He was still very functionally aware, or he would never have accepted this assignment, but he was growing short on patience. "Who's in charge up there?" he barked at one Corporal Collins, the soldier standing perimeter on this particular dock.
"Sergeant Kaplan. Are you the agent?" he answered.
JC simply walked by, unconcerned. "Agent Denton is looking for you," the corporal voluntarily continued the conversation. "He was on his way out, but he should be waiting for you."
JC turned and gave an appreciative nod. Being Agent Denton himself, either the corporal was confused, or his brother was hoping to speak with him. It would be the first he'd seen his brother since before he went in the officer program.
Sure enough, just up ahead, leaning nonchalantly against a bench set outside the dock shanty, was none other than Paul Denton. As JC approached, his mood notably improved.
"Paul." JC was all about simple greetings.
The slightly taller, slightly older man nodded. "It's good to see you, JC." They hugged. Not long; an appropriately brief brother hug.
"Commission went well?" Paul inquired.
"Yeah."
Paul began to navigate the awkward moment by saying, "Hey, listen, I'm sorry."
"It's cool," replied JC. Paul had not been able to attend the graduation ceremony at which JC had earned his rank and job due to an assignment overseas. Neither their mother nor father had been able to attend due to a fatal car accident. Even Captain Graves, his training manager, had been unable to attend, due to some manner of extenuating circumstance. JC had nearly had to pin his own bar and badge on.
After an appropriate uncomfortable silence, the discussion moved forward. "You got briefed?"
"Yeah," answered JC. "But now they tell me wear my Nomex, so I guess I'm going in." Having to don the special black insertion gear on the boat ride over had been one of the night's irritating elements.
Paul reached for a headset that had been sitting on the bench and handed it to his brother. "Well, here's your party favors. It's linked. Have fun."
JC was not amused by his brother's attempt at dramatization. "Who's my brief?" he asked, taking the headset.
"Me, and I've got your code."
"Okay, what happened?"
Paul explained. "Gunther took a shot, put both gunpoints down, with a single bullet even." Gunther was known for being an aggressive shooter.
"Then?"
Paul continued, "A rig. Because of the position, Gunther went in alone to secure the hostages, they set it off. None of us thought it, but this wasn't off the cuff. It was organized, at least four other NSF involved, posing as hostages. The explosion killed one non-hostile, wounded another."
JC could guess the next bit. "And now they have Gunther."
"Yep. They re-secured the hostages and are threatening to kill more. An Alabama sector cell leader's involved -- Marquis Ussery. Runs 17-C4 down there."
"I'm familiar with him," JC replied. "Did the Fort Gordon job. But I don't get it; even if we meet the demands, surely they don't think we're letting them walk away from this."
"I don't know," Paul said. "They've been coming to a sort of ideological head lately, doing desperate things just to make a point. Another thing, they've been moving around in there. It's erratic, almost..." He trailed off.
JC pressed, "what?"
"Well," Paul went on, "the guys say they're just securing the area, but it seems to me they're looking for something.
"Like what?"
"No clue. What could be in there?" The "in there" to which he was referring was the interior of the Statue of Liberty, wherein a small band of radical terrorists had taken a group of tourists hostage. "Anyway, if they are just sealing up, they're taking their time." Paul pressed a finger at JC, "That's where you come in."
JC scoffed. "What do they expect me to do?" He had only graduated a few months ago, and since had mainly been doing investigative work. Surely the CQB folks could handle a quick arrest and move.
"There's only four left, two on point again. They've moved from the gift shop to the restrooms. The general and the other perp are roaming around still."
JC just blinked; his question hadn't been answered.
"Arrest the general."
"What?" JC failed to see the point. "What about the civvies and Gunther?"
Paul answered, "There's a team going in. You just handle the top hat."
"Why me?"
"You've been working with Anna on the Clinton stuff right?"
In fact, JC was none too fond of Anna. "Yeah."
"They think it's connected," Paul said.
