Part II
Manhattan responds to bombing with controversial "Grid Zone"New York Times, New York
In response to the terrorist bombing in the Upper West Side residential and financial districts three days ago that left 45 dead and over 100 injured, the city's legislature has passed a new bylaw that calls for the 'grid zoning' of certain regions in Manhattan. This necessarily means that these regions would be 'walled off' from normal access to the rest of the city, and the zones would be heavily monitored under the scrutiny of the police. It is possible that the bylaw will also restrict foot traffic into the areas, which are being termed as high-security risks for terrorist activity.
Already, however, the bylaw is being met with controversy.
"It's ridiculous! Just another perfect example of the government catering to the rich elites and repressing everyone else!" said respected left-wing lawyer Barry Whitman.
The mayor responded to this saying, "When terrorists and criminals go so far as to blow up places where people live and work and do so consistently, we're not going just sit back and let them. And if restricting vital parts of the city to stragglers, squatters, criminals and potential terrorists is the only answer, then restrict them we will. I for one am not going to wait for the next district to blow up."
But the Liberals won't back down, and ACLU has promised to challenge the act.
"We need security to protect our liberty, time has told us this," said ACLU spokesman John Heatherton, "But partitioning New York into zones of the protected wealthy and leaving alone the low-income areas only creates a visible system of class, and furthers the one we already have. It is a violation of people's rights, and it won't solve anything – instead by it'll make matters worse by breeding crime and terrorism in the neglected areas. So you can count on ACLU taking this to the courts, even to the Supreme Court itself. We're going to fight this, if it takes four, five or six years to win, so be it. America is NOT a police state."
----
The skyscraper overlooked the city, the vast metropolitan maze made up of towering buildings and interlacing highways. It surveyed the long stretch of the island, from the sea that glittered in the sunset to the heights of the structures beneath it. The rubble of desecrated buildings stood solemnly in the shadows. The vast green stretch that was Central Park lay behind.
From the topmost floor the window in the skyscraper two men stood there looking out.
"How many?" asked one, a prominent looking man, with reddish brown hair and a stern face that appeared aged before its time, showing careworn lines and determined eyes.
"With direct connections, we lost at least 12. Others, however, had their merit. Many were bankers, financial executives, federal advisors and prominent businessmen. This was a directed attack." The other replied. He had a broad build and dark hair, and was finely dressed.
"Not
by our old enemies, surely, for we got rid of them long ago." There
was a note of a high pitch in the first's voice, stern and
proud.
"No, I don't think it was them. Official reports
indicate the NSF and other domestic terrorist groups were behind the
bombings. At least we managed to get the government to move for us.
The Grid Zoning of important areas should lessen our chances of being
targeted and hit."
"Unsponsored terrorists, their numbers are growing again. Like back in the 30's when dissident was getting out of hand, and an increase in unexpected attacks by the lower classes of society hit the world. Even here in America people are beginning to protest against the government and world institutions all too violently. Our grasp is slipping, and would've slipped long ago if it weren't for the change."
"Indeed, the old men didn't know when their 'influence' was losing its control, when their grip on the World Banks and financial institutions needed protection, when the globalized world was turning on them. Their ideas were outdated, and the more control they tried to exert, the more they lost, for they depended on invisible influence, the media, and other weak points to sway the masses. But the masses were beginning to see that they were being swayed, and began taking it out on the wealthy and powerful. Chaos would have erupted if we didn't respond."
The finely dressed man rubbed his chin in thought.
"Protests are widespread, and this NSF movement almost cost us a chunk of the country. We have to be careful in collecting the pieces and putting them together, lest we lose them while we have the chance to seize the puzzle. There are still many insurgents around the globe. And some governments are squeezing tight to maintain their power."
"Yes, we do have many problems. Organized crime is running too rampant and freely in Russia and Mexico; Texas is a mess; the NSF is only growing after its defeat. There are many factions trying to seize their own power and wealth, in the corporate and political world. And even then, we are having struggles with the old roots that refuse to die. Some of the great financial families are attempting to hold on to what used to be theirs. I believe they're trying to make connections with certain particulars in France."
"We need a way to bring things into order."
"We are looking into that. I've been working on a certain project leftover from the old days, one with high expectations and many possibilities. At first it would be the answer to our needs, and eventually it could take us even further..."
