Reflexive Fire - 01 (35 page)

   “Yes,” Deckard answered.

   “Mr. O'Brien, please shut up.  Your response is not necessary, just listen and stay still.”

   They didn't need him to say anything, just measure his BOLD levels in response to each question.  The fMRI would take one scan a second, it was a variation of an event-based MRI that would essentially read his mind.

   “Your name is Jake O'Brien,” the voice repeated.

   Several seconds passed allowing time for the scans.  Like a polygraph, a series of control questions would be asked to establish a baseline.  Precedents had to be formed, sample scans indicated, so that when the real questioning began, they could determine what his mind looked like when it was told the truth and what it looked like when it was told a lie.

   “You were born in Raleigh, North Carolina.”

   What the technicians running the lie detector test didn't realize was that he was working under alias and all of their control questions were lies from the get go.

   “Your mother's name was Whitney Shepard.”

   Deckard breathed normally and allowed himself to relax, making no attempt at subterfuge.  The more convoluted the results the better.

   “Your father's name was Danny O'Brien.”

   The questions regarding Deckard's false past continued for what seemed like forever, but was probably only twenty minutes or so.  After covering his supposed childhood and military career, they finally began getting around to recent events.

   “You are the battalion commander of Samruk International.”

   It was a struggle to keep his eyes open.  He was completely exhausted and the grilling wasn't making things better.

   “You did not conduct combat operations in Burma.”

   Some negatives were occasionally thrown out to mix things up a little.

   “You were involved in the murder of Stevan Djokovic.”

   Deckard began reciting his seven times tables in his head.

   “You plotted the execution of your Executive Officer.”

  
Seven times seven equals fifty...no, forty nine.

  
“You personally led the assault on a casino in Panghsang.”

   “You allowed a situation to develop that resulted in the death of Stevan Djokovic.”

   They kept coming back to Djokovic, once again confirming that he had been a plant inside the battalion.  They were suspicious.  No doubt, Djokovic had sent them scathing reports about Deckard before he was killed.

   The questions kept coming, harder and faster then before, trying to trip him up.

   “You will follow any orders given to you.”

   “You will not disobey your instructions.”

   “You have no moral objections to ordering your men to certain death.”

   “You ordered two prisoners executed in Afghanistan.”

   “You ordered the murder of Stevan Djokovic.”

   “You were born in Raleigh, North Carolina.”

   “The assault of the UWSA headquarters was successful.”

   Deckard blinked hard, getting confused as the minutes dragged on.  The baseline questions may have been invalid, but his guard was lowered due to exhaustion.  He had one fail-safe, the one that was keeping him artificially calm.

   “You fired on the Chinese military in Burma.”

   Popping a couple of Valium pills in the changing room, they had taken effect just minutes later and would alter how his brain responded to questioning.  With the basic physiology of the brain altered by the drug, the entire results of the tests would be skewed and invalid.  The drug contained active benzodiazepines, which created a number of effects, including sedation, muscle relaxation, as well as anti-anxiety.  With the Valium running its course, the blood oxidization levels in Deckard's brain would remain at a fixed rate regardless of the probing questions he was subjected too.

   “You never question the validly of the orders you receive.”

   At least that was what he speculated. 

   “Your mother's maiden name is Shepard.”

   Two cognitive psychologists, two statisticians, and three MRI technicians poured over three-dimensional models of Deckard's brain from behind the double-sided mirror.  What they discovered was as frustrating as it was bizarre.

   The imaging was fed through a computer system that then displayed the graphical representation of the subject's brain while statements were given or questions asked.  Different colors would show up on the three-dimensional model brain, indicating which neural pathways were currently active.

   The team was the best in a very elite field of medicine and science.  Usually they were tasked to evaluate high-ranking members of intelligence agencies or corporate executives of the Fortune One Hundred set.  Billions of dollars and vital national security secrets rested on their shoulders on a daily basis.

   In ten years they had never failed to identify a traitor or corporate spy.  Zero false positives.  Federal raids of the suspects' homes and property after the team's confirmation always validated their findings.

   Tension filled the room.  They were closing in on two hours, longer then they'd ever spent with a single subject in the past.  The data shown on the computer monitors was opaque, strange, insane even.  They were assured that the subject was a highly capable military commander, but the readings said otherwise.

   Based on the scientific evidence alone, their subject was being told lies and truth all at the same time.  They had only seen this sort of thing in medical studies performed on schizophrenics at mental hospitals.

   One of the statisticians rubbed her hands nervously.

   Who was he?

   What was he?

   Finally the lead psychologist, a PhD from Harvard University, hurled the paper readouts in his hand across the room.

   “Fuck.”

