CHAPTER 9 - TERRORIST THREAT

This is a free, serialized book of fiction, with a new chapter posted every week. "The Permit" was inspired by the actual event of my son, Erik Scott, being killed in Las Vegas, Nevada, on July 10, 2010 (www.erikbscott.com). Although certain elements are true, this is strictly a work of fiction, a product of my imagination, and all characters bear no relationship to actual persons, living or dead. However, a number of technologies and weapon systems depicted herein do exist. Please start with the “New PREFACE," under "March 2012."  — William B. Scott

CHAPTER 9

TERRORIST THREAT

"Nemo me impune lacessit"

(No one can harm me unpunished)

Motto on Scottish Royal Coat of Arms

JULY 11/MCLEAN, VIRGINIA

“Mr. Bright’s expecting you, sir,” the gate-guard said. A broad smile exposed tobacco-stained teeth. “Have a good one, general.”

A black-and-yellow vehicle barrier rotated from horizontal to vertical, granting Gray Manor’s Range Rover access to one of Northern Virginia’s most upscale gated communities. Known as the Beverly Hills of nearby Washington, D.C., McLean was home to diplomats, congressmen and senior government officials.

“Thanks,” Manor replied. He hesitated, giving the guard a long once-over. “Have we met?”

“I was in your unit, during Desert Storm, sir. Just one of your scared ground-pounders humping a rucksack and rifle. You wouldn’t remember me, sir.”

Manor stuck a hand through the open window. “Well, if I didn’t then, I thank you now for serving with me, Marine. You make the Corps a career?”

“Yessir,” the man said, gripping Manor’s paw. “Retired as a gunny with twenty-one...and fifty-percent disability. Working security for Mr. Bright and his neighbors is as good as it gets nowadays.” The hint of resignation was a subtle, practiced invitation for the “What happened?” question.

Probably wounded, Manor thought, nodding. “Gotta run, but thanks for the howdy, Gunny. Always appreciate meeting a fellow Jarhead. We did kick some Iraqi butt, didn’t we?” Manor flashed a lopsided grin and popped a flat-palmed half-salute. The startled former Marine instinctively snapped-to and returned the honor, as the former two-star drove past the raised barrier.

Manor hooked an elbow over the open window’s sill and maneuvered the boxy Rover through tree-shaded, narrow streets. The air was humid and heavy, but relatively pleasant at this early hour. He and Julia had been guests of Todd and Toni Bright several times, and admired the old-money feel of their friends’ secluded neighborhood. Stately brick houses were set well back from streets overarched by huge deciduous trees. Each was fronted with well-manicured lawns and tasteful, professional landscaping. Except for a couple of elderly folks walking their mutts – yappy toy-dogs and a grumpy-looking Scottish terrier — the streets were empty.

Manor swung into the Brights’ half-circle drive. Grabbing his highly modified, crypto-secure “Tactical” iPad, Manor again wondered why Todd had called before 6 a.m., asking that Manor “drop by” for an impromptu Sunday-morning meeting. The Brights were regular church-goers, but Todd had hinted that the two men might be “tied up for a spell.” A strong Southern Baptist from Oklahoma, Todd rarely skipped Sunday devotions. Something damned important must have popped up, Manor concluded, taking the front-porch steps two at a time.

As Deputy Secretary of the U.S. Department of Homeland Security, Todd Bright was Manor’s boss. Consequently, declining his offer for a last-minute coffee klatch wasn’t an option. Todd hadn’t explained why a Sunday meeting was necessary. However, the invitation had come minutes after Manor e-mailed his boss a brief summary of the Erik Steele shooting, and requested a Monday-morning strategy meeting in Bright’s DHS-headquarters office.

Todd answered the door. “Howdy, Gray! Good to see you, son! Come in, come in!” The two shook hands, and Bright clapped Manor on the shoulder. “There’s a pot of coffee a-waitin’ in the den. Black, right?”