"Your work at Mt. Weather?"
"Precisely. I've been coming along slowly, but the process is complicated. After all, artificial cerebral recognition is difficult to implement on a machine. But there's good resources going into it."
"And our other project?"
"Again, started before the turnover, but I have high hopes for it. We have a few trial units, mostly copies, but there are still many kinks that need working out. The procedure is still only experimental. And we still haven't figured out the unique attributes the host possesses."
"The primary host was chosen as the desired offspring from the perfect candidate couple; both exceedingly intelligent, physically fit, healthy immune system with no allergic reaction to non-biological substance. Fortunately, these traits carried on into their child, only emphasized. And even more so in the subsidiaries. What we need to find out is why? What is it that makes them uniquely potential for the project?"
"What we need is a way to make tests on various subjects to collect an answer. But the number I have in mind is outrageous. It is mathematically impossible to conduct a probe on enough subjects to determine the desired genetic pattern and what would need altering. A few subjects isn't enough, or workable. There have been many failures already. We need a broader range."
"Broad
range? Hmm, I think I might something in mind..."
----
United
Nations, New York
Paul
rushed off the chopper and hurried towards the symbolic United
Nations building, with its waving flags and reflective glass. He
passed under the UN symbol and went inside, making his way to the
UNATCO office on the middle floor.
UNATCO was the
collaboration of the United Nations peacekeeping forces, joint
together as a separate division with the task of keeping the peace in
conflicted cities and countries worldwide, due to terrorism or what
more. It was the long arm of the UN that maintained order in a
disorderly world, protecting the sovereignty of charter governments
and civilized rule. America, of course, was not a member, and
outwardly challenged the authority of the organization. UNATCO, they
said, only got in the way of it and NATO, though the latter was
declining. Without America, however, UNATCO wasn't a very prominent
force.
Paul knew this and all the long history of the organization. He had joined it as he saw the horrors that happened in the world while he was growing up.
And now he was one of their top field investigators.
He
hurried off the elevator and went to the director's office. He
opened the door and entered a small space with a blue carpet,
pictures and decorations on the walls, a UN flag at the back, and
behind an oaken wood desk there sat the Director.
He was a
well-groomed man with black hair and a crumpled face, tired with
years of politics and bureaucracy on the international scale. He
pivoted on his
red office chair towards Paul, setting down the newspaper he had been skimming through.
"Denton, you're back. I'm sorry to hear about New York, but we'll go over that in a moment. You said you found something else, in connection to the case?"
"Sir, quite. Sorry for the delay in returning, New York was a mess and the FBI insisted I stay awhile to clear things up. Plus I did some digging myself, into the bombing."
"The NSF? You found out more?"
"Much. The FBI traced one of their transports to a company named Softeck, and so I followed up online, if you know what I mean, and acquired some personal data they might've wish to keep personal. The company is a financial front for the terrorist's, but even more, they're the ones who purchased the weapons in the first place."
"The contraband? The bombs, guns and ammunition? From where?"
"The black market, no doubt. That was hard to trace, but the records point to a man named Hogan Lenich. Six million dollars from Softeck went to his account, and he's a known dealer in arms and bombs."
"Where he is now? That's another link we have to break."
"I figured so. I gave the Bureau what I found, and they're dealing with Softeck now. I guess you'll want me to find Lenich."
"I guess that's what you want." The director winked. "Navarre said you're getting better, she said you performed adequately in Seattle, if not a bit reluctant. So I guess I'll assign you. Since we blew our first unofficial op in the U.S, this might give us a break. Do you have any idea where to start?"
"She checked that too. Lenich disappeared off all radars, but he does have a son. He's been picked up by the FBI, but he might know where his father is."
"She?"
"Huh?
Oh, oh, nothing. I better get going."
As he was walking back
down the hall he came across Navarre, who was talking with another of
the newly mechanically augmented agents. He was rather tall, a giant
of a man hulking over six feet tall with broad shoulders and heavy
chest. He wore a leather black torso that displayed his augmented
features; both arms were half prosthetic, metallic silver with
streaks of blue bioelectric lining. His legs were also more than
three parts mechanical, and his bald skull was covered with a
silver-blue plate. Both his eyes resembled Navarre's bionic one;
they had been replaced with red ocular lens that protruded from his
head. The man seemed half machine; they were the newest line of
UNATCO's peacekeeping agents for the field. The hulk of a man
turned towards Paul and nodded.