Twenty Seven

   “In other words Peng fucked them,” Frank summarized.  “Just like Ramirez and Khalis.”

   “Hold on,” Deckard said, rubbing his eyes.  They sat in the S2 shack, or what passed for it inside Samruk's warehouse headquarters.  The intel section had come a long way, with flat screen HDTVs mounted to the walls for presentations and laptops set up as workstations, but it was still just a glorified plywood cubicle.

   “So JF finished interrogating Peng's accountant before we left?”

   “Yeah, and he told us that Peng had had a falling out with his people across the border in Thailand.  Drug money from the Golden Triangle is traditionally laundered through South East Asia to American and European banks located in Australia.  The Western banks were demanding a bigger slice of the action, so Peng started looking to the East, towards China specifically.”

   Deckard had only managed a few hours of sleep so far and was still trying to process the information.  The ache in his leg wasn't helping.

   “So the Burma mission was a consolidation, but of what?  Wealth and power, but then the next question becomes, to what end?  Why now?”

   “Someone wants to bankroll a huge amount of money and fast,” Frank replied.  “I'm afraid of what the end game might be, but it must be something big.”

   “When I first took over the battalion, they had these guys doing nothing but cordon and search operations to conduct gun confiscations,” Deckard said, rubbing the sides of his head.  “It was weird.”

   “What are you thinking?”

   “I'm afraid to say it.”

   “You think this has all been preparation for something else.”

   “I think the fringe benefit for our employers has been a consolidation of wealth, but they have a wider goal in mind as an end game,” Deckard said, shaking his head.  “Sergeant Major?”

   “Da.”

   “Give me a SITREP on the battalion.”

   “All companies are conducting command maintenance today.  Statements of loss are being compiled as we speak.  I will have them for you within the hour.”

   “Initial damages?”

   “Seven vehicles were rendered non-recoverable during the mission.  Six were destroyed by enemy aircraft, a seventh from Bravo Company drove over a landmine on the way back to RV at the field hospital.  All weapons are accounted for except one missing AK that Charlie Company lost when someone accidentally dropped it in a river.”

   The material losses seemed superficial compared to the dead.

   “Killed and wounded?”

   “Seventeen killed, twenty-four wounded.  Of those twenty-four, eight are still in the hospital with long recovery times.  The others should be back to work as soon as they get stitches removed or recover from concussions.”

   “What about the dead?”

   “Funeral arrangements are being made with families of the local men.  Bank accounts are being established for families who don't have them so life insurance payments can be made.  Tomorrow, the body of the only non-local will be flown back to the United States.  Roger Llewellyn.  He was killed in the truck that ran over that land mine.”

   “He was the former Marine that Adam brought on board,” Deckard cursed under his breath.  “Keep me updated.”

   “Of course,” the battalion's senior NCO stated.  His entire report was from memory.  He knew everything that was happening in his battalion.

   “What do we have for atmospherics?” Deckard asked, changing the subject.

   Frank looked down at his notes.  Atmospherics were general intelligence points, usually regarding a specific area or country.  Today they had to take the entire global situation into account if they wanted to predict where they would be sent next.

   “Gas prices back home just hit five dollars a gallon.  The spot price on gold is up to two thousand.  Almost twenty percent unemployment, with riots breaking out in Atlanta and Los Angeles.”

   “Heading for hyperinflation.”

   “It looks that way,” Frank continued.  “Several states are reacting by putting the National Guard on alert, but get this, CDC is telling state governments that they need to start stock piling bodybags.”

   “The left hand isn't talking to the right, typical government bureaucracy.  Somebody knows what is going on and is jumping the gun.  If the Center for Disease Control is getting in the act then this thing is going to be biological.”

   “It is,” Adam said, standing in the door with a handful of papers.

   “What do you have?”

   “I finally wormed my way into the servers in Singapore.”

   “The Information Technologies servers?”

   “Yeah,” Adam nodded.  “Look at this,” he said, handing Deckard the stack of papers.

   Flipping through the printouts, he browsed the headlines printed from major American and European newspapers, his eyes narrowing to slits.

   “What the hell is this, Adam?  Two hundred thousand dead?  Plague claims fifty thousand in Aspen, Colorado.  Paris reduced to a ghost town?  Look.”  Deckard pointed to the flat screen in the corner of the room that was constantly tuned to a twenty-four hour news channel.  “I'm not that out of the loop.  If this was real they'd be reporting on it rather than covering some celebrity's wardrobe malfunction.” 

   Adam's hands shook as he spoke.

   “Check the dates.”

   Deckard turned back to the stack, his eyes growing wide as he examined the dates tagged to each article.

   They were all dated to next week.

