Code Xero

[DJ BloodFrost]

Read Code Xero in its entirety: http://www.freewebs.com/xerofocusstudios/Code%20Xero.htm

 

Hey, everyone. I've been on LPF for a while now, and I've always admired the stuff everybody comes up with here in the Writer's Corner. I used to write poems and short stories, but I lost interest in it after a while. Reading all of this stuff here makes me wanna do it again

 

So here's a story I've started. It's called "Code Xero". Hope you like it.

[DJ BloodFrost]

Foreword

 

Foreword

 

1658 hours

05.05.2009

Saltillo, Coahuila, Mexico

 

The cathedral was silent.

Silence was something he was quite familiar with. He had lived in it most of his life. He had lived in silence in his childhood, shrinking away from the more social kindergarteners. He had lived in silence in his teenage years, attempting to establish friendships in high school and then being forced to destroy them. And now, John Markin stood in silence behind the closed doors to the altar area.

Two security guards lay on the floor, unconscious, their pistols untouched in their holsters. An empty canister of halothane agent was on the floor between them, along with two needles of sodium pentobarbital. Markin checked to make sure that the stairway access door he had used was completely shut and locked, and then pulled out a Desert Eagle. Markin loaded the gun, placed it on the floor next to the door, pulled out another Deagle and loaded it, and placed it on the other side of the door. He then retrieved his M4A1 and slung it over his shoulder. He reached into his jacket and took out a radio.

“Markin to base, Markin to base, over.”

“We read you, Markin. Go ahead.”

“Code 5. Entry point secured. Permission to proceed.”

“Granted.”

Markin placed the radio back into his jacket and grabbed a C4 charge from his inner pocket. He placed it on the door and began to wire it.

“Done yet?”

Markin whirled around, MP5 in hand. Behind him he saw his associate, Anthony Dermitelli.

“You piece of shit,” Markin whispered. Don’t scare me like that when I’m fuckin’ with C4.”

Dermitelli laughed. “Like I could scare you enough to blow both of us up with C4. Listen. The ceremony is not exactly on time.”

“They’re behind schedule? That works for me.”

“I said they’re not on time. I didn’t say they were behind.”

“Shit.”

Dermitelli grabbed a SPAS12 shotgun from behind his back and began loading it. “Shit is right. Get that charge fixed up, now.”

Markin quickly returned to the door and finished connecting the C4 to the wireless receiver. The two men entered the access door Dermitelli had used and hid under the bottom of the staircase, facing away from the door.

Dermitelli put his SPAS12 on the floor and grabbed his radio. “D to base, D to base, over.”

“We read you, Dermitelli. Go ahead.”

“The water is hot. Permission to boil.”

“Granted.”

The two men looked at each other and made a decisive nod. Markin pulled out the detonator while Dermitelli turned on the speaker for his microphone planted in the altar.

“…and through the power vested in me by…”

Dermitelli almost dropped his speaker. “SHIT!!! They’re almost done. Boil it, Markin!”

“Roger that.”

Markin hit the switch on the detonator and the light went red. The two men looked at each other again, and with a firm movement, Markin pressed the button on the detonator.

The access door was blown off its hinges as the C4 exploded. A fireball erupted in the main hallway of the cathedral and the path to the altar was clear, even with all the smoke and dust now flying about the area.

Markin and Dermitelli put all of their tools away and grabbed their rifles. They quickly went through the doorway where the access door once stood and entered the now flaming doorway to the altar room.

The people in the audience were running around the room, screaming, looking for the nearest exit. Smoke was beginning to fill the room as the C4’s explosion had lit the cathedral’s wooden walls on fire. The two men walked as one down the aisle to the altar, weapons in hand.

The bride and groom were uselessly hiding under the altar itself, which was nothing more than a fancy table that both of the men could easily see under. The men checked to ensure their guns were fully loaded and stood side by side in front of the altar.

“Nice day, isn’t it?” Markin yelled above the noise.

“You son of a bitch,” the bride screamed. “You’ll never get away with this! Never!”

“That’s what we were told five years ago, honey. Look at us now,” snarled Dermitelli. “The best of the best, we are. Can’t say the same for you, can we?”

“You’re just jealous you couldn’t have her!”, yelled the groom. “And now you’ve taken it to the extreme because you can’t handle that fact!”

“Please!”, Markin snorted. “We know damn well who the jealous one here is, and it isn’t either of us. Get your shit straight next time. Maybe it‘ll save you.”

The two men silently took aim…

[Spike_1412]

Is that it? It can't be. There has to be more! PLZ PLZ PLZ UPDATE!

[DJ BloodFrost]

Lol, a reply. Finally. There will be more, trust me. I'm working on chapter 1 off and on during my spring break. I should have the new chapter up soon.

[twilightcrimson7]

Wow, that was really well-written. I will anticipate the next installment! ^_^

[Spike_1412]

I should have the new chapter up soon.

YAY! I CAN'T WAIT!

[ShinodaMan22]

that is AWESOME! looking forward to Chapter 1

[JDS_Writer]

it was interesting, i'd like to see an update.

[LPpinkfreak821]

thats like really awesome i like it alot.. plz update it soon.. cuz this really is cool and very well written!

[DJ BloodFrost]

Hey, everyone, thanks for the compliments. Sorry about the delay between Foreword and Chapter 1, my senior is getting busier and busier as I get closer to graduation, so I haven't been able to work on it much.

 

I'd post what I have for Chapter 1 so far, but I don't feel there's enough for me to post yet. So please be patient!

 

P.S. ChesterSings Forum members: I'll be putting this story on Csings when I finish Chapter 1 as well.

[JDS_Writer]

don't worry about it, life is hectic take your time.

[DJ BloodFrost]

One

 

One

 

0600 hours

04.28.2009

Las Vegas, Nevada, United States of America

 

“Red team. Prepare to breach and clear. Blue team standby.”

“Red team ready.”

“Blue team ready.

“Blue team follow. Red team. Breach and clear. Go when ready.”

The C2 charge went off, blowing the door open. Two flashbang canisters were thrown intro the room, and the team faced away from the room.

BANG.

“CLEAR!!! GO! GO! GO!”

