Murray McDonald - Critical Error

“Sam Baker was taken out by a missile fired from an unmanned combat vehicle in Maine. Charles Baker, I’m afraid, has gone to ground but we’ll find him. I would hope that in less than twenty four hours, this issue will be closed.”

“I would hope so, it’s been a cluster fuck since it started. I mean how hard is it to kill two people when you know where they are and you’ve got pretty much the whole fucking US government behind you?” William Hathaway was the mean son of a bitch of the group. Everything was fucked up in his opinion and pretty much the only thing that was guaranteed in life was that everybody would let you down. Andrew had designated him Famine. He had more farming land than the rest put together and enough to feed the hungry of the world and Andrew truly believed he’d rather it go to waste than sell it at a loss.

Andrew stood firm. “I have personally taken charge of the operation and can assure you this will be resolved in the next 24 hours.”

“I fucking well hope so,” added Hathaway. “For your sake. Charles Baker will trounce you as candidate for President.”

“Not to mention the damage he would do to our businesses. Christ, I think even the Democrat would be better for us. And I can’t believe I just said that!” offered Lawrence Harkness. Charles Baker’s hints at ending America’s interference on the global stage ensured he would be the biggest loser of all. His industrial might included a massive armaments and munitions division that would be decimated by an end to America’s wars. Harkness was War.

“Gentlemen, rest assured the problem is in hand. Now I really must go, the President expected me twenty minutes ago,” Andrew stood up.

“Sit down! You’ll go when we tell you we’re finished,” commanded Walter. “And not before.”

Andrew sat down.

“I’m hearing rather disturbing rumors,” offered a voice that Andrew hardly ever heard. James Lawson rarely attended the meetings but when he did those meetings held a special coldness that never failed to send a shiver down Andrew’s spine. Lawson was Death and without doubt the most powerful man in the room. His family’s wealth had been generated over the previous 150 years and under ruthless management had made fortunes throughout the recessions, wars and depressions. Only the Rothschilds’ in Europe could challenge their wealth or influence but as Lawson was quick to remind people, they had had a five hundred year head-start. It had been a few years before Andrew had discovered Lawson’s penchant for killing rivals, adversaries and in fact anyone that seemed at all threatened him. Not that he killed anyone himself. Lawson had people that did everything for him and of course because Lawson demanded nothing but the best. His killers were never caught nor was Lawson ever implicated, no matter how obvious it looked.

“What would they be?” asked a very nervous Russell There were certain things that Russell had kept from the group and one thing in particular, he knew would infuriate them. But he had another couple of months to work out how to break that one to the group.

“A nuclear bomb?” asked Lawson.

With some relief, Russell realized Ararat was still unknown to them. “Hmm yes, I’m supposed to be at the White House discussing this right now.”

“Well, discuss away, please tell us just what in the hell is going on?”

“It seems the Israelis have discovered that a group of terrorists are heading to the US with a nuclear weapon. I’m not entirely sure how solid the evidence is but it seems we’re taking the threat seriously.”

“I told you,” announced Lawson to the group. “These fucking Jew bankers are going to be the death of us. We need to cut the ties and let them go it alone.”

Here we go, thought Russell. The Jews again. The Horsemen were not fond of the Israelis. In fact, ‘hatred’ was a more appropriate word. Their power and influence within the American banking and political systems infuriated them above everything else. The power of the Horsemen combined was staggering but paled into insignificance compared to the influence and power of the Israelis. One word from Israel and the Jews would do as their motherland wished. According to the Horsemen, America could be bankrupt overnight, should Israel give the command. And that was one power they promised to wipe out when they had their man at the helm.

Ararat was not Russell’s only secret however. He had not known the Horsemen held supremacist views when he met them. They had kept that hidden. They had come across as Conservative, right of center but not extremists. Over the years, their facade had slipped and their true colors had become apparent. However, Russell was no angel either. He had chosen his course and he would stick to it, no matter how unsavory it might become. As much as he now detested the Horsemen, he wanted the power more. He just had to ensure that the little picture of his mother waving the swastika as Hitler walked past was never revealed to the world as it would surely end his political career. Nor to the Horsemen as the fake that it was. His mother was pictured waving the flag to ensure she could flee Nazi Germany. She was the only one of his family who had survived the Holocaust. Nazi Germany was no place for a Jewish orphan.

Howard Johnson Hotel

Newark International

“Team Two, are you in position?”

“Yes Sir, we have eyes on the rear of the building.”

“Go, go, go!” repeated the commander firmly.

The four-man hit squad would attack their target from both sides. The proximity to the airport was perfect. Three hours earlier, they had been relaxing in Bermuda when the call had come through. They had been on standby and being paid $100,000 to just sit and enjoy the late summer sunshine was not a bad gig. However, the pay packet had just jumped to a cool million. They were needed in Newark as a matter of urgency. Luckily, the call had come in at 6pm and they managed to secure seats on the Cargojet scheduled service out of Bermuda bound for Newark just an hour later. Having been cleared through US customs in Bermuda, the flight was classed as domestic and as such, they would simply land and walk out of the airport without further checks. Of course, the CIA boss had ensured that their passage to Bermuda was not recorded in official records.

As the ageing Boeing 727 came in to land, the four additional loads of cargo readied themselves for disembarkation. As far as the crew of the Canadian Cargojet company were concerned, the four men were stranded Americans hitching a lift home. Little did they know that it was very convenient not to have to file a separate flight plan between Bermuda and Newark for a military jet. After the rendition flights, CIA flight-plans were under much greater scrutiny.

The plane taxied directly to the cargo area and the four passengers disembarked without so much as a thank you. The Pilot looked on as one of the four bent down at the rear wheel of a Suburban parked next to the plane’s arrival gate. Shortly after, the hazard lights blinked, the men jumped into the vehicle and sped off into the night. The pilot didn’t see the massive arsenal of weapons or the Sat Nav system pre-programmed to take the men to the Howard Johnson Hotel.

The leader of the group would be taking the lion’s share of the money for the hit and he was no stranger to CIA wet work. Jens, South African by birth, had earned his name as a ruthless mercenary willing to work for anyone as long as the money was right. When it came to the CIA, the money was always right. The Americans knew how to pay. For the last few years, they had been his team’s only paymaster. Usual haunts included Iraq, Afghanistan and Pakistan. Their main job was to take out targets too sensitive to ever be linked to the Americans. Although he had no proof that it was the CIA that was paying his way, there really was no other agency which gained as much from his work. However, this was his first job on American soil and he was determined it went without a hitch. The pay for that one target was double the normal rate and the location was certainly a lot more inviting.