"Paul Denton, I am sorry to hear about your mission." He said in a heavy German accent, obscurely sounding the English words.
"I should have gone with you from Seattle, but they insisted I return and leave the case to you. Perhaps it was a foolish decision." Navarre said. "But there are other tasks that need approaching, and I am to be partnered with Gunther from now on – we are off to Europe on a strategic mission, and they say he is the top agent on the field. Where are you heading?"
"Still in America." Paul replied, "Still working on the NSF case. They might have connections with international arms smuggling, I'm investigating a link."
"That is well. We shall hope you can make up for the failure in New York."
"There's fault for that on many levels."
"Well good luck on the field," said Gunther, "hopefully you won't require the skills of our superior augmentation."
Paul
nodded. "That's why they're sending me."
----
Canyon
City Bootcamp – Portland Four hours
later
"The
Northwest War is responsible for the influx in disciplinary
institutions in the States. These bootcamps are actually 'good
behavior' camps to teach our young people that certain things,
criminal and deplorable, are not tolerated in this Country. They're
just attitudes that are either full of unreasonable anger,
rebelliousness, or contempt towards society. The people here would
have their futures in the jail cell if it weren't for these
facilities."
The woman talking was plump and enthusiastic, waving her hands as she spoke and taking joy in listening to herself. Paul strode beside her down the white hall, taking in everything she was saying.
"And the FBI runs these places?" he asked.
"Oh yes, with the need for them and the required funding, there isn't anyone else better suited for the job. They're becoming like a part of the community instead of appearing like an ominous secret police force."
"I never knew the Bureau to be viewed that way."
"Well, more so the CIA, but these days apathy towards government is growing."
They passed through the corridors and the many 'rooms' lined up at the sides, the living quarters for the detainees in the facility. Through windows on some, Paul could see inside, see young people restrained restrictively or slumping over on the edge of a cold hard bed. The walls were blank, and only one item was present in the rooms; a thick book entitled 'Rules of a civilized society'.
At room 451 the woman stopped and pulled out a keycard.
"Jacob
Lenich, right? Yeah, he's the type the authorities would be
seeking. Only eighteen but he has a long criminal record and has had
dealings with the FBI before. He partook in his father's illegal
business, smuggling arms and moving them about, plus he dealt in
drugs and made a fortune in drug-money. The FBI had him on and off
until they decided to send him here, see if it would do any good.
Thousands are being enlisted into the program."
They entered a
large lobby that resembled the visiting room of a prison; in fact,
that's just what it was. The woman led Paul to a seat before a
glass window, a speaker box fixed in the middle. At the other end was
a white table and cold chair.
"He's on his way right way." The woman said. Just then a guard led a young scruffy looking man into the sealed room and left as he approached the table.
No handcuffs were on him.
"I'll be leaving you two." The plump woman said as she walked away.
Paul seated himself before the window and looked across at the rowdy looking man at the other side.
"Jacob Lenich, I'm with the Bureau." Paul said. No need telling anyone UNATCO was operating on U.S soil.
"Yeah, what you want with me?"
"Hogan Lenich."
"So? Am I him? Go look for him yourself, who says I know where he is?"
"You ought to know something, after all, he's your father and you seem to have been acquainted with his 'business'. He's wanted, and make no mistake, we'll find him, sooner or later. Sooner with your cooperation, that'll make things easier on all of us. If it's later, well, you yourself has a case against you."
"I ought to know shit."
"Give me names, places you know he used to visit, connections he has."
"You know, you Bureau boys have been bothering me with shit all along, I don't have to tell you nothing."
Paul sighed.
"Perhaps
we can reach an agreement."
----
A
woman climbed up the dark steps in the shrouded stairwell, making her
way to the topmost floor of the old apartment building. She opened
the creaky door at the top and passed down into the hall, illuminated
by only a dull yellow bulb hanging in the middle of the ceiling. The
floorboards squeaked beneath her feet as she made her way down the
hall, going to a lonely door at the right end. She opened it and went
in. The room was equally dark, faintly lit. But it was rather large
and around a square table in the center a group of well-dressed
people sat. She took her pace among them in the solemn room.