As waking inhabitants of nearby rooms looked on in awe, the SWAT team rushed into Suite 783 of the Mirage with an arrest warrant for one John R. Markin and one Anthony E. Dermitelli.

Red entered the room with Benelli 20 gauges and M4 rifles with M220 grenade launchers attached. Blue followed with four M60 machine guns. A lone man in a suit with a Hardballer followed them inside.

Red raced into the kitchen and slid into the living area. Blue tore down the hallway into the bedrooms and kicked the doors in, quickly examining the closets and the undersides of the beds before declaring those rooms clear. Red continued to examine the areas behind the couches and tables in the living area and then threw open the balcony doors.

The suited man slowly entered the living area with his Hardballer hanging loosely from his left hand. “Shit!”, he snarled. “They’re already gone, aren’t they?” He looked up at Red.

“Area is clear, sir. Nobody’s here.” With that, the teams left the suite and waited outside the hallway.

As the SWAT team exited, another suited man entered the room. This man had no weapon visible, but the look in his eyes could damage anyone’s ego. He quietly peered about the suite and then looked at the other man.

“Hutson…where are they?”

CIA Special Operative Calvin Hutson stuffed his Hardballer into his jacket holster. “Do you have eyes? They’re not fuckin’ here! They left already.”

“The hell they did,” the other man replied. “Markin and Dermitelli don’t leave. They disappear. Concierge says they never checked out. And they’re on the seventh floor. You suppose they jumped and nobody told me about it?”

“Perhaps. They’ve been known to do stupid shit like this before. They’ve been on the run for a while now, and the ceremony isn’t that far away.”

“True. But DarkHorse wouldn’t risk his two top men like this. This was a reckless re-location for them. They should have stopped when we found them in New York.”

“Markin and Dermitelli, back down from the CIA? Yeah right. They used to work for us, you know. They know our tactics. They know what to look for. Who knows, maybe they got friendlies on the inside, you know?”

“Not likely. They didn’t exactly get a warm welcome on their last day of work, remember?”

“Yeah…but espionage is what we do, Darren. It’s what the CIA was invented for.” Hutson looked around the suite another time. “Oh well, we’ll have to look someplace else. Let’s get out of here.”

“Agreed,“ CIA Special Operative Darren Izon replied. “They probably already crossed the border by now. I‘ll order one last sweep of the floor and then we‘ll leave.”

“Roger that.”

A third suit entered the room. “Guys, wait a sec. Something’s not right here.”

“Hey, Manny. What‘s goin‘ on?”, Izon asked.

“The GPS transmitters we installed in their personal belongings,“ Special Op Manuel Omar said slowly. “Where exactly were they placed?”

“We had a bunch of duplicates manufactured,” Hutson replied. “The duplicates that give off the 0000 signal were put in Dermitelli’s clothes. The 0001 signals were put in Markin’s stuff. Why?”

“I just talked to Langley. They say they’re still getting signals from the Mirage.”

Hutson and Izon looked at each other in disbelief.

“I’m going to talk to the SWAT team,” Hutson said. “Start looking for clothes.”

As Izon and Omar began to look for the fugitives’ clothes, Hutson walked out into the hallway and pulled the lead SWAT officer to the side.

“Did you find anything out of the ordinary in the bedrooms, officer?”, Hutson asked. “Any unusually placed objects?”

“No, sir,” the SWAT replied. “Random clothes lying on each of the beds, dressers torn apart, beds unmade. My guess is they took off pretty fast, and only with their vitals. We see stuff like this all the time.”

Hutson chewed on his tongue in frustration. “What about the walls? Did you see anything odd on the walls? Or on the ceiling?”

“Not that I can-” The SWAT stopped and looked down for a minute. His eyes suddenly lit up. “Wait. I did see something.”

“What?

“In the second bedroom on the left as you enter, the air duct cover near the ceiling was slightly dislodged. Or at least it looked that way to me. I wasn’t concentrating on it or anything, but it looked like it had been tampered with.”

“Alright, thanks.”

Hutson ran into the suite and entered the second bedroom. Indeed, the air duct cover had been messed with. Hutson quickly removed the cover and stared into the duct. He quickly pulled out a handful of what appeared to be pieces of black tempered glass.

“Omar! Izon! Take a look at this!”

The two Ops came into the room and Hutson gave the men what they had feared to find: several CIA hand-modified GPS transmitters with random fibers attached.

 

***

[DJ BloodFrost]

0300 hours

04.28.2009

New York City, New York, United States of America

 

“Think they know where we are?”

“Doubt it. They‘ll be trampling all over Canada or Mexico soon, I suspect. Probably hear about it on tonight’s evening news.”

“Earlier than that. I‘m sure CIA will want everyone to know who they‘re looking for.”

“Good for them. They won’t find us.”

Anthony Evangelo Dermitelli and John Randall Markin quietly walked down W. 72nd Street towards Central Park. Both men were wearing trench coats over their DarkHorse uniforms to ensure that no one recognized them. Being under the direct control of DarkHorse himself, Markin and Dermitelli had learned a lot about the world of intelligence and governmental functions. They also knew quite a bit of info about DarkHorse as well. If they were ever identified as agents of DHC, they would be killed almost immediately, but not before they had their knowledge tortured out of them by the CIA, New Scotland Yard, GSG-9, GIGN, and anybody else who was looking for them. And they knew a lot of people were looking for them.

“So what do we know about the DCI’s woman?”

“Beyond vitals? Not much.“ Dermitelli began flipping through a manila folder he was carrying with him. “Name’s Kelsie Paldono. Age 23, weight 143, height 5 foot 10 inches, born in Madison, Wisconsin on April 15th, 1987, yada yada yada, went to school with the DCI, high school sweethearts, currently engaged, you know how these fuckin’ stories end. They piss me off too. High school sweethearts my ass.”

Markin chuckled. “Sounds like you got some angst left over from high school, buddy.”

“Not like DarkHorse, I don’t. Remember, that’s why we’re here.”

“Yeah. Fuck, I hate fighting somebody else’s war.”

“We’re getting paid for it. That’s all matters to me.”

“Yeah, I concur with that.”

