Sold Out (Nick Woods Book 1) (19 page)

Chapter
49

Allen
Green grew increasingly worried following the day of Nick's mission. Nick had
said it might take a day or two -- maybe even three -- to get off the base,
depending on how tightly they clamped it down after the shooting of Col.
Jernigan.

News
channels had shown the complete devastation after a Marine leaked a video clip
taken from an iPhone. Bodies lay busted and broken across the landscape. Best
of all, the men that Nick killed had left a treasure trove of intelligence for
the Marine Corps investigators, as well as the FBI, to work with.

Now
media throughout the country were reporting that the violence hadn't been a
terrorist attack as initially reported, or if it were, it had been an internal
militia group; possibly from out west.

All
the men found dead or wounded were carrying various forms of identification
ranging from private investigators to former police officers to former federal
agents, including even one former FBI member.

Neither
the Marine Corps nor the media could figure out exactly what had gone down yet,
but all the bodies had helped the dialogue between Allen and his former press
friends.

More
and more were starting to buy into a conspiracy of such scale and width as to
be mindboggling.

One,
a reporter from
The New York Times
, had begun to seriously dig and ask
questions to DOD and the CIA. His name was Ken Leonard, and he had already been
publishing bits and pieces of an upcoming story on his blog. His readers weighed
in on comments and offered suggestions on what they thought was happening.

On
the second day following the shooting, Allen Green again dutifully drove down a
barely used state road bordering the Marine base and, more importantly, the
training area Nick planned to exit from.

Nick
had told Allen to drive down the road each night and look for a series of signals
along the road at a pick-up point the two had agreed would work best -- both
for the man in the woods and the man driving the car. And just as he did on the
first night, Allen nervously drove down the road, looking for a branch in the
road, followed by an RC Cola can, followed by an old red shirt that would be
lying in the gravel on the shoulder.

Allen
had worried other trash might confuse him, but the two had driven the spot that
would be used and confirmed it was relatively litter free prior to Nick leaving
for the op. Besides, Nick had asked, how many RC Cola cans have you seen
lately? Not to mention the red shirt he'd be packing in with him.

But
despite how hard Allen squinted in the darkness of that second night, he saw
none of the three signs when he passed the area at midnight as directed. He
arrived back at his hotel room dejected and increasingly worried.

However,
that negativity was soon replaced by joy once Allen checked
The New York
Times
website and saw a news story -- third down from the top, in fact --
that had been written by Ken Leonard, the reporter who'd been jumping more and
more on Allen's side in regards to the conspiracy.

Ken
had asked Allen earlier in the day if everything he had told him in the
previous few days could be used on the record. Allen, now a fugitive on the
run, figured he had nothing to lose by having his name used in a story with
quotes and statements from him.

This
agreement to be quoted on the record with his name attached had been the
decisive factor in Ken Leonard's editor at
The New York Times
giving him
the green light on his article.

And
as
The New York Times
so often does, they'd placed the article online
around midnight, which almost always meant the article would appear in the next
day's print edition. Allen clicked the link and waited impatiently while the
page loaded.

The
headline read, "Colossal conspiracy or frantic felon, full of foolish
fancy?"

Well,
Allen thought, they sure nailed the alliteration.

He
read on, full of anticipation. Sure enough, Ken Leonard recounted the story
from beginning to end with flawless precision. Of how an award-winning reporter
had worked for months on a huge story. Of how the story had claimed that
American snipers had engaged Soviet Spetsnaz troops in Afghanistan despite
years and years of Americans adamantly claiming no such thing ever occurred. Or
even nearly occurred. Of how those same snipers had been sold out to close up
any loose ends and determine who a Soviet mole actually was.

And
then the article described how Allen admitted it was all false the very next
day, and how the police said he set fire to his apartment and had child
pornography found on his computer. The article followed these two points with a
quote from Allen himself, now hidden allegedly somewhere in the south,
according to the article.

"It's
absurd that I made that story up and would withdraw it the very next day,"
Allen Green said in an interview. "I've been writing articles for thirty
years and had only two clarifications in that time. Yes, two clarifications and
no, read zero, corrections. And child porn? Wouldn't you think that if I looked
at child porn, I wouldn't have done so from my work computer, which is
monitored by my employer? This is part of a huge government conspiracy. The
government couldn't allow this story to stand, so they came after me with some
secret group."

Allen
smiled after reading his quotes. They read well in print, and he was glad Ken
Leonard had quoted him accurately.

The
article also stated how the once respected reporter had skipped town and later
issued press releases claiming the sniper mentioned in the story was actually
alive and was tracking down the shadowy organization that was plotting against
the two men.

The
story only had a couple paragraphs about the gunning down of Nick Woods's --
err, Bobby Ferguson's wife -- then a bit about how the two names were the same
person, and how Nick Woods had shot down FBI Agent Jack Ward in retaliation for
Anne’s gruesome and unexpected murder.

