The phalanx code, p.6
The Phalanx Code, page 6
“Roger that,” I replied. “Let’s find her.”
Van Dreeves nodded. “This is our route to the area west of Denver where the drone last tracked Blair through the snow, here into this wooded area with a creek.”
“No thermal on her?” I asked.
“None that we can find. I’m assuming Phalanx and the president also have teams out here looking for her.”
“Flight time?”
“At two hundred knots, less than an hour. We will be pissing off all kinds of air traffic controllers,” Van Dreeves said.
“Let me worry about that,” West said from the cockpit.
West maneuvered the helicopter like a roller coaster through the valleys angling west to east off the front range of Colorado. Lights slipped beneath us, and small towns flashed as we studied the map where Blair had disappeared.
“That river has snow on either side,” Hobart said. “Should be able to track her.”
“Got a bogie in the same AO. About two miles from where Misha saw her an hour ago. Westland helicopter is setting down. No ping for friend or foe, which means they’re foe,” West said.
“Has to be Phalanx,” I said. “What’s the size of their usual hit squad?”
“Their commander is Tyger Cyrilla, and they have scout teams of three to four pax, like a mini A-team. Medic, comms guy, sniper, and leader,” Van Dreeves said.
“Same as what Misha said,” I said.
“I’m … here. Listening,” Misha chimed in through our headsets.
“Thank you, ma’am,” I replied. Then, “Time on target, Jeremy?”
“Seven mikes,” he replied. In seven minutes, we would be over the last known location of Blair Campbell and perhaps facing off with a Phalanx team. After what seemed like an hour, West lowered the aircraft onto an open field. Our doors were open, and we sat on the edge of the cargo bay, legs dangling in the sky. The reassuring weight of the M4 carbine in my hands felt good after a year away from my chosen profession. I had always been a soldier, even as a kid. It was my duty to serve and lead. There had never been another option.
“Got movement up the ridge. Go, go, go. Taking fire,” West said as he began hovering above a snow-covered hilltop. We were out of the helicopter in less than three seconds. The biting wind sliced across my face.
“Three up,” Hobart said. He used the call sign Dagger Three because he was the operations lead for my team.
“Four up,” Van Dreeves said. As the medic and communications lead, he used the suffix typically associated with logistics.
“Six up,” I said. As the commander, I was Dagger Six.
“Six … this is command,” Misha said through our earpieces. “I have … imagery. Opti-Sleeve.”
“Roger, out.”
We huddled and looked at our Opti-Sleeves. I lifted the camouflaged cover and stared at a dimly lit thermal projection of a hillside. Three figures were scrambling up the ridge toward a lone individual, who had to be Blair, edging along a narrow cliff. She leaped across a small defile and removed something from her backpack as she turned toward her pursuers.
“Can you get a shot on that, Joe?” I asked Hobart, who had charged his SR-75 sniper rifle with thermal sight and infrared aiming device.
“In about a minute when they will get to the ridge she was just on. It will have to be quick,” he said.
Van Dreeves said, “I’ve got thermal on my SIG. You take the first two. I’ll take third in line. They’ll be strung out along that skinny ridge.”
“Command confirm we are on target,” I asked Misha.
“On … target,” she replied. The stress of the situation was impacting her speech. She spat out the word “target” as if sprung from her vocal cords.
“Roger. Good copy.”
“Shoot to kill?” Hobart asked.
“You know any other way to shoot?” I replied.
“Roger that,” he said.
“These could be federal agents and not just some rogue hit squad for Phalanx and Blanc,” Van Dreeves observed.
“Understood. They’re still going after the president’s daughter. We have no authority, but we also have no constraints. We execute our code to take care of each other and our duty to the country, which includes protecting the president’s family. There are two dead Secret Service agents. All the proof I need we are doing the right thing for the country.”
“Roger that,” Van Dreeves said.
“Target,” Hobart said.
My Opti-Sleeve showed two flashes coming from Blair’s location, followed by thunderous booms.
She was shooting at them?