The men entered Central Park and sat down on a bench next to each other. Markin pulled out a cell phone while Dermitelli slowly pulled out a pair of binoculars and a 9mm pistol. He put the pistol next to him on the bench and began scanning the nearby buildings through the binoculars. Markin, meanwhile, punched in a number and began talking to an unknown person.

“This is Markin. I need the big guy.”

Markin glanced over at Dermitelli, who was still peering through the binoculars at faraway targets, looking for who knew what. A new voice spoke on the other end of the line.

“This is not a secure line, officer,” said a quiet male voice.

“It doesn’t need to be. We got the info we needed. We’re in the park waiting for our contact. We’re going to have a meeting in a few hours.”

“About?”

“What else?”

“Don’t you talk to me that way, officer. I’m your superior.”

“Nice try. We know who my boss is.”

The voice paused. “That may be, but as far as this mission is concerned, my word is final, and I know you’re aware of that.”

“Perhaps. However, we’ve got a job to do, and straddling the fence while shooting at people on both sides is not as easy as it may sound. We’re bustin’ our asses out here and we don’t even know what for.”

“You’ll find out when the time comes.”

“I sure hope so. Over and out.”

“Roger that.”

Markin hung up and looked over at his partner again. Dermitelli had just put the binoculars down. “He’s over there. Let’s go.” Markin put his phone away, Dermitelli picked up his pistol, and the men began walking toward Cherry Hill Fountain.

When they arrived, they found a third man also in a trench coat, also covering a DarkHorse uniform.

“About time you guys showed up.”

“Hey, fuck you,“ Dermitelli snapped. “We were just talking to our boss, alright? We’re going to meet him in a little while, around 0600, if you‘d like to join us.”

“The three of us together? I thought we agreed we weren’t going to do that.”

“Things have changed,“ Markin replied smoothly. “The wedding has been rescheduled. It’s now on the fifth instead of the fifteenth. We need to discuss new operation plans with the boss.”

The third man raised his eyebrows. “They moved the wedding up? What the hell for? Are we fucked already?”

Dermitelli shook his head. “I doubt it. If we were, we wouldn’t be in the free world, would we?”

“I guess not. But what about the DCI? We gotta keep tabs on him too.”

“We’ll make it work,” Dermitelli answered. “We’ve got more people on our side than you think.”

“I sure hope so, because the three of us alone can’t pull this off.”

“We know, Nitro,” Markin acknowledged.

Nitro sighed and looked around the fountain. “Alright then. Let’s go.”

The three men silently left the fountain and began walking back toward 72nd Street.

 

***

 

0310 hours

04.28.2009

Central Intelligence Agency

Langley, Virginia, United States of America

 

The Director of Central Intelligence was sitting in his office, watching the three men on a TV monitor. He lit up a cigarette and smiled lightly.

“Well…we’ll see what happens now, won’t we, gentlemen?”

The DCI turned the monitor off and left the room.

[Spike_1412]

Hmmmm. Veeeerry interesting. I wanna know what happens next!

[DJ BloodFrost]

Lol...I suppose you could guess, but I doubt you'd get it right. Here's some questions to think about while waiting for Chapter 2:

 

 

 

Just who are Markin and Dermitelli, anyway?

 

Who was Markin talking to on his cell phone?

 

Why did Dermitelli have a pistol with him in Central Park?

 

Assuming, from Hutson and Izon's conversation, that Markin and Dermitelli were previously discharged from the Central Intelligence Agency, why would the CIA put GPS transmitters in all their clothes? And why would Markin and Dermitelli even bother taking the transmitters out of their clothes if they knew the transmitters were there?

 

Why are Markin and Dermitelli looking for the DCI's girlfriend?

 

Who is Nitro? He is wearing a DarkHorse uniform, but is there something more to Nitro than that?

 

Assuming the DCI knows that Markin and Dermitelli (and possibly Nitro as well) are looking for his girlfriend, why did he seem so happy as he watched them leave Cherry Hill Fountain from his office in Langley?

[DJ BloodFrost]

IT'S BACK!!!

 

Code Xero has returned. I know it's been a long time since I last updated; sorry to those who have been waiting for Chapter 2. Now that I'm about a week from graduating from high school, I'll have a lot more time to work on it

[DJ BloodFrost]

Two

 

1400 hours

04.27.2009

Tomsk, Tomsk Oblast, Union of Soviet Socialist Republics

 

“You know, I never thought I’d be this happy about the reformation of the Soviet Union.”

“I never thought I would be so happy about the new comradeship between the KGB and the CIA, comrade. It astounds me.”

Vadim Rachlav and Christian Sanders quietly walked towards what was thought to be an abandoned warehouse. Rachlav carried a Kalashnikov AK-47; Sanders, an M16A2. The two men wore jackets that bore the word FIREPAWN on both shoulders. FIREPAWN, a secret worldwide organization known as For International Relations Encircling Peace And Worldwide Neutrality, and commonly called F8 among its members, consists of people who are members of counterintelligence, terrorist, or national crime agencies from various sovereign states, including the United States, the USSR, the European Union, Australia, China, and the recently formed African Democratic Republic. The organization, headquartered at an unknown location, specializes in counterterrorism and covert operations on rogue governments, and pulls its agents from such agencies as the Russian KGB, or Komitet Gosudarstvenoi Bezopasnosti, the French Groupe d´Intervention de la Gendarmerie Nationale, or GIGN, the German Grenzschutzgruppe-9, or GSG-9, the Amerikan Central Intelligence Agency and Federal Bureau of Investigation, or CIA and FBI, the Australian Security Intelligence Organisation, or ASIO, and the newly formed African Defence Force, or ADF.

Twelve hours earlier, F8HQ had received an anonymous call concerning the Amerikan Director of Central Intelligence. The caller claimed that his fiancée had been kidnapped, unbeknownst to him, and taken to a remote abandoned area in the USSR. FIREPAWN quickly began scanning all air flights into Russia’s multitude of rural airports and found that a single flight with no cargo had landed in the city of Tomsk, in the Tomsk Oblast of the former Russian Federation. FIREPAWN’s thermal imaging satellites went to work and located a single body in a far-off warehouse near the edge of the airport property. A strike team was deployed from the F8 regional safe house in St. Petersburg via cargo plane to Tomsk, and the force parachuted down to the ground where they advanced on the airport. Alpha Team, a four-man assault force, canvassed the entire airport for rogues, while Beta team, consisting of Sanders and Rachlav, went directly to the warehouse to rescue the DCI’s fiancée and return to the extraction point, a new cargo plane sent in from the Chinese regional safe house in Beijing parked on the runway farthest from the airport entrance.