And
now, Allen Green was willing to go on the record and claim that Nick Woods had
gunned down U.S. Marine Col. Russell Jernigan at Camp Lejeune as part of the
recent news involving a massive shootout at the sprawling base. Green also said
Nick had been responsible for the death of the men (called “militia,” for now)
from the shadowy group who were protecting Jernigan.

The
article reported that the Marine Corps refused to confirm or deny whether a
Col. Russ Jernigan was involved in the shoot-out until the investigation was
concluded.

Amazingly,
much to Allen's delight, Ken Leonard had interviewed a former CIA official
(while not naming him) who said that while the claims by Allen might seem
outlandish to most readers, the truth was they rang pretty accurate, according
to the former agent.

"It
can get pretty mixed up while you're in there serving," the former CIA
agent had said in the story. "There are times when you won’t be picked up after
completing a mission. Sometimes, weather interferes. Sometimes, deals get made.
And since we’re all trained to be skeptical, sometimes we see conspiracy when
no conspiracy exists. And sometimes conspiracy exists right before the public’s
eyes, and they have no idea."

Allen
stared at the screen a few more minutes and leaned back in his chair. He pulled
a cigarette out of his pack and lit it. And as he smoked it -- slowly -- a
conclusion ran through his mind.

Son
of a bitch, he thought. We're honest to God going to nail these bastards. The
media -- with its vast powers and resources -- has the story in their sights.

Allen
smiled as he considered the warpath the media was about to embark on. We’re
going to get Whitaker and whoever is behind it all, he thought.

Chapter
50

While
Allen Green enjoyed the story and tasted the first moments of victory, Whitaker
and Texas Sen. Ray Gooden made their countermoves.

Whitaker
called Sen. Gooden the moment one of his men alerted him to the story, and
Gooden didn't even waste time reading the report.

"What's
it say in a ten-second nutshell?" Gooden asked.

"It's
bad," Whitaker admitted. "Pretty much tells the whole story.
Accurately."

"I've
got to chair the Armed Services Committee tomorrow and still need to review
some material. I don't have time for this shit."

"I
know, sir. I have a plan for dealing with it."

"You
damn well better," Gooden hissed through his teeth.

He
listened to Whitaker's plan and then made one phone call. It didn't matter that
it was nearly midnight, and it didn't matter that his request broke about
twenty different laws -- all felonies.

Gooden
called the Deputy Director of the National Security Agency. When the man
answered, groggy from sleep, Whitaker said, "Bruce, hate to wake you, know
it's after midnight, but I've got a national security emergency. I need you to
alert your staff on duty that I've got a man on the way to your front gate, and
he needs some quick research done on a crucially important matter. Feel free to
wake up the Director if you want, but he's aware of this situation. We'd hoped
we wouldn't have to drag you into this, but the situation turned south on us in
a hurry."

Bruce,
the Deputy Director of the NSA, had said no problem and picked up the phone to
call the night staff at headquarters to make it happen. Since he trusted Sen.
Gooden, he never bothered to confirm with his Director whether he was indeed
aware of the situation. No need to wake him.

Instead,
he intrinsically trusted Sen. Gooden. How could he not? The man had been
running things on the Senate Armed Forces Committee for nearly thirty years.

This
was a good thing since Gooden had just told one of the most dangerous lies he'd
told in more than a decade. And as Sen. Gooden ended his call with the Deputy
Director, somehow managing to hide his anger at Whitaker and just able to
swallow down his fear as he related the lies to Bruce, he decided that if Nick
Woods didn't kill Whitaker, he would do so himself.

Whitaker,
with all his mistakes, had jeopardized decades and decades of work. But first,
he'd use Whitaker to get that damn reporter, Allen Green, and see if he could
stop Nick Woods. And while Whitaker worked to make that happen, Sen. Gooden
would be looking for his next commanding officer. Because if something didn't
drastically change, he'd be burying one man and bargaining to retain a new one
in the very near future.

Chapter
51

Whitaker
stood behind a goofy looking man who sat in front of three computer monitors,
completely focused. Barely a pound over ninety, the guy had curly hair and ear
phones that ran down intermingled with the mesh of wires scattered on top of
the desk. Whitaker had assumed the ear phones were work related until he'd
followed the cord to their destination, which was an iPod on the far corner of
the desk.

Whitaker
had never been around some of the top computer geeks employed by the NSA. He usually
just received data dumps and intel files electronically, but tonight was an
exception. A major one, he thought, wondering how far past midnight it was now.

The
computer geek kept working, ignoring the man standing behind him. Whitaker
closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. The past two days had been complete
hell and reminded him of fierce combat in other war zones he'd encountered
across the globe.

Whitaker
remembered how confident he'd been just prior to Nick Woods dropping Col.
Jernigan. He then recalled how that confidence had been shattered by the brutal
ambush of Team 4. The shooting had barely stopped before he was scrambling and
making frantic attempts to get his men who'd survived off the base, but he'd
had no luck. The MP's had swarmed, and there were more generals and officers
involved in the situation than he could possibly get around.

