David Leadbeater: Weapons of the Gods

“We are the core elements of Tempest,” General George Gleeson told CIA high-flyer, Mark Digby. “But our goals are too widespread to reach on our own.” He waved at a bank of monitors positioned on the desk in front of them. “Switch them on.”

Digby activated all five monitors with the push of a button. Gleeson waited for the newcomers to realize they were on-air, settling back in his padded leather chair and basking in the ambiance that surrounded him: four walls of solid oak paneling, low light bleeding from underneath gold colored lampshades, a whole wall full of old hardbacks that he’d never even looked at, and a vast, imposing desk — the centerpiece and workstation of his private house.

Digby coughed. The new attendees looked up.

“Are we ready?” Gleeson asked.

Digby jumped straight in. “The events in Egypt didn’t pan out quite as we hoped,” he said. “And the Sword of Mars eluded us before that. Other players got in the way,” he conceded. “SPEAR. FrameHub. Luther. Even the goddamn CIA.” He chuckled at the joke made at his own expense. “It was too dangerous, too much risk. Tempest were exposed and some people out there are now aware that we exist.”

Five faces returned his gaze with unhappy glares of their own, among them a judge, a police commissioner, a Wall Street wiz and a presidential aide. The latter spoke up first.

“Where does that leave us?”

“Well, Mr. Troy, it leaves us with a challenge to overcome. Tempest was created to gather together the greatest weapons known to man — the weapons of the gods — and to discover if there’s a way to use them together, concertedly. To date, just a single one of those known weapons has surfaced. The Sword of Mars, which now resides in London…”

Gleeson leaned forward before Digby could continue. “From here on in, gentlemen, we’re at critical mass. Or, to put it another way you’ll understand — we gotta throw everything at it, tirelessly, dispassionately, even unethically. If you want to win — it’s no holds barred from here on in.”

Troy nodded. “Do we have the new, up-to-date list of weapons?”

“It’s in your inbox. All twenty of them.”

“And Luther? Did we lose Luther?”

“At this stage of the game,” Digby sighed, “we must assume that we did.”

The banker and the police commissioner shook their heads in anger. Gleeson reminded them of the contingency plan.

“The Syrian camps are well underway. They’re already radicalizing hundreds and our mercs are training them. Soon, we’ll have an army to distract not only the masses but every police force of the First World. Then we can barnstorm our way to the weapons.”

“Are we strategically ready for all those lines of attack?” the police commissioner asked.

“Truthfully… no. Not yet. But it won’t be long.”

“And all the disavowed, alienated and disordered Special Forces teams out there? How long can we keep a lid on it?”

Gleeson deferred to the presidential aide, Troy, to answer that.

“I’m working tirelessly at it but even I — with the General’s help — won’t be able to alleviate suspicions forever. A few weeks maybe.”

“Another reason why speed has become imperative,” Gleeson said. “We can’t use CIA assets anymore. We’re fortunate we prepared some of our own. The camps are viable. Let’s start using them.”

The general took in the mood of his comrades as best he could. He preferred face-to-face at the place he’d dubbed The Chamber. The military was all about physical confrontation, but he was also forced to admit modern communications were far faster when matters were pressing. This wasn’t a case of deciding which one of them was in deep and who dangled their toes in the pool. No, they were all up to their necks in it. This had become more of a test of courage.

His mind also considered the possibility that one of them might betray him.

“Questions?” he barked.

There were none. Gleeson didn’t like it. These people should be spouting, chattering all sorts of rhetoric back at him. Their silence betrayed their doubts and the fact that they weren’t fully invested.

Well, that would change.

He glanced over at Digby, the one man he could trust. “I think we should convene a meeting.”

“I agree.”

“That’s gonna be extremely hard for me,” the presidential aide said negatively. “I’m juggling a hundred balls over here.”

“The Chamber,” Gleeson said, ignoring Troy and then snapping out a time and date. “No excuses, gentlemen. It will be good to catch up.”

He tried not to let any malice seep into the tone of his voice.

Once they agreed to it, Gleeson signed off. He took a moment to confer with Digby and then rechecked the status of their Syrian terrorist camp with his commanders on the ground. All was progressing well, and at speed. The weapons of the gods were almost within reach. Gleeson knew they could be tracked due to an incredibly rare element in their makeup, but the tracking device had to be close in order to work. That still left them with the problem of getting close.

Not so much the Sword of Mars.

He allowed a smile to grace his heavy features, patting his fresh stubble of hair down as he did so. The mole he’d planted in the British government six years ago would finally prove worthwhile.

Maybe tonight. Damn, how he would like to get that first weapon under his belt. Figuratively speaking, of course.

Gleeson laughed at his own small joke, ignored Digby’s stare, and left the room. Once in the hallway, he fished out a cellphone and called a private number.

“Hello? I need a whore.”

The woman he knew as Madam Masuda sighed in her worldly way. “Another so soon? Okay, I have Nightshade here and ready to go. She is… exotic.”

“I bet,” Gleeson laughed and then thought: Nightshade? But his desire got the better of him. “Send her right over.”

“Good. Please give her one hour.”

Madam Masuda never took her eyes away from the tall, dark-haired woman sat before her. “I cannot say how dangerous this is. He might recognize you.”

Lauren Fox inclined her head as a sign of agreement. “This is the opportunity I’ve been waiting for,” she said with a sassy accent. “Bring it on and let Nightshade live one last time.”

“I can make you up.”

“Good. But make it heavy. We don’t want him to recognize me now, do we?” She laughed, feeling good. At last here was a way to help her friends, get close to Gleeson and maybe even find out who the presidential aide was — the man or woman that had been blocking all her attempts to reach President Coburn. When Secretary of Defense Kimberly Crowe came to their side, Lauren had been hopeful that her knowledge and experience with Gleeson would pay off.

Gleeson may or may not have seen her photo when he decided to target SPEAR after Peru and then during their Egypt jaunt.

But he’d never seen Nightshade.

It was time to start destroying the evil pyramid that rose against them, their reputations and the entire civilized world. She would start at the very top.

Ignoring the clamor of internal warning bells, Lauren Fox slipped into her Nightshade persona. It had been a while, but Lauren and Nightshade had been alter-egos for many years and the traits soon came rushing back. Of course, her “costume” was back in New York these days, but Madam Masuda was able to lay her hands on almost anything.

“Leather,” Lauren had confirmed. “Boots mostly. The outfit can be lacy, I guess, but not too revealing. I’ll need whips and gloves. Good gloves. If I have to touch this creep I don’t wanna feel it.”