As Sanders and Rachlav approached the warehouse, they de-holstered their weapons and went into commando-style positions. They picked up speed and made a blitz for the back door. As Rachlav stood guard, Sanders swiftly picked the lock on the door and let the two men inside.

“Remind me again; why are we doing this in daytime?”, Vadim queried.

“Because she may already be dead and we can’t wait any longer,” Sanders replied, almost in self-defeat at what lay before him.

In the middle of the warehouse lay a woman gagged, tied to a chair, and severely beaten. It appeared that in a frantic attempt to escape, she had tipped the chair over and had failed to get back up. Fortunately for Sanders and Rachlav, the woman was still breathing.

“I will free the woman. You call F8 and tell them what has happened,” Rachlav ordered.

“10-4.”

Rachlav strode over to the woman, pulled out a knife, and quickly freed her from the chair; he proceeded to remove her gag while Sanders grabbed his cell phone and dialed a number.

At FIREPAWN headquarters, Director George Timrison picked up his desk phone.

“Director Timrison here.”

“This is Agent Sanders. Target zero is secure. You can tell the DCI what happened. We’re leaving now.”

“Roger. What’s target zero’s condition?”

“Severely beaten, sir,” Sanders replied. He quickly looked over the woman’s body and continued. “No evidence of sexual crimes from what I can see, sir, so that’s a plus. Pistol-whipping looks like the main thing here. We‘ll have our post in St. Petersburg check her out.”

“10-4. Good work. Move out.”

“Roger that.” Sanders put his phone away, then looked over at Rachlav. “St. Petersburg is waiting for us. Let’s go.”

“Very well, comrade.”

Sanders stood guard at the door again while Rachlav holstered his AK-47 and carried the woman on her back. Sanders grabbed his M16A2 and began walking alongside Rachlav, looking around everywhere with his scope as he followed their tracks.

“COMRADE! OVER THERE!”

A bullet spray came from Rachlav’s left side as a group of four men came racing towards them. Sanders quickly aimed at one of the men’s head, but saw a familiar symbol on his jacket and slowly lowered his rifle. Rachlav pulled out a .54 pistol and watched. The four men, severely lacking breath, continued past them. Sanders and Rachlav quickly realized that this was Alpha Team.

“WE’VE BEEN COMPROMISED!”, yelled one of the men. “FALL BACK TO THE EXTRACTION POINT!”

“Rachlav, go,” Sanders snapped. “I’ll cover you.”

Rachlav followed the four men silently as Sanders looked back in the direction where the bullets came from. Through his scope he saw at least ten people in DarkHorse uniforms running in his direction. Sanders quickly pulled out his phone once again.

“Director Timrison.”

“Sir! What are our rules of engagement?”

“What?”

“We’ve been compromised, sir! Alpha Team and Rachlav are on their way to the extraction point, and I’m on cover. What are our rules of engagement?”

“Have you been engaged?”

“Yes sir!”

“Fire at will.”

“Roger that, sir!”

Sanders shut his phone, stuffed it in his pocket, and looked through the scope again. The DarkHorse agents were getting closer, too close for comfort in Sanders’s opinion. He quickly set his rifle to single shot and began to open fire on the incoming agents.

Rachlav and the four men, meanwhile, were running towards the nearby runway where the extraction team was waiting to airlift the team and hostage to Volgograd and then St. Petersburg for debriefing.

“Where’s Sanders?” one of the Alphas asked.

“He’s following us,” Rachlav answered. “He covered me so I could bring target zero with us.”

“Understood. Proceed to the plane, Rachlav, and get some armor. Then come out and join us,” the Alpha ordered.

Rachlav and Alpha Team raced to the plane, where Charlie Team, the twelve-man heavy-gunned extraction team, waited outside the plane with M60s and M134 Miniguns ready to fire. Rachlav passed the woman on to Alpha Team, who swiftly boarded the plane. Once inside, the on-board doctor took the woman into the plane health station to tend to her wounds as much as possible before the flight began.

Rachlav remained at the bottom of the stairs to the plane and watched the horizon. Out of nowhere, Sanders came running to him. “ON THE PLANE! ON THE PLANE NOW!”, he screamed. Rachlav quickly ran up the stairs; as Sanders followed him up, Charlie Team loaded their weapons and spun up the Minigun barrels. Alpha Team and Beta Team reappeared in full armor and arms and positioned themselves at the bottom of the stairs, ready to fire. Sanders was limping down the stairs; he had been shot in the leg.

DarkHorse agents poured in from all sides of the plane. Charlie Team was the first to engage, and approximately half of the DHC agents were wiped out with a single M60/M134 sweep. Alpha and Beta Teams followed up with a blitz to the horizon for last-second cleanup before takeoff. With the DarkHorse agents dispatched, all three F8 strike teams boarded the plane, the plane spun around, and raced down the runway and into the sky.

“Call the DCI. He’ll be happy to hear this,” Sanders told Rachlav on the plane.

“Why? F8 HQ will take care of that for us. And isn’t it already tomorrow morning over there, comrade?”

“Even if it is early in the morning there, news like this shouldn’t wait. I guess we’ll let F8 take care of it,” Sanders reasoned.

The two men sunk into some lounge chairs side by side and threw their guns on the floor. Sanders looked at his wound and sighed in anger. The doctor came into the lounge area.

“She’ll be fine. The pistol-whipping was extensive, but only superficial wounds, from what I can see. St. Petersburg can fix her up in no time.”

[DJ BloodFrost]

***

 

0330 hours

04.28.2009

Unknown Location

 

A single lamp illuminated Erik Profenski’s desk. In his dark world, a single lamp was all he desired. A huge banner hung behind his desk with the DarkHorse emblem sewn on it. A silenced Beretta 92 pistol lay on Profenski’s desk. But Profenski was not at his desk, or next to the banner, or playing with his pistol. He was pacing the room, waiting anxiously for something. He was sweating profusely and his eyes were bloodshot. He couldn’t stop wringing his hands and looking suspiciously around the room. It was as if he was waiting for someone to come in and assassinate him.

