Chapter 7

George Bush Center for Intelligence, Langley, Virginia

Dr Richmond greeted his two Fort Meade guests, an unnamed Marine lieutenant colonel, commanding the MCSB of the CSS, and General Stewart, commanding various unknown units and programs within the NSA. When asked about the mid-aged woman already seated at the small conference table, Dave Richmond replied,

“She is my senior watch technician, she has been with the project since its origination, and pre-dates Mister Cameron. Please sit, gentlemen.”

Richmond had long since learned to ‘read’ military ribbon racks. His observations of the left chest of the two officers’ enabled him to be certain that he was not dealing with administrative technocracy or pure logisticians. In any case, General Stewart was well-known within the intel community.

A reverse visual scan by the two Marines of the two civilians did not enable much other than a general physical evaluation. The two officers noted that neither civilian was over-weight, nor were they dressed in an expensive or gaudy manner. General Stewart was brought into the here and now with a succint statement when the Hornblende senior watch technician abruptly shut her laptop computer and pulled the RJ-45 connector from its side.

“They’re clean, Dave. And their trackers are blocked.”

“Thank you, Linda ... I am sorry gentlemen, but you must remain out of contact with the NSA during this conversation ... Is your organization aware of the status of the Hornblende contact teams?”

The colonel looked to the general, not because he was the junior Marine, but because his knowledge of the project had been derived solely from inductive and reductive reasoning, but he did know that the general had been directly involved with project members, thus providing no response to the CIA control officer. The general seeing that his Cryptologic Support Battalion commander would not respond, thusly providing the reply.

“We, and not necessarily the DIA or the NSA, know that both the North American and European teams have deviated from their assignment schedule, and that only the Europe teams have been accounted for. The colonel’s people are working on the rather ‘unusual’ comm between Europe and their base control. And I believe that the North American teams may not be where you would expect.”

“General, I will admit that your first-hand knowledge of the various teams may be more complete than The Company’s. But we can no longer protect them against exogenous threats, as all of the teams, and their support elements, have gone dark; this is the eighth day of, what appears to be, a black-out by design. Using nothing but speculation, I can offer two guesses. One, the unit has gone rogue. Harry Acorn is young and has had ‘problems’, but I think it unlikely. Or two, they no longer trust The Company ... so we need to...”

General Stewart quickly cut off Dr Richmond’s further speculation, with a slight tone of disgust.

“Doctor Richmond, I can assure you that they have not gone rogue; whatever that may mean. I will also provide assurance that they have internal knowledge of your agency not available to yourself or to your subordinates.”

“General, we need to make contact. We must be able to use your channels, sir!”

General Stewart faced Richmond with the intense glare that a commanding officer would use to admonish a foolish junior officer.

“I will not open any comm channel to the project members. I will allow this; your agency should know that the INR is severely compromised, and has been identified as a principle organizer for insurgency external to CONUS. If your director so desires, the agency can inform the State Department. Otherwise, at present, you have no further need to know. And until you are able to locate Cameron or otherwise verify his status, you should not attempt further comm with either the deployed teams or myself.”

“General, they cannot continue operating independently. They limited material resources and have but a single junior field officer and two company-grade officers leading a small ad-hoc group of soldiers and Marines...”

“Doctor, you can continue to believe the lesser of Hornblende members, but at your own peril. Until it has been determined to be contrary to the purpose of Hornblende, let them operate as they see fit. We will let your agency know if there are contraindications that would justify Captain Garza’s people re-establishing comm with your agency controllers ... The meeting is over. Good day, Doctor Richmond.”

O’Brien Ranch, Medina County, Texas

“Major Borden put a cast on the asshole’s leg. The Mexican soldier is doing okay, but that army civilian is going bonkers; she’s flaking out. And nobody said shit about us running a brig, sir.”

“We need to hold them until Major Olsen is able to find us a contact and transport. About Major Olsen, have you been able to verify there is not any back-channel chatter linking him with the General or the ranch?”

“Nada, sir. I’d like to see Acorn’s face when he finds out that General Stewart has been our actual since the ranch.”

“No talk about that outside this room, Jake. We will announce later.”

“Aye, sir. Any word on the possible Quantico mole?”