"Well, obviously it's connected. Look at the timing."
"More than that," Paul explained, "we have an informant, says Ussery engineered the hit."
JC was putting it together. "So he might know..."
"...where they plan on taking it." Paul had a habit of finishing his younger brother's sentences.
"So I interrogate him. What's his RC?" JC asked, referring to his ability to resist interrogation.
Paul was flat, "Probably high, got any ideas?"
"Yeah, maybe." JC always had ideas. "I should get in there then."
"Sorry about this impromptu shit."
JC chuckled. "Hey. Reacting to situations is what I do best."
"Good luck. Code's Black Umbrella Seven."
"Why you?"
Paul answered the unasked question, "I was filing some paperwork. Volunteered. Didn't wanna miss it. I dunno, thought it might make up for--" The thought drifted into silence.
A silence JC broke, "I'll see ya."
They nodded and parted ways.
JC made his way quickly through the maze of barriers, soldiers, officers, and lights. Near the front was the local orchestrator, Sergeant Kaplan, whom he greeted.
"Evening, Agent," he replied curtly. Kaplan had an even lower caffeine level than JC.
"Black Umbrella Seven."
Kaplan glanced at him briefly, "I'll put it in. Ladder on the east side is your India Papa. Stay quiet, try not to piss anybody off. They're blind over there, but not deaf, and I got people going in. Good luck." It was quick, to the point. Much like Kaplan's relationships with women.
"You too."
JC worked his way around to the statue's east side, and there was his promised ladder. The statue is comprised of several layers, the bottommost shaped like a star, before the feet of the actual sculpture began. The ladder allowed JC quiet and quick access to the upper levels, where the terrorists had no presence, where he could enter the facility through a maintenance access.
The would have all entrances to their operating sphere locked and rigged, but these old building were often replete with ventilation routes. JC had no trouble picking the lock, and opening a vent in the ceiling that presented itself, but reminded himself to be cautious. He wasn't sure how ready the top hat would be for his tactics. Ussery had been recruited in Florida, and became a top hat, or terrorist cell coordinator, in Alabama. The Southern cells were typically shoddy at best, but he had had a few shining moments. A hit on an armory in Fort Gordon in Georgia that he worked yielded several military vehicles and quite a volume of munitions.
He hung the small black headset on his ear and tapped it, then slipped on his balaclava over it. He heard the shortwave crackle signaling a transmission, then Jacobson's voice. "Gimme some light." He gave the earpiece another light tap, then proceeded into the vent. "Copy that," came Jacobson. "I'll be tuned in." JC kept a sharp eye out as he moved along for pressure traps, tripwires, and laser beams. It was nearly pitch black in here, but that was hardly a problem for the agent.
The story began with JC Denton. JC Denton was a very special man; in fact, only two of his kind existed, and the other was Paul. They could both see very easily in the dark. The Denton brothers, and their parents, had been involved in a very severe car wreck some years before. They had both taken leave at the same time, as JC would soon enter the field in England, and Paul was being shipped to Asia. They decided to get together once more. There was a traffic light, and somebody must have run it, but fault was never found. The Denton's car had been hit with such force that it spun twice before impacting a telephone pole. The parents had been crushed to death; the concussion caused grievous internal injury to both brothers. JC and Paul died that day.
Prior to coming to Liberty Island, JC had reviewed the plans for the statue quite thoroughly, and while there was an unexpected shaft here or there, he was fairly comfortable navigating the narrow passages. If Ussery hit the shipment, why wasn't he moving with it? What was he doing, holing himself up in a dead end here on the island? The tracking beacons still showed all three boxes in Battery Park, but he suspected those boxes were mostly empty now.