“Morning, Todd. Yep; black, sir.” Manor followed his boss down a dim hallway lined with rich cherry-wood paneling. Bright was tall, physically imposing, although round-shouldered, yet fairly fit for a man in his seventies. Thick and unruly gray hair, plus a rich-toned voice gave the military-science expert a decidedly professorial aura.

The two had met long ago, when Manor was a young, gung-ho Marine Corps lieutenant colonel attending the National War College at Fort Lesley J. McNair, an historic Army post bordering the Potomac River. Todd was Manor’s faculty advisor, and the two had quickly established a strong mutual respect. Obviously on the fast track, with general’s stars in his future, Gray Manor was one of the most thoughtful, insightful, intellectually curious — yet ultra-practical — students Bright had ever encountered. The two had consumed many an evening debating next-generation special operations concepts, many of which were later validated in table-top wargames conducted by War College classes.

Manor’s ideas for combating Twenty-First Century terrorism on a global scale were ahead of their time, and the Pentagon’s old guard dismissed them as irrelevant. That is, until the Berlin Wall fell, the old Soviet Union disintegrated, and, finally, America’s national security posture was upended on September 11, 2001. The shocking al Qaeda attacks on the World Trade Center and Pentagon were the coup de grace that shattered the five-sided building’s stubborn Cold War mentality. Suddenly, Islamic terrorism was front-and-center, the nation’s top priority.

As an advisor to the president’s national security team, Todd Bright was heavily involved in crafting America’s response to al Qaeda’s murder of approximately 3,000 citizens. Bright also was responsible for Gray Manor’s appointment as commander of a new counterterrorism cell within U.S. Special Operations Command — and rapid promotion to brigadier general. Overnight, Manor’s once-dismissed ideas for combining high-tech weaponry with tough behind-enemy-lines tactics were being fielded in Afghanistan. His unit’s small teams of highly trained special operations forces (SOF) were the storied “horse soldiers,” who rode with Afghan tribes in the autumn of 2001, calling in air strikes that quickly decimated the Taliban in Northwest Afghanistan.

Later, when the Department of Homeland Security was established, Todd Bright was the logical choice to head that fledgling agency’s domestic counterterrorism operations. Although an academic, who had taught military science at the Air Force Academy, before taking over the National Policy Research Department at the National War College, Bright had tempered theory with first-hand experience. He’d routinely ventured into the field, observing and listening to SOF commanders and troops engaged in real-world combat with terrorist groups throughout the Middle East, Pacific, and Central and South America. Consequently, Todd was known and respected for bringing credible, nonpartisan “ground truth” to White House strategy sessions, Pentagon debates, and interagency turf battles.

Bright waved Manor to a chair, filled two oversized ceramic coffee mugs and handed one to his guest. “I read your summary of the Steele shooting. Damned shame, Gray. Absolutely shocking and completely senseless. That kid had real promise. Obviously, losing Steele screws our Latin-operation plans, big-time. We'd considered using him on a case in Honduras, as I recall. Unless you have some new guy in the pipeline, I don’t see anybody in Checkmate with the combination of combat and language skills that Steele brought to the fight. Correct?”

“That’s right, sir. We had Comet ‘pre-fragged’ for his first international mission next month. He’d logged three successful domestics, and ops had tasked him for a quick out-and-back mission in Denver tomorrow. I’ve put a hold on that — actually, on all our Las Vegas ops — until we know how the hell he was killed. And why — if there even is a ‘why.’”

“Any chance this was a set up? Do we have a security breach in Vegas?”

Manor shook his head. “Don’t think so. Comet’s shooting feels too random. Our Sin City team’s still scarfing up info, of course, but I don’t see how Comet’s murder could have been prearranged. Too many moving parts and random people involved. As of today, I’d say there’s a ninety-five-percent probability that Steele simply ran into a perfect storm of unbelievably bad luck.”

Bright nodded absently, sipping his steaming coffee. “I see. But after that Miles kid was killed by Vegas cops... Shiza! Let me know ASAP, if something pops up to change your mind. Anything else?”

