Project Sparta (The Xander Whitt Series Book 1) (8 page)

Chapter 14

Joint Base Andrews, MD

Hangar C

June 30
th
2016

The V-22 neared hangar C and followed the waving directions of two red illuminated wands. Hovering over the landing zone, the aircraft descended to the ground in heaved motions as if it were a monster exhaling. The engine was cut and Xander popped out of the cockpit with his pack slung over his shoulder. The news of his stealing the V-22 had already circulated the base. He was met by mixed reactions—half did not appreciate his rogue behavior, half admired it, and all were unsure of who he was.

Xander strutted, a swagger in his step. He had used his code name when he called into the base for landing permissions. His code name was above the law and above everyone’s security clearance. Those on the ground knew only that he was blacker than black ops. They’d only heard rumors about guys like him, the military’s version of ghost stories.

“Sir?” To Xander’s surprise, someone spoke to him.

“Yeah?” He wanted to be invisible, but he guessed that was too much to ask for when he arrived in a massive aircraft stolen from Bagram.

“I’ve been instructed to escort you to the hangar. Someone is there to see you.”

Xander nodded and followed the unassuming officer across the landing strip to hangar C. It was the largest hangar on the grounds. The structure was a large enclosed hexagon, the most secure hangar in the world due to the massive Boeing VC-25 it harbored, a plane better known as Air Force One. Xander walked under its blue and white fuselage, past the presidential seal and across the hangar toward the corner. There, a very large, bald man stood, arms crossed, before an old TV set.

Xander saw the newscast flash on the man, revealing his handler and former instructor from Project Sparta.

“Been awhile, James. How you doing?” Captain Axle’s goatee had grayed, showing the aging that the Project had on him. With Hardy ascending the political ladder as of late, Axle was the primary operational handler of the Spartans. Hardy had become a valuable consultant to the White House on all things covert.

“Oh, you know me.” Axle’s intimidating demeanor had fizzled out after training. His voice carried a heavier rasp behind it than it did in the Compound. His career of barking had finally strained his voice to the point of no return. Axle had a strange relationship with the Spartans. He couldn’t call himself their superior anymore, for they had surpassed him in every area of statecraft. He preferred the term
handler
, since he spent so much of his time reeling in their havoc. No longer the drill sergeant he once was, Axle had aged into a more of a grumpy old friend.

Axle, arms folded, turned from the television and glanced at the massive aircraft outside the hangar, still powering down. “You know, if you weren’t the best, you wouldn’t get away with half of the shit you get away with.”

Xander couldn’t help but smirk as he followed the old man’s gaze to the plane. That was one of the only compliments he had ever received from Axle. “I’ll try to be more…discrete next time.” They both returned their to the television.

“The world’s going to hell,” Axle said, his eyes locked on the television screen.

A Broadcast News Association—or BNA—news report was airing with the headline “Metro Bombing in DC.”

“You have to be shitting me,” Xander sighed.

“Agent Zero has already claimed responsibility for it,” Axle reported.

“How many dead?” Xander’s tone dropped, saddened by the news.

“Fifty-six.”

Xander shook his head, but kept his eyes on the wreckage on the broadcast. The images ignited a vengeful motivation in him. “What do you have for me?”

Axle handed him a folder and he opened it immediately. As Agent Zero’s identity was still unknown, they used a standard black silhouette as the dossier image.

“Thanks to our friends at the NSA, we know a little more about him now. The intelligence community has been working ‘round the clock on this one man.”

“Or woman,” Xander added. Axle shrugged in agreement.

“Or woman,” he repeated.

“So what’s the word?”

“As you know, Agent Zero is regarded as a philosopher. His writings have swept through the terror networks, motivating radicalism throughout the world. But, after careful analysis, nothing in those writings indicates that Agent Zero is religious one way or another. They focus more on natural philosophy, like the ancient Greeks.”

“Like Plato?” Xander immediately recalled the book planted in his house at the Compound.

“As a matter of fact, yes. There are many references to his theories of Forms and Education.”

Who else could Hardy have given that book to?

“Plato’s Cave…”

“What do you mean
Cave
?” Axle turned to Xander.

“It’s an allegory Plato uses. He speaks of prisoners chained to the cave wall unable to turn their heads. All they can do is make out the shadows on the wall. But the prisoners would only know those things as shadows and not as the objects themselves.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Axle clearly did not follow, but Xander remained transfixed on the symbolic meaning.

“What do you think the Compound was?”