I recalled her love of marksmanship and firearms and infrequent trips with her and Reagan to the range at Fort Bragg. She asked about shotguns, pistols, rifles, and military hardware. Had me teach her to break them down and put them back together. Her sincere curiosity humored me. Reagan was interested but Blair was into guns.
Hobart squeezed off two shots in chorus with Van Dreeves’ one shot. Van Dreeves followed with a second on his target.
“Two down,” Hobart said.
“One down,” Van Dreeves said.
“Command, do you have comms with Jackpot?”
There was a long pause and I wondered if Misha understood that “Jackpot” was the commonly used call sign for a high-value target we were rescuing.
“Standby,” Misha said.
“Who’s there?! Who’s there!? This is Colt!”
Misha had connected us directly with Blair Campbell. The Secret Service had assigned her the call sign “Colt,” given her love of firearms and the fact that she had a concealed-carry permit for her Colt Python .357 Magnum 3˝ revolver.
“Blair, Garrett Sinclair here. We are close,” I said.
“I shot them. I think. Wait. One is moving…”
Two more booms echoed along the valley. The drone video playing on my Opti-Sleeve showed Blair hunkered down behind the trunk of a large tree and three bodies littered on the ridge just twenty meters away from her. We had delivered an unplanned ambush upon the Phalanx team.
“We are coming to you. Hold your position,” I said.
“Okay…” Her voice was hesitant.
“I know your mom. My wife was your mom’s best friend,” I said.
She paused, processing. She was Reagan’s age and had an entire universe of life of which I was only a small part. It probably took her a few seconds to make the connection, especially because there was no face to go with my disembodied voice talking in her ear.
“Reagan’s dad,” she said. Not a question.
“And Brad’s,” I added for further confirmation.
“The general in jail,” she said.
Not exactly the memory spark I had been hoping for, but it did have a certain ring to it. By now Van Dreeves and I were moving while Hobart remained in place to secure our pickup zone and cover our movement to Blair’s location.
“Yes, that one,” I said through rapid breaths as we crossed a small creek and climbed up a steep slope. We grabbed at rocks and tree roots on the icy incline. Eventually we were behind Blair’s position and halted.
“Blair, we are behind you,” I said.
“I see you,” she replied. A flashlight blinked twice, maybe thirty meters in front of us. We moved toward Blair, who was trembling. Van Dreeves extracted a Gore-Tex jacket from a rescue bag he carried and slid it around her shoulders. She hugged him and then me.
“Thank you, General Sinclair,” she said, likely shivering both from the cold and the intensity of the situation.
“Let’s get you out of here.” Then to Hobart, “Call West back in.”
“Already inbound,” West said in my earpiece.
While I held on to Blair, Van Dreeves navigated the ledge and inspected the bodies, securing equipment and hopefully identification. Soon, we were moving quickly along the trail we had blazed through the woods, across the creek and up onto the landing zone hilltop.
“Dagger Six coming in,” I said.
“Tracking you,” Hobart replied.
We clawed up the icy slope about the time helicopter blades sounded in the distance. Dirt spit into my face as I was cresting the hill.
“Taking fire,” I said.
“Drone,” Hobart replied.
“I see it with thermals,” West replied.
Remembering the Dariush Parizad incident two years ago in our nation’s capital during the inauguration and the recent drone shot on Emily Sedgewick, we had secured two counter drone missiles from Drewson’s Batcave. One was with Hobart and the other on West’s helicopter.
“Acquired,” Hobart said.
A thunk sounded nearby and a rocket streaked into the sky, deploying a net that wrapped up the drone and caused it to spin wildly until it smashed into the ground. On our way to the pickup zone, Van Dreeves secured the netted drone, disabled the weapon, and carried it by his side.
“PZ clear,” I said.
“Thirty seconds,” West replied.
He touched down, we hopped on, and he lifted away. Hobart sat on the edge of the cargo bay, knees in the breeze, while Van Dreeves used a snap hook to secure his outer tactical vest.
Placing my headset on, I said, “Who we got following us?”
“Just about the entire world,” West replied.
By now, Blair had assessed her situation, donned Hobart’s headset, and slid onto the bench next to Van Dreeves.