"Beth, it is good to see you here." A somber voice said from the gloom. "Our numbers have greatly reduced, since, since..."
The woman spoke. "Puisque nous avons été usurpés." She said in French.
"Our time grows near, and many have left us, but there are still remnants of the old order. And we still have some leaders who resist. We must do what we can to preserve our heritage."
"Zurich is under the control of them, we must make haste in funneling our capital to safe sectors." Said a coarse voice.
"That would be an impossible task, what way do we have to carry it out?" said another.
"There is some security in the French banks, if we keep our actions covert." Beth replied. "If we make the transactions through a third party."
All eyes turned towards her, and quiet discussion took place in the shadows.
"Where could we transfer such amounts without being noticed?"
"Who could we trust, who could get it done?"
"There are many connections in France who eagerly participate with our parties. Multiple donations from various banks to their several branches could work the trick. And then the collective amounts..."
"We would need to process it through the administration..."
"It would be a difficult procedure."
"But a chance to remain in the game."
Silence.
Minutes passed.
Beth spoke again. "We must use the shadows to conceal our movements, keep everything clandestine as possible."
"So we have a chance?"
"If
the shadows keep us."
----
Brian
Flanagan landed the black helicopter outside of the compound in the
wide empty parking lot. It was a smooth landing, for Brian was an
expert pilot, commonly known by his peers as "Jock." He worked
with the NSA and flew the things all over the country on sensitive
assignments, or as common a transport for important people. But his
reputation preceded him, and his name was widely known in the ranks
that involved chopper pilots. He also sometimes flew for several high
paying corporations, and whenever he was around government
institutions would call him over their own pilots, since he was known
to be the best in the business. At this certain instance the UN had
requested his service, since they had no in country pilots and they
needed a capable pilot who could transport their man quickly. And
they were offering a healthy pay. So naturally Jock took the job and
found his way to this compound in the middle of nowhere particular, a
blank facility called the Canyon City Bootcamp.
Jock climbed
out of the helicopter and walked across the parking lot, meeting a
trench-coated man with a goateed face halfway down the middle. They
shook hands and introduced themselves.
"Paul Denton, UNATCO, we're grateful for your service." Paul said.
"Brian; call me Jock. Just tell me where we're heading."
"We're after one Hogan Lenich, and if my information's correct, he's holding out in a smuggler's bunker near Austin."
"Texas?"
"That's right."
"Do you know what you're getting yourself into?" Jock asked skeptically.
"I've heard about the crime lords and the RMA. Yeah, I know."
"Then
let's get going."
----
Texas
The
Lone Star State was in a state of turmoil. Back in the twenty'
thirties when the Nation was devastated by the great quake on the
West Coast that dumped most of Southern California into the ocean,
thus causing a major blow to the countries' economy and sending it
into a recession, or new depression, many things began to fall apart.
The U.S was teetering on the brink of bankruptcy, saved only by the
prowess of the international monetary fund and world banks, but with
the government concentrating on the disaster on the ex-West Coast and
struggling to maintain its international might, the needs of many
parts of the country went unmet. Utah was the first to declare its
intention to secede from the United States, annexing with it what was
left of Arizona and Nevada. Of course Uncle Sam wasn't about to let
this happen and moved swiftly to crush the rebellion. However, an
inspired Texas, or multiple fringe groups within the State also
announced plans for independence, and shortly after so did the
Northwest States that formed the NSF. All these attempts failed, and
the would-be secessionists have been pushed back to the margins of
society, but various factions still fight on.
Texas however, was
chock-full of not only militant separatists but crime lords who were
part of a Russian-Mexican Alliance, intent on taking over the State
to solidify their power. The drug trade was the largest industry in
this area.
The chopper landed in a graven part of Texas, a
patch of desert spoiled over with abandoned and rundown buildings and
trailers; broken cars and makeshift facilities. The nearby roads were
deserted, wired fences scaled off zones and guard towers were erected
for snipers. However no one was present at the moment.
Paul and
Jock climbed off the chopper and stepped into the desolated field.
Paul looked towards a set of buildings across the road, rundown and
bleak they were, but light streamed out from within. That's where
he was heading.