Axle’s goatee turned downward as it became clear to him. “It was a cave…”

“Agent Zero is a defector from Project Sparta. The Compound shaped Agent Zero’s principles, and whoever he is—or she, he now believes those principles to be a farce.” Silence settled over the two men.

“We were also able to gain some practical insight into his M.O.,” Axle said. “The Metro bombing was carried out by a suicide bomber. We believe that Agent Zero may be using typical jihad terrorists to carry out his attacks.”

“You think Agent Zero is using Muslim jihadis as soldiers?”

“Why not? You have thousands of people willing to blow themselves up to hit America. Why not exploit that sentiment to achieve your end?” Axle conjectured.

“Makes sense. Agent Zero has already proven to be calculating and clever, even manipulative. Sounds like a Spartan, doesn’t it?” Xander asked.

“Agent Zero has gained a following and is not acting alone. It appears that he has established some sort of infrastructure. We don’t have any details on this network, and at this point we are largely left to our theories and speculations, but a name for his following keeps coming up: the Skeptics.”

Xander added the new variable to his internal calculation of the crisis at hand.

“As you know, we have received credible intelligence that the Metro bombing is the first of a string of attacks, which will culminate in the Day of Reckoning. There are rumors that Agent Zero has already arrived stateside.”

“Yeah, the man Vashad met, who I couldn’t identify, told him, ‘That will be enough for your transit and operations stateside.’ He said his employer assured safe passage and that he’d be off any watch lists.”

“Agent Zero has help from on high,” Axle concluded.

Not only do we have a defector from Sparta, we have a traitor inside the government.

“Show me the rock,” Axle said.

Xander took the stone out of his pack and handed it over. Axle unwrapped the cloth. His reaction was much the same as Xander’s: shocked and confused.

“So this was intended for you all along? Agent Zero called an audible on the meet, knowing you would be surveilling the exchange.”

“That’s right.”

“Well, what do you make of this?” Axle asked. “You’ve had time to think about it.”

“They are mocking us,” Xander said.

“Mocking us? What do you mean?” Axle inspected all sides of the brick.

“Agent Zero inscribed ‘Nothing is as it seems’ on the brick, our motto back at Sparta. The name of the cell is the Skeptics. A skeptic is someone who doesn’t believe anything. Nothing is certain; therefore, you can’t believe
in
anything because there is no empirical proof. So, literally, nothing is as it seems.” Xander observed aloud, following the logic in an attempt to characterize his new enemy.

“So we have a defector from Project Sparta called Agent Zero who has assembled a terror cell called the Skeptics and is conspiring with a partner within the United States government to carry out a massive terrorist attack on American soil.” Axle exhaled, exhausted.

A long silence followed, and then Axle spoke. “Xander, DC is breathing down my neck. Whatever you figure out, you need to figure it out fast. When there is a bombing a mile and half from the White House, people start getting on edge. So what are you doing from here?”

“First, I’m going to get this stone analyzed. Then I’m going to assemble the Spartans, any and all that are in the area.”

Axle’s lips curled into a smile. “‘Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer.’ Are you taking advice from
The Godfather
again?” Axle asked.

“Something like that.”

“Well, remember, everyone dies in that movie, so I’d maybe take their advice with a grain of salt.”

“Good to see you, James.”

Xander smiled as Axle nodded a farewell and handed the stone back to him. He spun on his heel and began exiting under Air Force One.

As he walked under the fuselage, he retreated to his thoughts and tried to summarize his mission’s status. After only a moment’s thought, it caused a hitch in his step.

Agent Zero has the upper hand and is intentionally leading me along the breadcrumb trail he has left for me. He’s two or three moves ahead of me in this chess game.

And right now I’m just his pawn.

Chapter 15

The Compound

November 18
th
2010

It was now November and the program was carrying on. The winter had swept a chill through the recruits as the training grew harder. Throughout the Compound, snow was falling from the vents in the dome. The Simu-climate was set at thirty-one degrees and the Spartans remained bundled up throughout the day. The Compound was covered in white sheets of powdery snow. Xander walked with Ezra down the pathway, slipping here and there. They had grown close, had become best friends.

Weapons training had focused almost solely on hand to hand combat. They learned a variety of techniques of mixed martial arts, whether it be jujitsu or Muay Thai. In Intelligence training, they began to explore basic hacks of security systems and the rudiments of virus dissemination. Espionage class moved on to infiltration tactics and different methods of tailing a mark. Physical training had picked up as each Spartan was putting in more and more time at the gym. On random nights, Axle had awoken the Spartans and took them for a five-mile run through the Compound. They began weekly weigh-ins and their workouts, like everything else, took on a variety of forms, including yoga, cross training, and free weights. Each Spartan could see improvements in their physiques. Each muscle group had become more defined, their bodies chiseled like Greek statues.