Coming to his intended juncture of ducts, he tapped once on his earpiece, signaling Jacobson. Alex Jacobson was a detection and transmissions coordinator that he'd met post-graduation during his work in South Manhattan. His job in high-risk scenarios as this one was simply to keep JC posted on the presence of danger, and to log JC's occasional updates. The receiver in JC's ear could be heard only by JC, so Alex was free to speak at will, giving the operative whatever technical or warning data needed. The guy actually under the gun, for the sake of stealth, used a system of taps to transmit Performa messages back to the DTC. Alex had also been Denton's TAC, or technical advisory specialist, meaning basically JC asked questions, and Alex "googled" the answers. Alex's access to information, due to both clearance and training in hacking systems, was nearly unlimited.
The computer guru's voice crackled in again, "Hotel zero, umbrella seven. All clear."
JC descended into a cramped cleaning closet. The closet opened onto the hallways leading to the balcony overlooking the original torch, still proudly displayed in the statue's lobby. Moving with the silent grace of a cat, he began searching the area for his target. The terrorists whose leader he was hunting were members of the NSF, the National Secessionist Forces. It the west, it had become a formidable paramilitary operation, aspiring to overthrow the United States government. As it had moved east, however, it became less openly viable. In most places, it was a rip shod network of half-asleep rebels, whose attacks, while inconvenient, seldom amounted to any real progress.
In New York, however, the staging ground was hot, and the NSF was organized. They had no primary outposts, and seldom opened into real combat, like the gung-ho militias of Oregon, Montana, and Washington. They wore no uniforms, and the chain of command was broken and cellular. Their arms and recruiting policies were hardly standard; they used whatever they could get. Nonetheless, the New York sector had the world's attention more often than not, and no one would dare call their work ineffective.
"I'm getting movement!" The sudden speech, right in his ear, startled JC. Alex clarified, "In the skylight room, looks like he may be trying to access the old stairwell."
Agent Denton began ascending stairs and checking corners, having been given a destination. Had the story ended with the car wreck, there would be not story to tell, obviously. The Denton brothers had been working for UNATCO in standard ground force peacekeeping for some time, and they just happened to die in the right place and at the right time. Authorities made decisions in quick time, and the bodies of JC and Paul found themselves strangely rejuvenated. A biotechnology called "nanites" had been moved into experimental phase, but had not yet found any guinea pigs. The Denton brothers fit the bill, and they hardly had anything to lose.
Sure enough, there in the skylight room, with a glass ceiling peering up into the internal structure of the magnificent work of art, was Marquis Ussery, JC's objective. He himself was looking up into the statue, looking a bit disappointed as well. Disappointment turned quickly to shock and rage as he was tackled from behind, and quickly handcuffed.
"Is it worth it? Is it really worth it?" JC muttered, pressing the business end of a Mark23 to his head. Sitting up on his mark, his free hand removed the balaclava. He leaned over to looked Ussery in the eye.
Ussery was not pleased. "I know you."
"Yeah, funny that." He decided the gun had served its purpose, and reholstered it. "Need to know a couple things."
"I ain't saying shit."
"You already said shit." Always bravado with these. "I mean, how much do you think I need, fucker?"
"Ain't saying shit."
JC continued. "Now, we're gonna do some bargaining."
JC was loosely categorized as a "mech." UNATCO had been using mechs for some time now, replacing such things as limbs and eyes with machines that functioned more effectively. Functioned in combat, at any rate. They did not, however, function as well socially, as one might imagine, due to the unsightliness of such modifications.
Paul and JC, however, were different. The nanites had given them new life, but more than that, had made their bodies what scientists called "over 40 more effective than unmodified peer operatives." They were stronger, faster, more aware. Their skin had a greater tenacity, acting somewhat like Kevlar. And, as mentioned, they could see in the dark. All of these modifications had very little aesthetic effect on the agent himself, however, aside from pale skin and slightly albino-like eyes. It was this very distinction that made these agents perfect for infiltration and covert operations, seeing as anyone with a hydraulic left arm was clearly UNATCO.
"Get off my ass, motherfucker!"
"I mean, where you think you're going?" JC laughed. "They're storming the points as we speak. Your operation is done."