Whitaker
wasn't even sure how many men from Team 4 were dead and how many were hooked up
to machines in the base hospital. And as soon as he'd realized it'd be
impossible to get the men off the base, he instructed Tank to order his best
available sniper in the states to get to Camp Lejeune. And fast. The man had
collected his gear -- he'd been training on a sniper range in Quantico -- and
jumped on a waiting private jet that Whitaker had arranged to land nearby.

Whitaker
had spent the next few hours planning the mission with the sniper and getting
his Marine Major on the phone so that the sniper could get on base, which
currently was under heavy security.

"Where
do you think he'll be?" Whitaker had asked, looking at a topographical map
of the terrain around Col. Jernigan's house.

The
sniper, who'd been studying the map for nearly an hour while Whitaker worked
the mission's logistics, said nothing at first. He continued his analysis of
the map, evaluating the lines that indicated elevation and the colors that
portrayed heavy vegetation. He tried to put himself in the shoes of Nick Woods.
What would he do? Would he have hauled ass after the shot? Or would he have buried
himself deep in a hide until the pandemonium ended?

The
sniper had an "x" placed on the map where the shot and resulting
ambush had occurred. And around that "x" he had measured one mile in
each direction -- north, south, east, and west. Then he'd drawn a curve
connecting all four points until he had a circle on the map exactly one mile
out from the shot.

Then,
he'd repeated the task for two miles, three miles, four miles, and finally five
miles.

The
sniper knew Nick Woods was within those circles since the shot had been just a
few hours earlier. He also knew Nick would pick the same evasion route as he would
since they'd been trained identically. Thus, he studied the map a couple more
minutes and recognized precisely where Nick would go.

 The
sniper estimated the pace he would move at if he were Nick, added some extra
distance to be safe, and then looked for the nearest insertion point. He wanted
to be in position and waiting when Nick came by.

The
sniper looked up at Whitaker and pointed to the map. "He'll be here,” the
sniper stated. He then moved his finger toward another mark. “And I need to get
a ride and be dropped off here."

Whitaker
nodded and assured him he'd make it happen. After setting up the insertion of
the sniper, Whitaker struggled to maintain his sanity during the next two days.
He tried to focus on his other teams that were deployed and the training of
teams not deployed, but he couldn't stop worrying about whether his sniper had
nailed Nick Woods. Since the man purposefully carried no radio, Whitaker was in
the dark.

After
two days, the article had broken on
The New York Times
and he'd spoken
with Sen. Gooden, who'd set him up -- pulling who knows how many strings --
with the NSA. While the agreements worked their way down from the top of the
NSA to its operations center, Whitaker had been aboard a private jet flying
straight to a nearby airport.

Now,
still standing behind the geeky NSA operator, he tried to let the worries about
his sniper and Nick Woods go. He couldn't control that situation. Right now, he
had a single focus, and that was Allen Green.

"How
long should this take?" Whitaker asked.

"Depends
on how complex and paranoid our friend Ken Leonard is," the NSA guy replied.

"What
do you mean?"

"Well,"
the man said, his fingers still typing, "it depends on how complex his
password is. Whether he used numbers in addition to letters. Whether he used
punctuation and symbols. And whether he used a longer password than most."

"Is
there any way you can't break this?" Whitaker asked.

"No.
Just a matter of how long it will take."

The
geek, who Whitaker found rude, certainly knew his business. He'd broken into
The
New York Times
server in less than ten minutes though Whitaker thought the
geek had purposefully taken longer than normal. Whitaker suspected they hacked
into
The New York Times
regularly, but they didn't want to give that
piece of intel away to a man they didn't know.

Now,
the annoying little nerd was attempting to crack into Ken Leonard's personal
email account. From there, they hoped to find the e-mail address from Allen
Green, which would ultimately expose the reporter’s IP address. Once they had
that, they would use national security requirements to get the hosting company
to give up the specific address -- and not just the city or general area.

Once
they had that location, then Allen Green was a dead man.

"One
more question," Whitaker added. "Give me a best case and worst case
scenario."

"Best
case?" The geek glanced up from his screens and tapped his chin. "An
hour to break into his e-mail and four hours to work the approvals to get the
exact location. Worst case, maybe four hours to break into his e-mail, plus the
four that follows it."

"Great,"
Whitaker said. He stepped away from the computer workstation and pulled out his
phone. He ordered his on duty officer at his operations base in Fredericksburg
to alert Strike Team Three, which was on light training following a difficult
deployment to Afghanistan, to mobilize and await further instructions.

Whitaker
hadn't caught any breaks yet but taking Allen Green out would end the real
threat. Without Allen Green's skills and connections to other reporters, he'd
just be dealing with a barely educated sniper who lacked any outside resources.
And with luck, that barely educated sniper was already dead.