“Major Olsen is formulating some ideas. He will only say that the issue will be addressed when O’Brien returns stateside.”

“Now that IS interesting, sir. Waiting for Opie to handle it? Very interesting...”

Ottensheim, Main-Danube Canal, Austria

A mix of racing shells and single sculls floated along the edges of the Danube inlet as several combinations of sculls and shells glided across the isolated body of water. MSG Hoerner was, momentarily, impressed with the troops interest in the ‘cultured’ racers; at least until he sighted in the source of interest - a pack of shells, manned by attractive female rowing club athletes was passing along the side of the barge. Hoerner shrugged, accepting that interest among young horn-dog Americans will be, at times, accultural to the fine arts.

O’Brien flashed his laser range-finder display, showing it Hoerner.

“Damn, Ray. For that distance and time, those fuckers are goin an average speed over 20 kilometers per hour. Ya know anything about this shit?”

“Yeah. When we were in Spain for about a year, we were a click away from a rowing club. My wife taught me to crew, with her, on a double scull. It was fun.”

“What were ya doin in Spain?”

“Among other things, training your Marines. The FAST company in Rota.”

“Never told me ‘bout that. So these sculls. How difficult?”

“Balance and timing are a bit awkward at first, but its easy to find the rhythm. You interested in competing?”

“Nah. Was thinkin about something better than those fuckin kayaks.”

Hoerner’s rejoinder to O’Brien was a simple, short laugh.

Acorn, Hoerner, and Sifuentes hovered over O’Brien as he manually transcribed the notes from Carlton’s short phone conversation using his codebook.

“Well ... fuck me to tears with buffalo ears. We need to go get Major Olsen in twenty hours at the Salzburg Airport. How we get there?”

“Under two hours via train. I shall retrieve the major. Who will be assigned to me?”

“Cheeseburger. He’s got that Aryan-nazi, master-race look. He’ll blend in...”

“Damn, boss. Fuck that ... I’m a surfer dude.”

“Take a weapon for the major. Pack your silencer. Ray? ID and ROE?”

“No mil ID. Use the diplomatic pouch and passport. The decision to shoot, stab, and mangle belongs to Acorn; as we don’t habla kraut.”

Hartman beamed at being chosen to leave the ennui of barge life. He was certain that listening to one more Hoerner/O’Brien philosophy discussion would lead him into abject madness.

A late evening walk of three kilometers through town, found Harry Acorn and Sgt Hartman at the Ottensheim train station. As they waited for tickets, Hartman withdrew his phone, acting as if receiving a call. Appearing to look around with vacant eyes while softly talking. Hartman pocketed his phone while urgently conveying a whispered message to Acorn.

“If you don’t know, those three weird-looking dudes that picked us up in the middle of town are standing in line behind us.”

“Continue tracking, sergeant. But do nothing.”

The largess of the American taxpayer led Acorn to proffer excellent seating to Hartman for the night train. The business-class seating also enabled the two Hornblende members a complete view of the train car’s ingress.

“At least one of them got on the train; two cars back. The fucker is definitely watching us ... Ya know Mr Acorn, this really is spy shit were doing, isn’t it?”

“Do not get too excited about field officer work. It’s dangerous, and the constant paranoia eventually wrecks your mind.”

“Yeah? Both Pistol and the Boss say our minds are already fried from all of this weird shit. Chandy thinks that we’re all fucked, one way or the other. So let’s get on with the mind-wrecking.”

Salzburg, Austria

Departing the train at the Taxham station, Acorn and Hartman crossed the tracks to the outboard platform, walked to a newsstand, then loitered, waiting to see if their shadow remained in trail.

“There are two approaching. Same People. About twenty five meters behind you. Get a newspaper ... into the parking lot...”

Hartman and Acorn hurried across the road, across a green belt, then dipped into the corner shadows of a covered area, adjacent to the bus loading zone. Hartman scanned the area for additional security cameras. As they all appeared to be facing onto the road or into the parking lot, Hartman pointed to a spot not lit and offset from any camera.

Attaching the silencer and gently racking a round into the chamber, Hartman carefully peered around the dark corner. Stepping back into the darkness to stand next to Acorn, Hartman waited for his instructions. As the two men approached the north end of the parking lot, overtly scanning the area, Acorn handed Hartman the newspaper, nodding an affirmative to the Marine.

