Barry Lando - Deep Strike

Like most works of fiction, this is one that began with a “what if.”

What if, I wondered after the last presidential race, what if a small handful of CIA agents who investigated Russian hacking, were outraged by the blatant interference in America’s democratic process?

What if those agents were infuriated by the unwillingness of congressional leaders to react to their findings, and further inflamed by the refusal of the new president to acknowledge that the hacking had even taken place?

What if they were scandalized by the fact that America’s intelligence agencies and colossal military force would now be under the command of that same new feckless leader?

What if, pushed to the breaking point by the death of a colleague, three of those agents go rogue to take on the President and all his vast powers, and attempt to drive him from office?

To write this fiction, I made use of voluminous news reports about the U.S. and Russia, accounts of America’s vast intelligence apparatus that the president controls. I received valuable input from a plastic surgeon, from an expert on Moscow, from hackers and cyber professionals.

But the characters in this novel – their backgrounds, their thoughts and words and interactions – are all invented. The crimes and corruption my agents uncover, the climactic ending to their struggle, are all spun from my own imagination.

It’s all fiction. It never happened.

But could it?

Brian Hunt was fired up, an explosion of energy, as he tore up the Bear Claw Run, the most grueling mountain bike course in northern Virginia. The young CIA officer powered through it every Saturday morning. Pumping and slithering around the switchbacks and boulders, he pounded away with sinewy legs and core muscles of iron. The image of a pouncing tiger leapt across the front of his crimson crash helmet.

He skidded through a corrugated patch of mud and leaves; shifted his weight to handle the most treacherous switchback of the run. He could manage it easily, knowing it was there. He slithered around a sharp turn to the left; then rattled along a narrow rock ledge. There was a clearing in the woods on one side on the other an ancient wooden barrier, the only thing that stood between him and the cliff that dropped precipitously to the ravine far below.

Suddenly, two masked figures dressed in khaki and wielding rifles rose from the clearing on the left and lunged towards him. “What the fuck?” screamed Brian, instinctively swerving around his assailants. He felt a huge blow on the front of his head and heard his helmet crack as he went sprawling in the deep grass of the clearing. He was on his back, trying to gather his senses, when another masked face loomed into his vision. All he could see were the emerald green eyes. He felt a cloth cover his nose and just managed to recognize the faint, ether-like smell before he passed out.

When he regained consciousness, his head was pounding and a blindfold was covering his eyes. “Where am I?” he groaned. He tried to move, but couldn’t. His arms and legs were bound. He could hear the gurgle of water filling some kind of basin, and murmuring voices. One of them seemed to be a woman’s. The emerald green eyes?

“Okay, let’s go,” he heard her say.

“What the fuck is going on?” he rasped, fighting the pain in his skull.

“We want to know what you are up to.” She seemed to be standing over him. “What you and your friends are planning.”

“Up to… about what? Who the hell are you?”

She spoke with a southern drawl, but her voice had a metallic edge to it – military.

“We know you’re trying to organize something.”

“Organize – to do what?”

“Overthrow the president.”

“Stokes? You’re crazy!” he yelled.

“We heard you plotting.”

“Heard me what?” What seemed like a nightmare was actually happening.

“Trying to get your agency friends to commit treason.”

What the hell was she talking about? That night in the bar two days ago with a few of the other CIA officers when he was drunk…over the top, venting the fury and frustration he’d been accumulating over the past few months? Who wouldn’t be outraged? After half a year of investigation, the team led by the CIA had nailed it. And he’d been a key player. They’d uncovered chapter and verse on Russian hacking of the U.S. elections. They’d briefed the Oval Office, the top people in the administration, the heads of the intelligence community, and the leaders in congress. As the story leaked – as it was bound to – they’d generated headlines across the country and around the world.

And what had happened? Nothing. Their findings were ignored by congressional leaders; played down by the wimp in the White House; derided during the campaign by the Republican candidate, Walter Stokes, who, incredibly, was now the new president. It was scandalous. Who knew what Stokes owed to the Russians? Who knew what deals had been made by those around him?

Yet no one was willing to act; not Congress, of course, controlled by the Republicans; not even the members of his own CIA team, yellow-bellied chicken-shits. It was nauseating. Instead of reacting with outrage, they’d crawled into their offices to lick their wounds. Plotting to overthrow Stokes? What a joke. No way.

“That’s bullshit.” Brian said to the green-eyed woman. “We were arguing over drinks. I was upset, angry. But no one’s doing anything. Nothing! Who the hell are you, anyway?” he repeated.

“All right, let’s do it,” she said.

Whatever he was tied to was picked up and carried towards the sound of flowing water.

“You’ve seen water boarding,” she said. “You know what to expect.”

Of course, he’d seen water boarding – at Bagram Prison in Afghanistan. He’d never done it himself, but he’d watched on several occasions when he was stationed there. It was a technique used by other groups, very rarely by the CIA itself. He knew some Special Forces guys who underwent water boarding as part of their training. They lasted an average of fourteen seconds before they panicked. To a man, they testified to its horrors.

He was in the air now, above a basin of water or bathtub he supposed. His body was tilted, his feet a few inches higher than his head. Terror filled his being.

“This is crazy!” he screamed.

One part of him knew they wouldn’t want to completely fill his lungs with water, to asphyxiate him. He knew their purpose was to trigger an instinctive reflex in the body – a terror of drowning, of death, so that he would plea for the torture to end and tell his captors anything they wanted. But there was nothing to tell them. His heart pounded wildly.

A rag stinking of grease was placed over his face. His mouth was forced open, and water poured in and over the rag into his nose. It would keep the water clinging to his face, filling his throat, mouth, and sinuses. His inclined head kept his throat open; made it easier to pour water into his nostrils.

“No! Don’t!” His scream was smothered by the putrid rag. It would act as a one-way valve, opening to let more air out then closing again to prevent inhalation. He gasped then gasped again as water poured through the cloth.

He knew that trained CIA officers tried to outlast the torment by exhaling slowly through the upturned nose. That would keep water out, but only for a few seconds. He felt the water surging through his sinuses and larynx and fought desperately for breath. He could feel his lungs collapsing. There was no breath left in his body. No way to get the water out. He was drowning. No one could hear his screams. He could feel himself defecating.