Ussery had no retort.
JC went on. "We don't have much time. They're coming, and they ain't gonna be happy with you. Sucks for you, in case they get a little overzealous in the questioning."
Ussery knew what the agent meant. He knew what UNATCO interrogators were capable of. "What's your fucking point."
JC could tell he was making headway. "You make me happy, answer three questions without lying to me, and I tell them you've already been questioned. You go straight to jail to await trial. I have that power." This one was going to crack, and ungracefully at that.
"Three questions?"
"Three. Who hit the shipment, Ussery? Who hit it?"
"I don't know. Another ce--"
Denton cut him off. "Who hit the shipment, Ussery? Another cell did it. Who hit the shipment, Ussery? Another cell did it." JC repeated this exchange in rapid fire six more times.
Ussery began to come undone. "Shut up!"
JC grinned; this one would definitely crack. "You hit the fucking shipment, you lying sack of shit!" he yelled, slapping the pinned man on the head. "That's why you're up here in New York! Now, how did you get them into Battery Park? Tell me how you moved them."
There was a silence that JC found too long for comfort. Time was not on his side, so he decided to use a catalyst. Specifically, he took a lighter out of his cargo pocket.
"You a pyrophobe, Ussery?" He struck the lighter into life, and drew the flame close to Ussery's face, to his eyes.
"Oh, shit!"
JC pressed, "How did you move them?"
"Shit, okay!" The lighter was too much. "Tunnels, moved them through the tunnels."
"That's right!" Nothing JC didn't already know. "The tunnel starts at a dock in Manhattan and comes up in good ole Castle Clinton. See how much I already fucking know?" He doused the lighter and eased off. "That's one question right. Next question, how many crates are in the park now? Tell me a number."
"Three."
The lighter came back to life. "You a fucking pyrophobe, Ussery? How many crates? Three. How many are there, Ussery? Three, there's three crates! How many? Three." He continued repeating the exchange, bringing the lighter inches from Ussery's face, using his weight, knees and free hand to keep the struggling man from sliding all over the floor.
"Shit!" was apparently Ussery's favorite word.
"You moved them Ussery! There's one, maybe two boxes. You moved the rest! See, I know that shit. I haven't reported it yet, which is the only reason they haven't blown through there like Nazis at a Hanukkah party! You fucking lie to me again, there gonna find your melted ass in a puddle! Who's moving the goods, Ussery? Who's taking the shit through Brooklyn?"
JC waited a moment, and was unhappy with the progress, so he let the flames, for just a second, lick the skin of Ussery's cheek. The man began gyrating and screaming, "Holy shit, all right! Jojo, fucking Jojo Fine. Don't fucking burn me!"
JC knew the name. The lighter went away. "Where's it going, Ussery?"
"I don't fucking know, seriously! They never told me that shit! I don't fucking know. Jojo, he'd know, maybe he'd fucking know, I'm just supposed to keep you folks back."
"Like a distraction?"
"Yeah."
JC was happy with that. It seemed believable, and Ussery seemed very sincere now. He was curious about one more thing. "What are you looking for up here, Ussery?"
"I answered my questions, get the fuck off."
"You didn't give me three pieces of information." The third answer had been a non-answer.
Ussery was adamant, "You said three fucking questions!"
JC stood up and leaned against the wall. "All right, that was the deal."
The captured man decided he wasn't done talking after all. "Just giving people a chance. The same chance the fuckers in Washington get."
JC was not really paying attention. He had heard it all.
"You know, they doin' it," said Ussery.
"Yep. I'm sure they are." JC really didn't care to hear whatever mind-numbing justification Ussery was about to produce.
"They makin' the plague," Ussery continued. "Just like they been building up the rich, the big business, use taxes to kill the workin' sucker. Regular folks don't have no voice no more."
JC grew weary, "I didn't come up here to discuss politics. I came to arrest you. By the way, you're under arrest. You have rights and shit. Whatever."