Placing the newspaper over his forearm and pistol, Hartman stepped from the darkness, into a partially lit area between the parking lot and the covered area, being careful to not look towards the two approaching men. Hartman waited for the men to ‘make’ him, then entered the covered area, quickly entering the public restrooms, being certain that his actions were distinct and visible.

Making a show of unzipping, but never removing his dick from his pants and keeping his pistol at ready, Hartman watched the men’s reflections in the stainless steel fixtures above the urinal. Seeing one of the men pull out, what appeared to be, a short night stick, Hartman briskly and smoothly rotated to face the two men.

“Can I help you boys with something?”

The two men brandished thick metallic rods of 40 to 50cm length, darkened and chipped, while displaying an unwarranted confidence to the American.

“You will come with us. We talk.”

“Yeah? I don’t think so.”

As the two men raised the metal rods, O’Brien quickly graced each man with a single shot into center mass. When the larger man remained at a wobbly stand, Hartman grudgingly, but immediately, provided two more 40 caliber rounds into the center of the survivor’s chest.

Hartman joined the CIA officer at the bus stop to wait for the major’s arrival.

Major Olsen and Sgt Hartman watched Acorn from the corner of the covered space, as he adroitly picked the lock of the public works truck. Waiting for Harry Acorn to open the equipment storage bin, Hartman shouldered the first of the two bodies to be lodged within the machine’s equipment bays.

Acorn considered that loitering about the train and bus stations at such a late hour would likely invite unneeded attentions.

“Next train in five hours, major. I know of an all-night bar and restaurant a few hundred meters down the road.”

“Steak?”

“That they do, major. That they do.”

Ottensheim, Main-Danube Canal, Austria

Major Olsen secured the maps, intel folders, and sat images, as the mission-planning meeting morphed into various discussions of ancillary issues.

“ ... not a surprise, sir. We had already counted on the captain and Jake figuring this shit out. So who’s gonna be runnin the show?”

“The NSA has, essentially, gas-lit the CIA. General Stewart, per our immediate intents and purposes, will be the Hornblende controller. Harry? Any issues with that?”

“None, major. The beauty of this new command chain is that it cannot be said that we have gone off the reservation. De facto, we’ll be controlled by the NSA. We are now all legal and tidy. Does the general understand the project’s funding sources?”

“Unknown. Will you need additional funds?”

“Uh, no. I meant that we have access to separate off-shore accounts. I, uh ... usurped control and transferred several black accounts, all in US dollars, that The Company had intended for JSOC.”

“You have sole and named access to these monies?”

“Exactly, major. We can now consider the project independent of The Company at this time, fiscally and operationally.”

“And for material logistics?”

“I had intended to approach Colonel Tisdale for SOCOM support. Would you arrange that for us? I can enable fund transfers to MacDill.”

“Seems that you have reflected on this and planned well. Good. I will stop in Florida on my return to Texas and talk to Tisdale. Anything else?”

“Sir, re-connect comm with the ranch? Does Jake have anything in work? Otherwise, we’ll have to go dark again before we execute your two missions. If not, the bad guys at the CIA are gonna track us. And does the major think that we’re bein’ tracked now?”

“For all practical purposes, the NSA has blacked sat-mission schedules. Outside of operational theaters, the CIA has not had sat and UAV eyes for several days. As for local tracking, it’s dependent on the insurgents’ available assets in this area; and your man just took out two, not to mention the literal boat-load that your people eliminated in Ochsenfurt. You have significantly depleted their regional assets, both materially and personnel. And as for comm, the army sparks are going to cache some gear at your next rally point.”

Major Olsen required a secure conversation, as the subject he was about to propound was apt to be severely received by O’Brien.

“We done here? Harry? Master Sergeant? ... okay people, clear this box. I need to talk to Staff Sergeant O’Brien.”

“Jake thinks there is someone in the Quantico WTB aligned with the insurgents. She thinks this person to be an independent that, having no controller, only talks to a national organizer.”

“Don’t see what would be gained by a passive plant in WTB, sir. Makes no sense. What does the gunner or the colonel say?”