A knock sounded at his door. He quickly ran to his desk, grabbed the Beretta, pointed it at the door, and yelled, “come in!”

The doors opened, and three men walked inside: Markin, Dermitelli, and Nitro. The men simply ignored Profenski and his weapon, and they proceeded to sit down in the chairs surrounding his desk. Markin stared at Profenski.

“Put the fuckin’ gun down, will ya? You’re freakin’ me out.”

“Hey. You take orders from me, not the other way around,” Erik shakily stuttered.

“In your condition, you shouldn’t be giving orders at all, but taking them from a doctor. You take your meds lately?”

“No.”

“Dumb question,” snorted Nitro. “He never does.”

“Enough, gentlemen,” Dermitelli snapped. He slowly turned his head to face Profenski. “The ceremony has been moved up. It’s now the fifth of May, not the fifteenth.”

“Fuck,” snarled Profenski. “And everything was planned, too.”

“We can change things, sir,” Markin replied. “The teams are ready, right?”

“Yeah.”

“They know what to do, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Then we’ll just change the operation date.”

Profenski began pacing the room again.

“For the love of god, stop MOVING!”, Nitro yelled.

“Dude, shut up,” Dermitelli bellowed. “He’s under a lot of stress.”

“No, I’m fine,” Profenski slowly replied. “Thank you, gentlemen. You are dismissed.”

“Thank god,” Nitro spat.

The three men got up, saluted Profenski, and exited his office. As they were walking out, Erik’s desk phone rang. The men froze. Erik trembled as he walked over to the desk and picked it up. He did not speak, but listened. “Thank you,” he said, and he slowly replaced the receiver. He looked at the three men.

“She’s gone. They found her.”

 

***

 

0700 hours

04.28.2009

Regional Office, Federal Bureau of Investigation

Las Vegas, Nevada, United States of America

 

“I can’t believe they slipped out under our fingers like that!”, Omar exclaimed.

“I can. They worked for CIA, remember? They know everything we know, and then some. We can’t expect them to suck at their former job,” Hutson replied.

The two special agents were standing in front of a large wall map of the United States with hundreds of arrows, pushpins, and pictures plastered all over it. Operation BLOODHORSE was not going well; the FBI needed everything they could get out of Markin and Dermitelli to stop the DarkHorse operation to assassinate the DCI and his wife at their wedding. Both men knew it was a sick plot, but they knew they couldn’t put anything past Erik Profenski, and this just made it even more clear to Hutson and Omar that people like Profenski will do anything to get what they want.

Izon strolled into the room. “OK, guys, good news and bad news. You know how the DCI’s wife was kidnapped, cloned, and then stowed away in Russia? Heard about this morning, I suspect?”

“Yeah,” Omar replied.

“Well, the good news is, she’s no longer there. She was rescued. The bad news is, we don’t know who got her out, and we don’t know where she is now.”

“So she’s out of DarkHorse hands,” Hutson reasoned. That’s a good thing.

“Maybe they just moved her,” Omar noted.

“Possible, but not probable. Way too early to move her again. They just had her in Moscow 6 hours ago. Not likely they’d move her again.”

“I agree,” Izon stated. “Somebody went in there and got her out. She’s safe now. But with who, we don’t know. We’re working on it, though. I’ll let you know when we find anything.”

“You won’t find her.”

The agents turned and saw the Director of the FBI, Cray Jantil, standing in the doorway to Hutson’s office.

“Sorry, sir,” Hutson stammered. “We didn’t know you were there.”

“I know,” Jantil replied. “You three, come with me.”

The men looked at each other inquisitively, and resigned to their order. They trailed after the Director as he strode into an empty side office. Jantil shut the door after the three agents and locked it.

Jantil faced the men. “I’m sorry, guys, but we’re going to have to transfer you.”

“What!?”, Omar exclaimed. “No! I refuse. This is stupid. We‘ve been in Vegas for years. This is our home; we‘re not leaving. We‘re working on a case here, damnit!”

“Now hold on a minute,” Jantil replied. “You will like where you’re being transferred. I guarantee it.”

“Las Vegas is fine with me, thank you very much,” Hutson retorted.

“Why would we want to move?”, Izon questioned.

“What, you guys can’t tolerate cold weather?”

The three men stared at each other incredulously. Omar looked slowly at Jantil.

“What the hell are you saying?”

“You’ve dug too far into the BLOODHORSE case, and I can’t let you go any further unless I transfer you.”

“To where?”

“Antarctica.”

Omar looked at Hutson. Hutson looked at Izon. Izon looked at Omar. The three men then stared at Jantil.

“Damn,” Hutson whispered.

“So it does exist,” Izon stuttered.

“We’re being transferred to FIREPAWN, aren’t we?”, Omar asked with a smile.

Jantil simply smiled back. “Head to the front doors. There’s an escort service waiting to take you to the airport. Leave your things here, I’ll have some people pack it all up for you.”

“What about our work on BLOODHORSE?”

“You won’t need it. Where you’re going, they already have all that documentation and then some.”

[DJ BloodFrost]

***

 

1825 hours (EST)

04.30.2009

FIREPAWN World Headquarters

Antarctica

 

Former FBI agents Calvin Hutson, Darren Izon, and Manuel Omar cautiously entered the small building near where their escort parked. At the desk were two fully armed security guards. FBI Director Cray Jantil was waiting at the desk for them.

Jantil glanced over at the guards. “They’re here.” The guards stood up, grabbed three ID tags off the back wall, and handed them to Jantil, who proceeded to pass them out to the three men. In astonishment and awe, the three men affixed the tags to their jackets.

“We’re actually working for FIREPAWN. I can’t believe it!”, Omar exclaimed.

“This is nuts,” Hutson muttered.

“No, this is fucking crazy,” Izon snorted.

“Enough, boys,” Jantil snapped. “You are the elite now, so start acting like it. Follow me.”

Jantil led the three men down the hallway and to a large steel door at the end. “Take a look at your tags,” Jantil ordered. The men looked at the front and back of their IDs. “On the back of your tag is a twenty-digit ID number. This number identifies you throughout the HQ. At keypads like this, you enter the number.” Jantil demonstrated the procedure and the door slid open, revealing the next room.