"Wait for me out here. I don't know when I'll be back, but I'm going to see if I could get some information." He told Jock.
"I hear ya. Watch your back."
"You two."
He nodded and walked off towards the street.
Among
the buildings there was a bar, a sign proclaiming it the 'Tex'.
Nobody was outside among the gritty streets but the door was open and
mindless chatter could be heard inside.
Paul entered the dark
hall of the bar and proceeded to the lounge; dimly lit, grungy and
half filled with ragged thugs and brutes and sly looking no-good'ers.
Suspicious eyes tracked the newcomer as he walked up the counter.
"A forty." He called to the barkeeper.
A
bottle slid down the counter. Paul caught it and popped off the lid,
but he had no interest in drinking right now. Instead he picked up
the forty and walked over to where the barkeeper was standing.
He
looked up; his face was grim and dirty.
"What do you want here?" he barked.
"I'm new in town, but I hear this is the place to come for business." Paul said in a crafty tone, not looking at the barkeeper but around the bar.
"Oh yeah? What business? What's with your rich boy dress – you a henchman for the Russo-Mexican drug lords?"
"Couldn't be more far from."
"Better not be, 'else you're not welcome here. But you've dealt in all the business there's to offer."
"Oh? No one here deals in hardware?"
The barkeeper gave a suspicious look to the stranger. He wasn't buying his act, and he was around long enough to know when there was an act.
"Listen bud, I don't know what you're playing at or who you are, who are you anyway? Police? Homeland, FBI? Well you ain't got nothing on me, or this place, so quit the shit, will you?"
He
made his retort with all the sting and insolence he intended,
shifting his attention from Paul to his bar keeping.
But the
UNATCO agent wasn't finished yet.
"Ever here of the NSF?" he asked in a lowered voice. "We know people here of interest to us, who we can deal with. I'm talking about arms and munitions. Someone told me to come here to find the right people."
The barkeeper looked up with renewed interest, and suspicion.
"I'll go get you a beer." He said before shuffling off to the back. Moments later a white-haired man in a brown overcoat emerged with the barkeeper. He walked around the counter and came up to Paul.
"So we have a newcomer eh?" he said in a harsh voice. "If you are who you say you are, and I highly doubt that," he folded open a small section of his coat, revealing an aimed pistol. "Come with me."
He led Paul behind the counter and down a dark hall to a metal door at the end. They went through this and came into a small and grimy room with a round table and a few chairs. Three other men were present, apparently waiting for Paul's arrival.
"And what are you doing here?" one snarled as he chewed a dead cigarette.
"Looking for business." Paul said coolly.
"Check him."
They weren't too nice in their treatment as they searched him for weapons, finding his pistol and some clips, but nothing else.
"And how do we you're not with the government?" another asked.
"You don't." Paul said.
"Yes, we do." Said a new voice as another man entered the room. He wore dark sunglasses and a leather coat, and his face was weathered and scarred.
"You don't think we let anyone come back here on trust do you?" he said as he walked in and shut the door behind him. "Biometric scanners have read every print you could leave from your retinal to your fingertips. And surprise surprise, you checked out."
"You ran my readings?" Paul asked.
"Do you know how many criminal databases your name is on? NSF you say?"
UNATCO's alternative identification had worked. Paul breathed a sigh of relief to himself as he regained his confidence to continue his act.
"We're not criminals, we're the new revolutionaries. America needs to secede from tyranny once again."
"Don't mark Texas on that list. We're our own state, and this country's going to realize that one-day. But while we're the underdogs, I guess we have a mutual interest." the leather jacketed man said.
"So you can guess why I'm here?"
"Guns. Guns, ammunitions, bombs, anything you need for a small war. We've been making many transactions lately."
"I heard about a Mr. Lenich in particular, someone said he was the one to go to."
There was a pause.
"That's if you're into the high end..."
"We're into the high end. We've dealt with him before... do you know about Softeck?"
"One of our customers..."
"No, one of our middlemen. We've made purchases through them before, but they've been shutdown. And that's been a blow. Lenich was our contact."
There was some discussion between the men in the room before they answered. One got up from his seat and stepped forward.
"If you want to see Mr. Lenich, you will have to earn your appointment to see him."
"Earn it?"