“That is the problem. They say nothing. Either they are not certain, or they know they cannot talk to us.”

“So the gunner is being watched?”

“I believe that to be the case. But I have given it some thought. Have you considered how the DIA and CIA and JSOC ever became aware of your platoon when you were TAD to Third Marines?”

“Dunno, sir. Just dumb fuckin luck, or bad luck.”

“Remember how we ID’d you before we dragged you into this insane business?”

“Hard to forget. The WTB training officer had Farmer watchin us back in Iraq with 2/5. Maybe even before that, after that cluster-fuck in 1/5 ... Fuuuuk? You sayin that Farmer is the scumbag? Holeee shit, sir.”

“Precisely. The national origins of these cells date back to 2007, probably earlier. There was a well-shielded meeting of senior law enforcement, military, and some from the intel community. It was organized by a lawyer and former airborne soldier, his name is Elmer Stewart Rhodes.”

“So who is this Rhodes guy?”

“He founded the ‘Oathkeepers’.”

“Yep. Heard of ‘em. Just a bunch of guys saying that sworn peoples aren’t upholding our oaths to the constitution. Don’t think I can disagree with that.”

“Hold that thought. The Oathkeepers have since formed over one hundred chapters, many having former and current law enforcement and military personnel. That is, within the Oathkeeper chapters are groups being well-trained and well-armed. Many chapters have been principle contacts for insurgent cells. These people have been instrumental in forming regional militia units out of state guard personnel. Juan Garza just took down a large group in Oklahoma, over one hundred.”

“Large group!? That Okie mission was supposed to be a simple bag and tag of three or four principles. What the fuck is going on, sir?”

“These groups spawned by Oathkeeper organizers have become more than a few groups organizing to protest and make political statements, they want more than civil insurrection. They condone and foment violence as an inducement for further means.”

“Further means? You mean like the fuckin idiot that did the 1995 Oklahoma bombing?”

“Perhaps that. But more regional, becoming national, and less random and more strategic. Many of the Oathkeepers are calling for a full-scale civil war. And the Farmer was a founding member of the Oathkeepers.”

“Unless General Stewart himself orders it, not gonna do it, sir. Not going to take down another Marine. No one has connected Farmer to these radicals.”

“And if we suspect that he is under arms and supporting these cells?”

“I dunno, sir. Farmer may be an asshole, but he is a passive, and you cannot trace anything recent from him to the bad guys. The gunner is smarter than any ten of us. Let him stand watch. If the gunner finds he’s doin bad shit, we take him down.”

Major Olsen knew that his would not be an ‘easy sale’, thusly extending a mitigation.

“We discussed this back at Pendleton. Remember our ‘silent’ agreement?”

“Aye, sir. No elected officials, no senior political appointees.”

“He is neither.”

“Sir, just don’t know ... Shit, Cooker said it - he’s one of us. Maybe the fucker got mixed up with the wrong people. Ya know how that goes, major; he did that shit when he was young, dumb, and full of cum. We’re gonna need proof he’s a fuckin active.”

“That is reasonable, Opie. I will so instruct Juan and Jake. Your boys still up for the continuation of this insanity?”

“Cleared hot. Good to go. And sir, we fuckin love how bat-shit crazy the major’s two missions are.”

Anderson Ranch, Medina County, Texas

With the exception of Cpl Higgins, standing watch over a bank of displays for the security cameras and the multitude of ad-hoc sensor arrays, the available Hornblende members were gathered in the small mess facilities, facing two large white boards, while Lt Colonel Tisdale continued his illicit love affair with dry-erase markers on white boards.

“ ... lead generals for the counter-insurgency, for the Corps are MCCDC and TECOM. For the army, TRADOC. For the Navy, the Deputy JAG. There will be no senior commands from the air force or coast guard.”

“Questions?”

“Sir, the colonel has the SOCOM block drawn to the side. Is the Admiral not part of the lead?”

Tisdale fully expected difficult questions from these soldiers and Marines, but he did not expect to delve into the dark under-belly of politic intrigue.

“It is my understanding the Admiral McRaven will be retiring and will not recommend any of the command candidates as a successor. Nonetheless, the admiral stands as lead until he is relieved or until he retires.”