The men were astounded at what they saw.

A gigantic duplicate of the FIREPAWN insignia was attached to the far end of the kilometer cubic room. Jantil and the three agents had walked onto a ledge that went up and down like an elevator; a small control panel at the corner of the ledge controlled which floor the ledge stopped at. There were at least twenty floors from what the men could see, and all the floors (excluding the bottom floor) were fifty centimeter thick tempered glass supported by large metal beams stretching from the floor to the ceiling.

“Gentlemen,” Jantil announced, “welcome to FIREPAWN World Headquarters.”

Jantil pressed the up button on the control panel, and the elevator shot up at a high velocity. One glass floor after another raced downward past the four men. They were able to pick out bits and pieces of conversations between desk workers as the elevator screamed on its way up the shaft. Suddenly, the elevator entered a much smaller shaft, and the glass floor room disappeared from view. The elevator slowed down to a halt, and the men found themselves standing in front of two sliding doors with the F8 insignia on them. The doors slowly slid back.

A large circular office came into view. The outer wall was made completely of glass, giving a spectacular view of the frozen continent from 1500 meters above the surface of the ice. The complex sprawled out below the office in a pyramidal form; the three new agents easily inferred that there was much more to see in this building.

Jantil strode into the office and sat down in the chair behind the desk. Izon, Omar, and Hutson followed him in. The saw two more elevators on either side of the elevator they came off of. Jantil picked up a phone on the desk and dialed a short number. “Angela? Any visitors?” He paused. “Send them in.” He hung up the phone and looked at the three new arrivals. “Sit down,” he said, motioning to the couches surrounding the desk.

The agents cautiously obeyed.

“Is there something you want to tell us, sir?”, Omar slowly asked.

“Certainly. I was your director at the FBI, and now I’m your director at F8.”

“You run FIREPAWN!?”, Hutson exclaimed.

“I do now. The last director died recently under suspicious circumstances. I was nominated and elected to take over. A new FBI director will be installed within twenty four hours, so don’t worry about that.”

One of the elevators suddenly opened, and two men, apparently drained of all physical and mental capacity, walked into the room.

“Rachlav, Sanders, have a seat,” Jantil motioned.

Vadim Rachlav and Christian Sanders sat down in the couch opposite that of Hutson, Omar, and Izon. Sanders was wincing, and Rachlav’s uniform was stained with blood. The three former FBI men appeared rather squirrelly at the sight.

“What’s wrong with you, Sanders?”, Jantil inquired.

“Bullet wound, sir.”

“Where?’

“Leg, sir.”

“You’re at ease, soldier. Stop addressing me that way.” Jantil picked up the phone and made another call. “Send a technician up here; we got a wounded agent.” He hung up the phone.

“Sir?”, Izon asked. “Who are these men?”

Motioning toward them, Jantil responded, “Gentlemen, meet Christian Sanders from Covert Ops, and Vadim Rachlav from Extraction Services. Sanders, Rachlav, this is Darren Izon from Demolitions, Calvin Hutson from Covert Ops, and Manuel Omar from Technops. I hope you five boys like each other, because you’ll be working together on the BLOODHORSE project.” Jantil rotated in his chair to face the window behind him. “And some others will be joining you soon as well, I suspect…”

“Who?”, Rachlav asked.

Jantil was silent. A medical technician with a suitcase appeared at the elevator, walked over to Sanders, and began working on extracting the bullet. Sanders yelled in pain as the technician pulled out the .45 slug. The technician quickly injected Sanders with an unknown substance, and almost immediately Sanders faded into unconsciousness. The tech then pulled out a strange-looking instrument and turned it on. Within a minute, the end of the instrument was glowing dark orange. He inserted the instrument into the wound and smoke rose from Sanders’s skin. Rachlav pulled out a stick of gum and began to chomp on it while the other men jumped back in horror.

“What the hell are you doing!?”, Omar shouted.

“I’m heat-shocking the wound. It will close faster that way.” The technician put his things away in the suitcase and walked to the elevator. “If he doesn’t wake up in three minutes, call the infirmary immediately.” The doors slid shut.

Jantil’s phone rang. He swiveled around and picked it up.

“Yes?…already?…of course.” He hung up and looked at the five agents. They simply looked back in confusion.

A set of elevator doors suddenly opened, and three DarkHorse agents strode into the room. Two of the men held MP5s, the other held a Beretta 92. Hutson, Izon, Omar, and Rachlav sprang from their seats and drew their weapons. The three DHC men aimed their weapons just as the F8 agents aimed their weapons.

“Sir! Get down!”, Izon yelled.

“Why? They work for me.”

Hutson slowly turned around, while the other F8 agents held their position. Hutson gripped his Desert Eagle tightly. “What exactly are you saying, sir?”

“Gentlemen, meet Jonathan Markin from Covert Ops, Anthony Dermitelli from Demolitions, and Nitro from Intelligence.”

Hutson’s jaw dropped. Sanders was now regaining consciousness. He spotted the three DHC men and swiftly drew his weapons, but instead of aiming back, the DarkHorse agents lowered their weapons.

“I don’t get it,” Sanders stammered. “What’s going on?”

[Spike_1412]

KICK ASS! You sure know your Military Weapons.

 

Is the Foreword part of the planned wedding assasination?

 

"I don’t get it' date='” Sanders stammered. “What’s going on?”[/quote']

Same here. I thought F8 was working against DHC?

 

Anyway, keep up the writing, cuz it KICKS ASS!

[DJ BloodFrost]

LMAO, I thought everyone had lost interest in this story. I'm still working on it, though, so don't worry.

 

Yes, the Foreword is part of the planned assassination. I figured I might as well give that away because it's so obvious.

 

And as for F8 and DHC...well...you'll just have to wait and see

[Vash_the_Stampede]

I just read it all. Good job, I can't wait for more.

[DJ BloodFrost]

I just read it all. Good job' date=' I can't wait for more.[/quote']

 

Thanks. OK, time for the next chapter

[DJ BloodFrost]

Three

 

1825 hours

04.30.2009

Central Intelligence Agency

Langley, Virginia, United States of America

 

“So tell me about the kidnapping.”