"There
is trouble in this trade, and the RMA is moving in and trampling over
everything in an attempt to take control of the state. They're the
drug cartels of Mexico backed by the Russian mafia, and they wield
more power than the feds in these parts. You could say we're at war
with them, and everyone now and then there's a little something
come up that we must counter; a raid on their punks the requisition
of a shipment or a little this here and there. Thing is, we lack the
resources and people to keep it up, so if you want to do business
with us, you have to pay for your part."
Paul was silent for a
minute, pondering what this meant and how far things would go. But it
was his assignment, and there wasn't any other way.
"What
do you want me to do?" he said.
----
As
they walked out of the bar Paul glanced towards the black helicopter
in the gloom. He saw the shadow of Jock standing there, looking over
and pondering what to make of the four guys with him. But they
weren't heading his way. Paul stared long enough to receive a
signal from the pilot, and he nodded and indicated that he should
follow. Jock appeared to understand and nodded back, turning and
climbing into his chopper.
They walked to another bunker down the
marred street, past broke-down cars and rundown buildings; burning
cans with people crowded around them, getting warm and making deals
or listlessly roaming about. The Texan landscape was gloomed over in
the background; an ominous mood hung in the dry air.
Behind a wired fence they came to a door that required a code to open. One of the Texans entered this and they proceeded in, going down a lank metal corridor. At last this opened up into an underground hangar occupied with three military grade helicopters, though these were worn and rusting, their green paint peeling away to a dull black.
"You guys really are loaded here." Paul observed.
Other men emerged bearing carts laden with guns and weapons of all kinds on them.
"Hell right about that." One of them said. "Take your pick, we're going in for a ride."
Jock had followed them to the bunker, but they had disappeared inside and were taking some time in there. He landed the chopper half a mile outside and watched his monitors for any signs of movement. Twenty minutes later he picked up three helicopters coming from an opening in the bunker. They ascended and took off overhead, their propellers roaring as they raced away. He waited and then started up his bird, bringing it into the air and following the three choppers.
They
covered many miles over the Lone Star State, coming to more southern
parts where the towns and streets were grittier and gunfire hardly
ceased in the urban dwellings. The ranches and open plains that the
State once knew were carved into holdouts for crime lords and their
small armies. It was to one of these where Jock had followed Paul and
company.
The ranch below had been transformed into a fort, with
barracks and towers and fences scattered everywhere. And it was
heavily fortified. When the helicopters swarmed over down below
militants were scurrying to position, and small explosives were
launched into the air. Jock was able to avoid the conflict, swerving
aside and circling around the ranch.
Blazes of gunfire spat from the three choppers as they lowered down near the mansion. Mexican militants in brown fatigues poured in from all directions, but machine gun fire cut scores of them down. Paul emerged from one of the helicopters with about six men, and sixteen more together climbed from the others. A small and bloody war broke out in the field, but Paul rushed towards the compound with wielding his assault rifle to mow down anyone who crossed his line of fire. Four Texans backed him up as they shot down the front door and stormed inside.
"We'll
hold off the fort, you know what to do!" the gruff Texan called to
Paul.
He nodded and made way to the staircase, following them up
the top level. He barged in a door to find two burly men shouting at
each other and cursing, in a European language – no, Russian.
They turned to Paul and each drew a gun, but he dodged aside and shot one in the arm, causing him to lunge backwards against the wall and stain it with his blood. A stream of bullets from his rifle splintered across the legs of the other. He screamed in pain and fell to his back, dropping his gun. Paul left the room and went to another, finding a computer terminal rested upon an oaken desk. He closed the door behind him, shutting out the gunfire coming from below, and set himself before the translucent display. After searching the files on the hard drive he hooked up his datacube and downloaded the information onto it.
Racing downstairs he found a mess of blood and bodies, but the battle was over and six Texans were still standing. He came to them and handed over the datacube.
"Good job." The receiver said.
Paul glanced around. "We've killed a lot of people, but it was easy. You guys do this a lot?"
"All the time, this is life now that we're neither a State nor a country. But we ain't about to let the Mexicans and their foreign bosses move into the place."
"What did you need me for? You guys handled it pretty well."
"Consider it your test before getting accepted among our higher ranks."
"Lenich?"