“Sir, most of our small-arms systems and related support equipment were derived from spook labs. We will still have access to agency supply lines?”

“That is in-work. Logistics will now be routed through, and only through my command at MacDill. Staff Sergeant Carlton is aware and has established contacts and funding is on-line.”

“Ranch support personnel, sir. The spooks had previously provided BIs. So how do we find and get clearance for two more locals?”

“Lieutenant Chapman has weighed that. The only expeditious path would be to channel requests through General Stewart’s NSA contacts. You have someone in mind, Staff Sergeant?”

“Aye, sir. We’re keeping him isolated at Bravo. Minimal risk. Former Marine that served in-country with O’Brien.”

“Interesting ... You know the man, captain?”

“I know of him. I have his 214 and parts of his SRB. Minimal risk, sir.”

“Major? I’m done.”

Major Olsen unfurled a large map of North America to the side of a white board, marked with several bright-red areas, and a larger count of yellow dots.

“Aye, sir. We have watches on three regions. The northwest, the upper mid-west, and the southeast. Know training areas for insurgent cells are here and here. Known meeting spots for insurgents and know insurgency advocates are indicated by in yellow. We believe that formations originating from the southeast United States has been, at a minimum, significantly delayed. The Oklahoma site was apparently designated to train for a seek and destroy mission of Hornblende contact teams. They were waiting for us to form in Arkansas, so we can assume that Jake’s subterfuge and masking of our location continue to be effective. Their ability to form a military group of one hundred twenty nine in a short interval indicates a high level of centralized control and planning. And it confirms that these groups have been organizing and forming prior to 2008.”

Major Olsen projected a tabulation of new headlines onto the whiteboard.

“We believe that their long-term goal is to form further foreign coalitions. These coalitions will be designed to support both logistics and domestic psy-ops to influence the 2016 elections. So their planning is sophisticated and long-term.”

As the major unfurled a complex chart of communications, Carlton stood up to tape the large print-out onto the white board.

“Jake has mapped insurgency communications. The first over-lay is logistics and financials. Monies and materials appear to be from the EU, but further tracking of secondary paths reveal primary sources to be China, Iran, and North Korea. We also believe that North Korea material and monies are coming to and from Russia, but that is yet to be verified.”

“Jake, want to explain your tracers?”

“Aye, sir. Physically, this shit is not difficult to trace, as well as tracking the financials from one account to another. They typically go through Cayman banks, sometimes other islands, and they are still using Panamanian banks. But what is really fucked up is the electronic paths. Support for communications is being openly provided by the foreign-placed server farms of all the major American data sites. Good ol’ AWS, Alphabet, Mickeysoft, and even the big fruit company themselves. Israel, so far, are the only semi-allied government that has been able to track this shit, which is shown on the last overlay. I have penetrated one company that does a lot of the secure shit for the NSA and the CIA, and they seem to have a decent map of these electronic transactions, but nobody knows as much as Israel Unit 8200 and Aman. And I have no way to talk to Aman people, which is represented by these dashed lines. Which is why much effort is being directed at Palantir. I want to use them to gen into Aman.”

“Their lines of supply, Jake. Will our people be able to find it?”

“We think so, Greeny. We can say that the international supply lines, if we have correctly tracked the principals, will be shut down if our boys in Europe are successful.”

“Shit, Jake. Given all that, tell us what we don’t know. Like what is our biggest intel hole?”

“Yeah, Ms Halley, know what you are saying. Our knowledge voids make our planning a fucking convoluted mess. To be specific, I do not have enough information for a solution to how we could successfully shut down their command and control structure. And we are not able to ID some, maybe most, of the organizers that are operating under the control of the Interior Department.”

“So if they are organizing another large tactical unit like at Oklahoma, how early would we be able to know and react?”

“Indirectly, one to three weeks based on previous patterns. If we can effect direct interception of, say a Tor they use, we would have months to prepare.”

Major Olson stepped forward, thinking that he may need to add the the unit’s confidence level.

“People, Jake is not doing SigInt by her lonesome. The MCSB battalion commander has a dedicated team formed out of Company H to support Hornblende. They will operate independently, and are direct reports to General Stewart.”

“MCSB, sir?”

“The Marine Cryptologic Support Battalion, they have a company in San Antonio.”