Director of Central Intelligence Leonard Jared was sitting at the end of a conference table. The others present at the table were high-ranking CIA officials, heads of various CIA departments, and personal hand-picked advisors. Jared had called a meeting to discuss the kidnapping of his fiancée, Kelsie Paldono.

“Apparently, three teams of DarkHorse operatives broke into her San Antonio, Texas residence and kidnapped her,“ Special Advisor Wayne Farren replied. “She was transported from there to an unknown location, and then to Dulles International Airport, where the strike team and Kelsie flew to Heathrow Airport in London. From there, they took another flight to Pulkovo in St. Petersburg. From there, they drove to Tomsk. Hell of a drive, I’ll tell you that. I’m surprised DHC didn’t open the abandoned airport and use that. Probably couldn’t disable the plane’s tracking in time for takeoff. There was no sign of an electronics team at this kidnapping, so that’s how I would explain it.”

“Then explain to me, Mr. Farren, why I was able to call her and speak to her two days ago.”

Farren froze. He slowly turned and looked down the table.

“You didn’t…”

Dr. Zulo Hamil, the CIA Director of Chemical Engineering, looked up. His eyes were alert, and he was sweating profusely.

“Let me explain, sir-”

“You cloned my fiancée, didn’t you?”, Jared asked.

“We needed volunteers, sir! She volunteered! She filled out all the paperwork. I have it here, sir.” Hamil began rummaging through his suitcase in a panic.

“DOCTOR!”

Hamil jumped in his chair and stared at the Director. He gulped nervously.

“Sit still. You’re scaring the hell out of everyone in this room. I don’t care whether you cloned my fiancée or not. What I do want to know is how the hell she was kidnapped in the first place.”

Hamil shook his head fervently. “I can’t answer that, sir.”

“The hell you can’t.”

“He can’t, sir. That was my doing.”

Jared looked across the table in shock. “You let my fiancée get kidnapped?”

“It was bait, sir,” answered George Vardin, Director of International Counterintelligence. “We asked Dr. Hamil to ask your fiancée if she would be willing to subject herself to the beta phase of his technology. She agreed, she filled out all the necessary paperwork, and Dr. Hamil proceeded with the operation. We then took the clone and put her in a highly reachable location - her unlocked residence - and waited for DHC to kidnap her.”

“Why?”

“We’ve learned that DHC has plans for an operation to overtake and shut down FIREPAWN. We’re not sure what the plans are exactly, or who’s involved, but we believe the operation is being written up and experimented with at the abandoned airport in the Tomsk Oblast where F8 picked Kelsie up. The Counterintelligence Division has come up with over a billion computer generated scenarios for a F8 takeover by DHC, and only about 50 of those options are feasible. All 50 of those options include the usage of Kelsie.”

“To what end?”

“We believe, sir, that DHC knows of the CIA’s connection to FIREPAWN.”

Jared looked down at the table in silence. Vardin continued.

“The scenario we believe to be most likely is this. On May 5th, 2009, DarkHorse Corporation will execute a guerilla warfare style operation to bring all FIREPAWN operations to a complete standstill. At the same time…you and your fiancée will be assassinated at your wedding ceremony in Mexico.”

Jared’s eyes flickered in rage. “It’s not possible,” he snarled.

“We couldn’t figure out the idea behind an assassination either, until we realized that with FIREPAWN overrun and you dead, nobody will be able to stop DarkHorse. No military operation could be mobilized fast enough. We’ve tried every possible scenario, with every US military base in the world. If this does indeed go down the way we expect, there would be too much force for a single base to handle. Covert operations would be out of the question, for the same reason.”

Jared looked down at the floor for a minute. Then he returned his gaze to his advisors.

“Well…if DarkHorse knows who’s between us and FIREPAWN…I guess it’s time to bring them to service.”

 

***

[DJ BloodFrost]

1835 hours (EST)

04.30.2009

FIREPAWN World Headquarters

Antarctica

 

Jantil’s desk phone rang again.

Appearing fully agitated, Jantil snatched the receiver. “Who is it?…Oh…Sorry, Leo, didn’t know it was you…you what?…wait a second, Leo…alright…alright, hang on.”

Jantil activated the speakerphone and replaced the receiver. He looked up at the DHC and F8 agents at a standoff in his office. “Gentlemen…sit down.”

No one moved.

“That’s an ORDER!”

Everyone jumped at the sudden increased volume in Jantil’s voice. They slowly sat down in the nearest seats, weapons still drawn. Daggers were being thrown from eye to eye across the room.

“OK, Leo. I’ve got the members of BLOODHORSE here. I want to discuss this with them, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all. They deserve input. They are the first line, after all.”

Omar looked at the phone with great suspicion. “Who is that?”

“Gentlemen of the BLOODHORSE project, I have here on the phone Leonard Jared, the Director of Central Intelligence, United States Department of Defense. Director Jared, I have here the…official…members of Operation BLOODHORSE. They are Double Agents Jonathan Markin, Anthony Dermitelli, and Nitro, and Special Agents Christian Sanders, Vadim Rachlav, Calvin Hutson, Darren Izon, and Manuel Omar.”

Izon bore an expression of shock on his face. He faced the three men in the DarkHorse uniforms. “You guys are double agents!?”

Markin slowly looked up. “Now that you’ve calmed down…I can easily say yes.” He quietly slid his Beretta inside his uniform. Dermitelli and Nitro followed suit, as did the FBI transfers.

Sanders winced as he shifted in his seat. “So let me get this straight. You guys,” motioning towards the DHC agents, “are moles in DarkHorse Corporation who actually work for FIREPAWN…right?”

Nitro nodded. “That is correct. We’ve been on the inside for several months now, and we’ve quickly risen to the top. We have access to Profenski whenever we desire.”

“What type of information have you extracted so far…comrades?“ Rachlav cautiously inquired.

“That’s what this conference call is for,” the speakerphone’s voice replied. “Apparently my fiancée was kidnapped by DHC, and I’m in the middle of a meeting discussing just that.”

Rachlav quickly jumped back in. “That’s what we came to Director Jantil about, Mr. Jared. Apparently…”

“…my wife spontaneously combusted while in F8 custody?” the voice replied.