"Not
just anybody meets him. Come on, let's move before word get's
out."
They
landed at another compound several miles away. As they climbed out of
the choppers a contingent of hefty men approached them, a tall one in
particular stepping forward.
"Good job. I'm Hogan Lenich, you're the one from the NSF?" the bearded man said. Paul nodded and extended out his hand holding the datacube.
"That's me. I got the data you guys wanted, what is this stuff anyway?"
"Nothing important; as often as not we raid the RMA for guns and drugs, anything that'll put them out. And every piece of info we can get on them is valuable."
"So you're with the secessionists? I thought you were a dealer..."
"That's right, this war is also my war, and every war needs funding. We've got stock loads of loose armaments that could go around, and always more. But we don't need it all, so why not put it into the hands of other revolutionaries who want only freedom? For a price. You'd never guess how much eager customers we have waiting to get their hands on this stuff."
"So I'm sure you know why I'm here." Paul said.
"Ah,
yes, come inside."
In the end Paul ended buying enough
armaments to start a small war, all on UNATCO's credit line. He had
the shipments directed to six ambiguous locations throughout the
country, but what the sellers didn't know was that there were
certain authorities waiting for them. He was taken back to the bar
and from there he went out and contacted Jock, who met him at the
same place they landed earlier.
"Is it over?" Jock said as they boarded the chopper.
"We've found Lenich and his base of operations; as soon as we get back to New York there'll be a raid by the Armed Forces. I don't think UNATCO will get involved this time."
"The country is still adamant about keeping as far from you guys as possible, don't ask me why."
"Americans are suspicious about control issues, but let's get out of here before something goes wrong."
"Right away."
Minutes
later the black helicopter was hovering back into the dusty Texan
horizon and off into the distance. Paul gazed down below and shook
his head at the happenings in the country that once thought it knew
freedom and peace, now raged by internal wars and chaos. It saddened
him how things were; and that's why he was an agent for UNATCO.
Whatever he could do to make things better, he'd do.
United
Nations, New York
"Good
job, that's one bright thing from this whole mess. We've already
contacted the authorities, they're moving in as we speak."
The
director tried to appear more ecstatic than normal, but it was simply
a cover; this desk job was as tiring as any field agent could get.
Pressure from bureaucrats both sides of the table kept him on his
toes, and he didn't know how much more he could take. First, no one
wanted UN interference on American soil, and then they were working
along side the government on high-level matters. On the other hand
some people in high places wanted the US to charter the agency as a
prominent force, but this was hotly disputed. Everyone was trying to
get the UN to work their side of the field.
"Hope this cleans things out a bit. That's billions of dollars and truckloads of munitions to be crack downed on, it should level the field a bit."
"Guess that winds up this assignment." Paul said.
"That's it. And some news; UNATCO's to remain off-duty in the States until the debate is settled over the chartering. So that leaves you free for now, unless you want me to send you to Hong Kong; they're still interested in having you over there."
"Thanks, but I'll pass. I could use the rest."
"We all could, but the NSF threat could get out of hand and then there'll be no option but to charter, and then your resting days will be over."
Paul grinned. "Well, I'll make the most of my time off."
"You
do that."
- Public
Message Bulletins
U.S
Homeland shuts down major internal smuggling ring.
Yesterday
Homeland Security launched the largest crackdown on internal criminal
factions involved in international arms smuggling, arresting more
than 200 suspects and seizing millions in illegal armaments. The
operation was a joint assault by Homeland forces, the FBI, the
National Guard and various State police departments. Information
leading to the crackdown was credited to Homeland with the assistance
of intelligence from the FBI and the United Nations investigative
unit.
The raid centered in Texas, where the Russo-Mexican
Alliance is known to operate, and where other illegal dealers have
their strongholds. The outcome is said to have severed direct
supplies to internal terrorist factions such as the NSF, but they
have openly stated that they will only continue to become
stronger.
This has led one of America's most outspoken
politician's, Walton Simons, to again call for a state of emergency
to be declared so necessary agencies can get control of the
situation.
"If certain people in certain places had the power to
quell the rising instability in this country, they would, but right
now the government wants to wait until the pot boils over." He said
at a press conference yesterday. "FEMA is affiliated with Homeland
security, and that only constraints their abilities in handling with
the rising crisis of internal terrorism. And in this time we need
more of them, and less of those useless interferers over at the UN,
who have been secretly sticking their noses into our affairs."