Xander had finally settled in and for the first time in his life, he felt like he belonged somewhere. His life had purpose and his friendships brought him happiness.

Duke continued to offer the occasional intimidation tactic, but it was more to get into Xander’s head rather than to cause harm. Since he still felt the need to assert himself as superior, Xander allowed Duke to think whatever he wanted, choosing the high road at each of their intersections. He decided to leave it for battle season, which would begin the following day, and ignore his incessant taunts.

One night, Xander and Ezra snuck into Duke’s house and planted a frog from the Thicket in his bed. When Colonel Hardy confronted them about the prank, Ezra quipped, “Just practicing stealth, sir.” Xander thought he almost saw a smile crack on Hardy’s face.

Their friendship was one thing, but Xander had begun to realize how much he needed Ezra. He was a breath of levity in his life, one that he needed desperately in such a dark place as the Compound. They reminisced about home, enjoyed laughs together, and hunted in the Thicket on a weekly basis.

All was going well for Xander and he was becoming entrenched in the program. He carried with him a general happiness even when sitting and listening to another history lesson from Hardy. Xander liked Hardy more than the others, and he understood why no one else liked his class. It was boring, genius or not. It was difficult for a sixteen year old to go from ballistics training to the stratagems of the Spanish Armada.

Xander listened intently as Hardy lectured on the battle of Troy. Hardy explained the Greeks’ use of the Trojan horse, which allowed them to infiltrate the walls and ultimately bring down the bastion that was Troy.

“Not only does this echo our motto, ‘nothing is as it seems,’ but it also provides the most important lesson in warfare. The one thing above all else that can be the reason you are victorious in battle or defeated is trust,” Hardy concluded with a point that resonated deep in Xander. He thought everyone was nice and couldn’t help but trust them all. He naively believed that people were naturally good, mostly because he hadn’t met many bad people. But in this line of work he knew he would, if he hadn’t already, as his eyes scanned the room, looking over the other Spartans.

“You must always be on your guard, even here in the Compound. You must always ask yourself, am I being played by someone? Is there a Trojan Horse in my life?” Hardy completed his lecture, leaving the Spartans feeling uneasy.

Xander’s eyes fell from Hardy and scanned the other recruits before him and then rested on Duke. After a moment of reflection, Hardy spoke up with announcements.

“Battle season begins tomorrow. What it entails will be explained tomorrow. You will report out on your street at oh-nine-hundred, where you will be picked up and taken to your first battle landscape. See you there. Class dismissed,” Hardy concluded. The Spartans scattered immediately upon his word.

Xander filed out and found himself shoulder to shoulder with Fiona. They walked out onto the path behind everyone. Fiona’s hair glistened like a ruby under the street light. Then she turned to him with a bashful smile.

“Is that history class or sleep deprivation training?” Xander heeled over in laughter, stumbling in his footsteps as they walked together toward the Barracks. They were warmed by each other’s presence. Shoulder to shoulder, she playfully nudged him with her hip.

“You’re not like the others…”

“What do you mean?” Xander asked.

“Everyone is focused on how smart you are… But that wasn’t why you were recruited. You were selected for your ability to lead. Everyone here respects you.”

“Well, not Duke…”

“That’s because Duke is a child,” Fiona replied plainly and then continued. “My dad always told me that being trustworthy is more important than being trusted. The Spartans trust you, Xander. And so do I… You’re one of the—”

              As she spoke, her feet slipped out from underneath her. Xander’s arm whipped out and caught her at his knee’s level. With a deep exhale, her red locks blew off her face. Her blue eyes gazed up at him from his arms.

His grip on her was tight.

Just for a shy second.

They didn’t feel trapped in a training program, they didn’t feel like they were living in an underground hangar; rather, they were two people connected and lost in each other’s gaze.

“You’re one of the good ones, Xander. That’s hard to find…” she winked at him from his arms. Xander broke out into a bright red blush as she found her feet and slowly left his embrace. Once they detached, an awkward jolt returned them to the Compound. Guilt seeped its way between them as they remembered where they were and why they were there. At that, Fiona and Xander headed their separate ways.

Ezra jogged up from behind Xander, having seen what had happened.