“Captain Garza?”

“Aye, sir. People, as of last week, were are ‘legal’. We have a JAG officer in San Antonio that belongs to us. As we are now an NSA operation, we are under the auspice of the DNI and as such, are sworn federal security officers. We’ll get new phones tomorrow after Sergeant Starling completes verification and conducts training. Army techs will be here next week to gives us some star wars-type support.”

Cpl Vera rotated in his chair to seek SSgt Pistochini, standing towards the rear of the gathering. Pistol caught his vision, making a tamping motion, while sending a sense of reassurance. Vera and Charles did not know of Tisdale or Olsen, thus unsure and hesitant to accept these changes done in the absence of O’Brien and Hoerner.

O’Brien Ranch, Medina County, Texas

The occasional rustle of wind through the barn was comforting to Frank Garza. It had been, for a civilian, a bizarre and paranoic two years for the ranch manager. But as the Anderson ranch personnel settled into an atypically normal training routine, Frank had allowed himself to return to the simple joys of working the O’Brien and Anderson ranches.

Frank tossed the last section of hay into the paddock, pausing to watch an orange cat stalk a mouse. Frank’s fascination with the cat’s hunting prowess was halted as he heard O’Brien’s idiot mongrel dog emit a sharp questioning bark, followed by a staccato series of friendly ‘woofs’. Frank could not fathom why Sean O’Brien considered the animal to be a good ‘watch’ dog.

Grabbing the Marlin rifle, Frank carefully circumnavigated the rear of the barn to gain a vantage over the three buildings and corrals of the O’Brien ranch. Hearing a motorcycle, Frank advanced along the side of the barn to look down the long graveled driveway.

Frank realized that the man sitting on the machine had spotted him and was patiently waiting. Frank cradled the Marlin rifle in a non-threatening manner, watching Sean O’Brien’s ‘stupid’ dog make friends with the stranger. Frank slowly approached as the unknown man stepped away from his bike.

The man, as adjudged by his effortless economy of motion, was determined to be younger than his appearance. The Hispanic man was slim, with short hair and short beard, framing a darkened and well-lined face. The man’s alert expression, general appearance, and carriage allowed Franks’s conclusion that he was, or is, a military man.

“Howdy. What can I do ya for?”

The man flashed a quick whimsical smile, hearing the same intonation and accent, and out of the mouth of a latino nonetheless, as that of his former and beloved fire team leader. Mike Sanchez quickly scanned the immediate area and listened to the soft sounds of the ranch, believing that he was finally home.

“Hi. Are you Frank Garza?”

“Uh ... Yep. You know me?”

“No. But Sean O’Brien said that you would be running his ranch.”

“So ... how ya know Sean?”

“He was my team leader in the Corps. Said that you would have a job for me?”

“You have a place?”

“No.”

“Well ... nothing in the house for ya, but we’ve been building a place in the barn, next to the loft. Not finished. Want it?”

“That’s good. Shit, I’m sorry, man. My name is Mike Sanchez.”

Frank pointed to the seabag strapped to the machine, “That all ya got?”

“That’s it, man.”

“If ya want, put your bike in the barn. I’ll show ya the loft. Dinner sometime after six tonight, Rosie Shanchez is our cook; she’s in town today, so Star’s wife is cookin ... Ya drive a tractor?”

Fucking-A, no problemo. That O’Brien’s rifle.?”

“Yep.”

“Can’t get more south Texas than a thirty-thirty lever action. Anyone hear anything from O’Brien lately?”

Mike Sanchez’s mannerisms and choice of phrase gave Frank Garza the immediate feeling that this man was who he said he was. He also wondered if all Marines had been indoctrinated with the same manner of speech, and if all Marines were of similar mind.

“Nope. Uh, think that he’ll return in a few weeks. Maybe a month. Not sure.”

Anderson Ranch, Medina County, Texas

Sgt Starling carefully watched the two screens covering the Bravo area camera array. He quickly donned the head-set when Frank Garza started talking to the unknown man. Star grabbed his radio while maintaining and electronic overwatch.

“Jake, we got a visitor. Need a quick BI on a Mike Sanchez. He apparently was with Staff Sergeant O’Brien in the sandbox with Fifth Marines.”