There is still debate about whether the United States should
become a charter member of the United Nations Anti-Terrorist
Coalition.
"Something tells me you had
something to do with this, with UNATCO, right?" Charity said. She
and Paul were standing before the Public Message Terminal, going over
the daily bulletins. His arm was wrapped around her, holding her
closely and tightly, a comfort in the cold and from his life. She was
holding a cup of coffee, sipping at it as she finished reading the
bulletin.
"I'm right aren't I?" She asked again.
Paul smiled. "That's classified. If I told you I'd have to-"
"Thought
so. So that's what you've been up these past few days!"
They
walked away from the terminal and strolled down the dark city street;
almost empty it was, save for the burning barrels that warmed the
homeless, and the small crowds that had nothing better to do.
Everyone else kept away from unnecessary places, as anything could
happen in these times. Paul and Charity passed among the rundown
buildings and dirty sidewalks as they headed for his place.
"It's nice to get some time off. I've missed your cheery voice." Paul said, avoiding her topic. It was the one thing he didn't want to talk about when he was with her, his work. It was stressful enough already, and now he wanted to relax. He leaned into Charity and let the smell of her clean raven hair caress his face.
"Did I help any with those records I acquired for you?"
She was persistent. Paul squeezed her and smiled to himself.
"Still classified. What about yourself? When do you start your new job?"
"Sooner than I'd like, I won't be around here much when I do, you know."
"Well I'm already not around much. It's nice to see we're still together."
Charity smiled and finished her java, tossing the cup into a nearby burning barrel. She cuddled into Paul's arms and thought about their relationship, he the UNATCO man always off around the world for the sake of peace and security, and she, just another girl, young and innocent, not yet troubled by the troubles of the world, the troubles that she knew Paul had to face every day. That's probably why he was with her; she was his escape from the hardships of reality, his warmth after a cold day. And he was her threshold to reality, who kept her from ending up like any other girl on the street. And she also knew loneliness, so he was her company. They needed each other, and both were happy to have each other. And though they might seldom see each other, and would so more often in the near future, at least they were there.
"We've
a groovy kind of love here, huh?" she said softy, almost unaware
that she was speaking her thoughts. Paul held her tightly. A warm
glow enveloped them both, and they walked in contentment down the
dark street.
----
"The
recent crackdown has been a success, but do you realize we weren't
behind it?" They walked down the marble floor in the dark hall, the
towering red walls reflected at their feet. He seemed but a shadow,
his black hair and black coat blending in with the ambient dark.
"Yes, I am aware that there is still too much uncertainty over there. And the United Nations is flexing itself in places it shouldn't be. They're going to be a problem unless they charter with the US soon. That'll give them a check and allow us to keep them in place."
The other stood out in the dark; a beige jacket over gray pants, and his face was rather pale.
"True, but the people themselves oppose the idea, as well as most figures among the government. And they're still too independent. We have to find a way to bring things into balance."
"We're looking into that. The Ambrosia project is well underway; we can take advantage of its original purpose and use it to give us some leverage. Everything else will fall into place; my work at Mt. Weather, the constructor's under development and the planned Hub al intertwine to a single ultimate purpose. The light will shine soon."
"Mmm. But we have to consider the early obstructions. The remnants in France are moving, and there are others still operating strongly. I have a plan though."
"Good,
then I will leave it up to you so I can concentrate on my work. How
is the progress of the potential units?"
"Both are
exceptional, but one has joined the UN, and the other aims to also.
But that's well, it might turn out to benefit us in the long run."
"You're sure it's not tainted?"
"Quite sure. I'm monitoring them well. We just await the completion of the Series-N project."
"Excellent. Then the pieces are falling into place."
The footsteps die as the two passes out of the room. Again the voice of the beige coated man is heard.
"Excellent." He says again.
They pass the midst of the hall, where there stands a dark statue of some obscure shape – a looming figure with outreaching fingers, and beneath, a holographic image of a sphere. An imitation of the earth, upon which the shadows of the overhanging hand dance. Darkness hung in the room as the lights had been dimmed, and the world hung in the night.