“This is Blanc,” she said. “He’s got these contract mercenaries working for him.” She froze and looked at me, her eyes wide. “Oh my God, is Evelyn okay? Where is she? I was supposed to meet her when those guys started chasing me.”
“Jake Mahegan and his team headed to Denver International to find her.”
“Yes, that was where I was supposed to meet her,” Blair said. “The private terminal there. She wanted to discuss the Phalanx Code with me.”
I nodded and looked at her across the table in our command suite. “Blair, you need to know that—”
“Emily’s dead. Oh my God. Misha told me. Oh my God.”
She put her hand to her mouth and looked away. The helicopter banked hard, lifted, and sunk into a valley. West was doing his pilot stuff.
“I’m sorry about Emily, Blair,” I said, reaching across and gripping her hand. She looked at me with her mother’s upturned nose and wide blue eyes. Her blond hair was ratty and dark, askew between the headset earmuffs.
“We knew there was a chance of this when we joined Mitch’s team, but it seemed so … remote.”
“Nothing remote about death,” I said, releasing her grip. Turning to Van Dreeves I asked, “Status on Jake and team?”
“Dry hole,” Van Dreeves said.
“Already?” I asked.
“Just filtering in,” Van Dreeves said.
“Dagger … Six … have update … when you arrive,” Misha said from the command center.
“Roger that,” I replied.
Shortly, West landed us on the ledge of Drewson’s giant Batcave. We deplaned and hustled through the yawning cavernous doors. Two crew pulling an aircraft tug jogged past us. Inside the hangar, we walked to the far wall, maybe a hundred meters across, and knelt. Drewson came barreling from the door nearest us and scooped up Blair in his arms.
“Oh my God, I’m so happy to see you,” he exclaimed. Drewson spun around holding Blair, who pushed away.
“Mitch. Come on. Emily’s dead. Evelyn could be in trouble. The Phalanx kill list is still active. I mean, there’s nothing to celebrate.”
They separated. Drewson stared at her awkwardly for a moment, then composed himself.
“Yes, yes, of course,” he said. He placed his hand on her shoulder, but she was quick to shrug it off. “I’m just so glad that you’re alive.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I just need some time to process,” she replied.
“Mr. Drewson, first, we need a doctor to look at Blair. If you don’t have one, Van Dreeves here can do it. Second, we’ve got some stuff that needs to be analyzed. I’m assuming you’ve got some folks that can go through phones and smartwatches?” I asked.
“Our doctor is on the way in the hyperloop and will be here momentarily. And yes, I have an equipment technician,” Drewson said. “But as Blair said, there has a been a development with Evelyn.”
7
“JAKE AND TEAM DIDN’T get Evelyn,” he said. “Follow me.”
As I thought about Evelyn Champollion and what she might be to Drewson and even Coop, we followed the billionaire along a labyrinth of mine shafts until we were in a brightly lit room with white ceilings and glassed walls. Inside the room were about ten tables where an assortment of men and women were dressed in the Drewson uniform of khaki pants and black shirts with Optimus stitched in italics on the left breast. Optimus was on a light blue background that faded to a starlit black night sky, as if humanity’s possibilities were infinite.
“Hopefully something you found here can lead us to where they’re taking Evelyn,” Drewson said.
Van Dreeves spread three LanxPhones, three Zenith ZF-5 submachine guns, three communications headsets, and an assortment of ammunition, field dressings, and other tactical items such as knives, compasses, flex-cuffs, and night vision goggles. This was a tactical team. Van Dreeves spread his arms, as if to say, “It’s all yours.”
A slim, African American woman in her mid-thirties pushed inside the group. She was wearing a white lab coat, her thick black hair pulled into a ponytail, and nodded at Van Dreeves with serious eyes behind rimless spectacles.
“I’m Vanessa. Any pictures?” she asked.
Van Dreeves held up his OptiPhone and air dropped to Drewson’s server three facial pictures he had taken on location. The images of two men and one woman appeared on the twenty-four-inch tilt monitor that was in the center of the table. Vanessa punched some buttons and used a scanning device like you might see in a grocery store checkout line to image the weapon serial numbers.