“She obviously likes you, man. And you get all middle school awkward around her. You’re a frickin’ covert operative for the blackest spy program in the country and you can’t muster the courage to ask her out,” Ezra heckled.

“It’s against the rules. There is no dating in the Compound.”

“Who gives a shit about the rules? You got feelings, man, and nothing can take that away from you. That’s all you got in here, buddy,” Ezra said, slightly morose as he crossed the road to his house.

«————————»

Later that evening, Xander built a fire, something that had become a nightly ritual. The Simu-climate had reached its lowest temperature of the year. His rushing mind found a steady speed in the pages of
The Republic
. Tonight he tried to make sense of “The Apology,” Plato’s account of the death sentence of Socrates. The subject matter was loftier than any he had ever read.

What is true justice?

What are human beings naturally inclined to pursue?

Just then he heard a click, like a chest unlocking, followed by a creak. Xander darted up and looked around his living room, perplexed. The Spartans didn’t visit one another’s houses very much. Then his hallway bookshelf swung off the wall like a door.

“What the hell?” Xander whispered as he closed his book and tucked it back into the deep cushions of the couch. “Who’s there?” He saw a female figure take shape from the shadows from behind the bookshelf.

“Xander…” A slim figure materialized—it was his espionage instructor, Juliette Rearden. She closed the bookshelf behind her and walked into Xander’s living room.

“Of course you’d be the one to break into my house. How did y—”

She cut him off short. “Never mind that.” Xander imagined a series of underground passages below the Compound, deducing she had come from some sort of network of tunnels. He heard Hardy’s words echo in his head.

Tunnels within tunnels…

“I’m here to give you your first official Spartan assignment.” Xander’s ears perked up, his back arched to attention.

“Yes?”

“We know that you have only been in training for six months, but we need someone in your position. A Spartan. We are confident of your abilities, Xander. You certainly have excelled here. This is not training. This is an active field duty assignment. Do you understand?”

“Yes, I do, but I’m not sure leaving the Compound at this point is a good idea. I’m not ready for—”

“You won’t have to. Your mission will be here.” Xander turned his head to make sure he heard her right.

“Well, if that’s the case then you guys must think you have a mole in the program.” Rearden did not flitch but remained locked on Xander.

“Your mission, Xander—” his chest puffed out as she spoke; he was ready for the undertaking “—is to set up surveillance and monitor Fiona Jenkins.”

The sound of her name deflated him.

“Fiona? But why?” His eyes turned to the window, to the white house next door.

“We have suspicion that one of the recruits is a double agent. She is currently the primary suspect,” Rearden’s eyes held a gravity that crushed Xander.

“What? Are you kidding me?” A knot formed in his chest and climbed its way to the back of his throat, he gulped it down, trying to maintain his composure.

“We do not know who she works for or if she is in fact a double. You are to infiltrate her house and establish recon
so we can confirm her allegiance
. Cusick will have what you need for that, but no one else is clued into this mission. It is imperative that you keep your mission and objectives to yourself. You will report to me on her daily movements.” He hesitated, knowing his own personal feelings for her. After consulting Rearden’s grave expression, he knew this was no drill—his number had been called.

“Okay, what am I looking for exactly?

“Are her routines normal? Does she have guests? Does she do anything out of the ordinary? You are to psychoanalyze her and report your results directly to me. I will come by each week for an update. And this mission is to be kept confidential obviously. No one can know what you are doing or that we suspect Fiona is a mole.”

“Yes Ma’am.”

Rearden dropped to a more at ease demeanor. “You have your first battle tomorrow, don’t you?” Xander nodded, still struck by the assignment. “Good luck. Tomorrow is a free-for-all. No teammates this time around, so all you can do is rely on yourself.”

“Who can I trust anyway?” He spoke softly, preoccupied with the white house. Rearden nodded a sad agreement with his skepticism.

She walked to the bookshelf and slid her keycard in the side of it, causing it to swing off the wall again. Xander could see behind her was a set of stairs that descended into a deep unknown. She turned at the top of the stairs and offered a sullen parting word.

“It will be okay, Xander. We are the good guys.” The bookshelf closed and Rearden disappeared into the gullies of the Compound. Xander turned his head from the bookshelf again to his window. He didn’t want to believe that Fiona could have questionable loyalties. He even considered that the program was playing psychological tricks on him. He sighed in defeat, knowing their suspicions must be well founded and that everything would change from here on out. He was finally feeling settled in the Compound and now he had to face something that couldn’t be more unsettling.

Have I trusted a mole? Who’s playing me this time?