Sanders raised his eyebrows. “That is correct, sir. May I ask how you know this?”

“I was just informed of it myself. Some others at this meeting can explain. Director Vardin?”

A different voice began speaking. “Members of BLOODHORSE, my name is George Vardin I am the Director of International Counterintelligence for the CIA. The reason Kelsie Paldono ‘spontaneously’ combusted while in transport to Antarctica can be traced to some recent intelligence my department has obtained.”

Jantil leaned forward in curiosity. “Continue, Director.”

“From what we understand, DHC is planning a two-fold operation in the Tomsk Oblast of the Russian Federation. One part of this operation consists of a complete takeover of FIREPAWN by DarkHorse Corporation. The other part is the assassination of the DCI and his fiancée at their wedding ceremony in Mexico on May 5th.”

“I understand the take over. Why the assassination?” Jantil asked.

“Profenski wants Kelsie killed because she dumped him in high school for now-Director Jared. Simple case of revenge. The DCI is different. If the DCI is assassinated, then only one person in the world would be able to stop DHC. And that person is, let‘s just say, on vacation.”

“You mean Xero,“ Sanders answered.

Jantil looked up at Sanders, perplexed. “Who’s Xero?”

“Yeah, I figured somebody would know who I was talking about. Xero was the lone product of the MKULTRA project, where the CIA attempted to create a ‘Manchurian Candidate’. The Agency actually succeeded, but nobody outside of my voice knows that. Anyone else who does know that is either dead at the hands of Xero or dead of old age.”

“So where is this Xero now?” Hutson asked.

“He left the CIA several years ago to establish his own espionage agency. That agency is known today as FIREPAWN.”

Dermitelli’s jaw dropped to the floor. “I thought George Timrison founded F8!”

“No. Xero founded F8. But F8 started to probe too deeply into DHC for Xero’s liking, so he left. He installed Timrison as the director and destroyed all records concerning his existence.”

“Where did he go then?”

“Nobody officially knows, but we think he relocated to Hawaii.”

Omar looked at the three DHC men. “Did you guys know about Xero?”

Markin shook his head. “Nope. Didn’t have a clue.”

“Only the CIA knew about Xero after he left F8. We kept it under wraps in case we ever needed his assistance again. We feel it’s time we call him into service again.”

“So what does any of this have to do with Kelsie’s…disappearance?” Jantil asked.

“That’s where the Chemical Engineering Department comes in. That director, Dr. Zulo Hamil, can elaborate.”

A third voice came on the speakerphone. “Director Jantil, members of BLOODHORSE, I am Dr. Zulo Hamil, CIA Director of Chemical Engineering. I am currently running an experiment concerning human cloning. My department has created cloning technology that, to the best of our testing results, can produce healthy clones of human beings. The source humans have never been affected in any way during our trials. During the beta testing of this technology, we were short on volunteers for testing and analysis. Director Vardin came to me and suggested that I employ the assistance of Kelsie Paldono; he said this would benefit both myself and him.”

Jantil stopped the doctor at this point. “Dr. Hamil, how would cloning the DCI’s fiancée help Director Vardin?”

Vardin himself jumped back into the conference call. “In order to find out just what was going on in the Tomsk, we felt it necessary to send in someone who would be above suspicion, yet highly useful to us, for surveillance purposes. The obvious choice was Kelsie. We asked her if she would agree to the experiment, she did so of her own decision, the doctor’s team cloned her, and kept her in a CIA safe house while her clone was sent back to San Antonio. We anonymously tipped off DarkHorse using their own radio frequencies, they kidnapped her, and took her to Tomsk. What they didn’t realize was that Kelsie’s ‘reading glasses’ were simply pieces of highly reflective plastic with a camera built into the bridge. We figured the best way to get surveillance into Tomsk was through the use of reading glasses. Kelsie doesn’t wear glasses at all, but DHC doesn’t know that. Now what we didn’t realize was that you guys were watching the Tomsk installation the whole time. You saw Kelsie was there, and you sent in a team to get her out. This is where Dr. Hamil comes back into the picture.”

Hamil took the hint. “One of the things my team discovered is that the cloning technology we invented could do more than just clone people. It can enhance humans in many ways. We can give people x-ray vision, superhuman strength, supersonic hearing, etc. One of the very useful things we found out, actually through experimental error, was that we can implant a time bomb into the clones so that, after a set amount of time, the clone will ‘spontaneously’ combust in such a fashion that there are not even any ashes to be found. We installed, in Kelsie’s clone, a 48-hour time bomb, thinking we would get a good eighteen to twenty-four hours of surveillance. Unfortunately, F8 picked her up before she ‘saw‘ anything useful, and she therefore combusted while on F8 transport to Antarctica.”

“So how does all of that relate to Xero?” Omar asked.

“I can answer that,” Rachlav replied. “When Xero founded FIREPAWN, he specifically stayed away from investigating DarkHorse Corporation. I don’t know why, and to my knowledge no one does. Some people began to suspect that Xero was a mole installed in FIREPAWN by DarkHorse, but that was never proven. When Xero found out just how far F8 was probing into DHC, he left. Then-Director of Special Services George Timrison was appointed to take over for Xero, under the condition that he never allowed F8 to investigate DarkHorse. Timrison agreed to this stipulation, but soon after Xero left, Timrison reneged on his promise, probably because he too did not want to be labeled as a DHC mole. Using F8’s resources, Timrison went after DHC like you wouldn’t believe. Timrison was convinced we would find all the answers to our questions about DarkHorse in Tomsk…and then he died. So, as it stands, Xero is invisible and out of contact, Timrison is dead, and DHC had, and probably still has, a mole in FIREPAWN. In short, we are in ‘deep shit‘, as the Americans would say.”

“All true,” Jared replied over the speakerphone. “And the biggest problem is that Xero holds all the answers now. We know Timrison is dead, but we’re not sure about Xero. We have to find him, and fast.”

“Agreed,” Jantil replied. “I’ll come with you, Jared. I’ll bring Sanders and Rachlav along as well, since they knew him best.”

Sanders snorted in humor. “Nobody knows Xero. We just worked for him.”

 

***