“I’ll run these through Zebra team. Thank you,” Vanessa said.
As Vanessa left the room, a woman carrying an aid bag with a stethoscope around her neck walked in. She appeared mid-thirties with reddish blond hair and green eyes. Her lab coat had the Optimus symbol on it.
“Patient?” she asked.
“Not very much,” I responded.
She smirked and said, “Cute, General Sinclair. Now where is the patient?”
“Here. Blair Campbell. The president’s daughter,” I said pointing at Blair.
“Yes. Blair and I know each other, don’t we?”
“Hi, Amanda,” Blair said.
“What seems to be the problem? Chased by those guys?” Amanda said, pointing at the screen Vanessa had displayed.
There was something familiar about the doctor that I couldn’t place just yet, but her golden hair and green eyes took me back ten years or so.
“Something like that. These guys came and got me,” Blair said, pointing at us. Not rescued me. Not saved me. Came and got me, as if she was fine on her own, which she might have been, in retrospect.
“Where’s Matt?” Amanda asked.
“Other mission to get Evelyn,” Blair said. “Which didn’t pan out.”
Then it hit me. This was Doctor Amanda Garrett, Matt’s niece.
“Amanda Garrett?” I asked.
She stared at me and smiled.
“Yes, General. Zach’s daughter. Matt’s niece. Small world that all your protégés are in this crazy mine shaft, isn’t it?”
I looked at Drewson.
“Did you collect up everyone associated with me?”
“As many as possible.” Drewson smiled. “If we are going to take on Phalanx and Blanc, then I need the best. It’s our only chance at peace or harmony in the world.”
Amanda took Blair into a side room, presumably to medically diagnose her, and we continued our sensitive site exploitation of the equipment that Van Dreeves had secured.
Taken aback by the presence of my closest operators, I said, “What’s the endgame here, Drewson? You’ve gathered most of the people I’ve ever cared about in one location, save my two children and a few others.”
“They all came willingly. In fact, it was mostly Misha’s idea. And Brad and Reagan are welcome any time, as are Zoey and Syl.” He turned to Hobart when he mentioned Zoey and their daughter Syl. “I encourage it, as a matter of fact. As you see with Emily Sedgwick and Blair’s Secret Service agents, Blanc will stop at nothing.”
Vanessa reentered the room and interrupted the conversation.
“I’ve got something here that might be of interest,” Vanessa said. “The Zebra team’s analysis of the technology the Phalanx assassins carried is notable.”
“Please,” I responded. We huddled around a white table that was backlit so that the items Van Dreeves had collected stood in stark relief on the top.
“These wireless earbuds and communications packs that Randy took from Blair’s pursuers use advanced frequency hopping to avoid detection by anyone trying to hack the communications. I’m able to track the signal back to a communications site in northeast Colorado.”
“Colorado?” I asked.
“Yes. Zebra believes it is one of Blanc’s command posts. Could be a combo Chinese government and Phalanx operation.”
“Why do you say that?”
“These guys,” she said pointing at the images on the monitor. “There’s overlap between the geolocation and what we know to be Chinese–owned land.”
China and Phalanx, just like the Eye of Africa operation.
Everyone in the lab stopped their respective tasks. Heads turned in our direction. Drewson looked at Amanda and Blair as they exited the exam room and walked toward us.
“Other than trauma from Emily’s death, she’s fine,” Amanda said.
“I’m ready to go to work,” Blair said. “I need to finish what Emily and I had started. And we need Evelyn back here to help with breaking the code.”
I didn’t fully understand what was happening or why everyone was so committed to their purpose within the Project Optimus enterprise. I was not an expert on the next iteration of the internet or decentralized finance. I understood that more control in an individual’s hands was generally a better thing. The genius of the framing documents was the balance of power, both within the federal government and between the states and the feds. Were ascendant technology companies strengthening one over the other, tilting the balance so that too much power was resident in the federal government? Probably, but that was a problem to be sorted within the system, not with violence.