   Deckard shoved his hands into his pockets as he walked into his office, his mind racing to understand what he had just seen.

   Looking up, snapping himself out of a trance, he saw a stranger sitting in the chair beside his desk.  The Kazakh stood, flatting out invisible wrinkles in his suit with his hands.

   “Who are you?” Deckard demanded in Russian.

   “Kareem Saudabayev, Ministry of Justice,” he answered in British-accented English.

   “I don't recall any appointments with the Ministry of Justice.  How did you get in here?”

   “I was allowed in by the corporate CEO of Samruk International.  He is standing outside with dozens of law enforcement officers as we speak.  He assured me that you would not be confrontational as this is merely a legal function and you are not a shareholder in the company.”

   “What the hell is this about?”

   The government official popped open his briefcase on Deckard's desk and handed him a sheet of paper.

   “Under the law I have to physically present you with this legal summons.”

   Deckard frowned, studying the Cyrillic text, but remained unimpressed.
            “Under Kazakh national law you are under suspicion of operating a private military company without license, running a military training center, smuggling illegal weapons and military grade equipment, training local and foreign troops without government supervision, engaging in mercenary activities, espionage-”

   “Hold it right there, Kareem.”  Deckard had heard enough of the power play to get the gist.  With Djokovic dead, the old men at the Grove had decided to sic their puppets in the Kazakh Government on Samruk and on him.  They wanted total control and oversight on everything they did, nothing less would be acceptable.

   The Ministry of Justice official cleared his throat.

   “You will be permitted to continue your business until a trial date can be established, but with government supervision.  All facilities and operations are being officially nationalized as we speak.”

   Deckard waved his finger at the Kazakh bureaucrat while walking behind his desk.  Powering up his laptop he punched in his pass code, quickly accessing a number of servers located in the four corners of the globe.

   While Adam probed the enemy's databases in Singapore, Deckard had been doing the same with Samruk's corporate office ever since his break-in. 

   “Mr. O'Brien, please come with me so we can get the relevant paperwork in order.  Then you will be able to meet with your new counterparts in the Ministry of--”

   “Tell me, Kareem,” Deckard said, spinning the laptop around so he could see the screen.  “What do you make of this?”

   The screen flashed, a grainy but unmistakable video of the Ministry of Justice Official meeting with Samruk's CEO in their corporate offices.  Kareem watched himself on the recording discussing a variety of issues with the corporate leader, ranging from bribery to murder.

   Deckard punched a button on the keyboard and another video popped up.  This one showed the CEO on the phone in his office.  Overlaid on the video was the voice on the other end of the phone, taken from a separate tap on the line.  The voice was unmistakable, it belonged to the President of Kazakhstan.

   They were talking about liquidating the Kazakh National Bank and turning the reins over to shareholders in the United States.

   “I've got it all, Kareem,” Deckard said, pausing the video.  “Hard evidence.  Government collusion with Samruk's corporate leaders to assassinate bankers and journalists who are not on board with your program.  Selling Kazakh mineral wealth to European nations dirt cheap in exchange for kickbacks.  Funny money Washington consensus loans with the IMF.  Plans to eliminate ethnic minorities so you can build a new oil pipeline.  It is all here.”

   The Ministry of Justice official looked like he was about to be ill.

   “Don't even think about playing your games with me,” Deckard warned him.  “I've got these video archives encrypted and uploaded to servers all over the world.  Each archive is on a timer, counting down to zero before it automatically emails itself to hundreds of thousands, if not millions of random e-mail addresses.  If I don't intervene at specific times to stop it, then these files fall into the hands of people who will make you and your government famous, and not in a good way.”

   Kareem pitched back and forth on his feet, as if he was about to pass out.

   Deckard walked back from around his desk, grabbing him by the sleeve and helping him stay upright.

   “So here is the deal,” the American said, leading him to the door.  “You call off the goon squad and head on back to the capital.  Tell your bosses that you talked me into whatever you were supposed to talk me into.  Lie to them.  Whatever, I don't care.  Stay out of my hair and I won't be a problem for you.  Got it?”

   Now he had that thousand meter stare.

   “Do you understand?” Deckard said, shaking him by the arm.

   The Kazakh bureaucrat swallowed hard, nodding his head from north to south but refusing to make eye contact with him.

   “I knew you would see things my way.”

   Deckard pushed him out the door.  Kareem tripped and stumbled, nearly smashing face first into the outer wall of the supply room before recovering.  Looking back at Deckard with wide eyes, he turned and ran.

   “Who the hell was that?”

   Deckard turned, seeing Kurt Jager standing at the other end of the hall, pushing a handcart loaded down with crates of ammo.

   “Nobody important,” Deckard muttered.