite 701
Toronto, Ontario, Canada
Inquiries: brian.joseph.johns@shhhhdigital.com,
info@shhhhdigital.com
Produced at Shhhh! Digital Media
200 Sherbourne Street Suite 701
Toronto, Ontario, Canada
Inquiries: brian.joseph.johns@shhhhdigital.com,
info@shhhhdigital.com
Copyright © 2024 Brian Joseph Johns