Manor expanded on his brief e-mail report of the Echelon-captured conversation between Las Vegas Metro’s Captain Mikey Greel and Antone Galocci, the powerful, Mob-linked resort-casino boss; the public administrator’s break-in of Erik’s condominium, accompanied by a Metro police officer, and Manor’s interpretation of Steele’s actions and subsequent shooting, based on the Ho’s surveillance video.

“Your conclusions?” Bright asked. Deep set, soft-brown eyes probed those of his guest. Todd Bright reminded Manor of former Senator Fred Thompson — physically large and dominating, with a rich, pleasant voice. In contrast to his look-alike, though, Todd had hair — a thick silver-white tangle — and the accent was vintage Oklahoma twang, not gentile, sipping-whisky-smooth Tennessee. Bright had never faced a TV camera, unlike Thompson, a well-known politician, talk-show commentator and bit-part actor. Todd was every bit as effective in Washington circles, though, working quietly behind the scenes, master of a shadow world steeped in intrigue, secrets and covert operations. 

“Erik Steele was executed by stupid cops for no logical, discernible reason,” Manor declared without qualification. “Based on the Ho’s security video — which we’re enhancing, by the way — Comet never touched his concealed weapon. Some fat-assed...” Manor arrested a flash of anger and drew a deep breath, before continuing. “A pot-gutted, skin-head cop confronted Comet in the middle of a crowd, yelled something, and fired. All within two seconds, max. Probably because Steele had a BlackBerry phone in his right hand. That brown-shirt moron couldn’t tell the difference between a cell phone and a forty-five semiautomatic! Un-f’ing-believable.” His head wagged in disbelief.

“And you want to sic the FBI onto Metro. Have ‘em jump on the Steele killing toot-sweet. Investigate it as a civil rights-violation case, correct?”

“Proof’s right here, Todd,” Manor said, tapping his secure iPad. “The Ho’s security video of Comet’s murder, several intercepted phone calls among Captain Greel and his cops, then between Greel and Galocci, and two voicemails left for Kyler Steele by that frantic public administrator — who’s a former cop, by the way. Hell, we’ve got ‘em cold! The feds will rip Metro from gizzard to gonads!”

Bright nodded slowly, staring hard at the Checkmate chief. His eyes dropped and studied folded thick-fingered, meaty paws, before leaning forward and speaking softly. “Gray, under normal circumstances, I’d agree with you. I’d back you a hundred percent. But not this time, son. You are not turning this over to the FBI.” He raised a palm, shushing Manor, before he could object.

“Hold on. Think this through. Say you and I waltz into the FBI director’s office and show the man a private company’s security-system video. A digital video file that just happens to show a Las Vegas police officer shooting a man to death at high noon, in a crowd of maybe seventy, eighty folks. Then you play two recorded voicemail messages left by another public official on a cell phone owned by the shooting victim’s brother. Finally, you dazzle the good director with a series of intercepted police-officer phone calls, and another between a cop and one of the most powerful, wealthy casino barons in Vegas.”

Bright stood slowly, jammed fists into khaki slacks' pockets and started pacing. “Of course, the top-dog fibbie immediately wants to know how we obtained all this stunning, incriminating ‘evidence‘ of a police department’s wrongdoing. And he’d really appreciate an explanation of exactly why Erik Steele was working for you, and what he was doing carrying a forty-five, while shopping with his girlfriend. Ultimately, he’d insist on a full, detailed briefing about Checkmate. Why it was set up. How it operates. What it’s accomplished, to date. Who authorized its formation. How it’s funded. And, finally, why the hell he, the FBI director, for God’s sake, was never briefed on the organization’s existence, let alone it’s astounding, inside-the-U.S. mission.

“Let’s assume he somehow skips over the trivial, such as how many laws Checkmate is probably breaking on a regular basis,” Bright continued, “and how Congress might kinda sorta like to know something about this outfit. Remember that itsy-bitsy constitutional provision about congressional oversight of Executive Branch activities?”

Manor was silent, gray-blue eyes tracking his boss’s wanderings. “Son, we can’t afford to have Checkmate’s cover blown by turning this Steele murder over to the FBI. Now, don’t get me wrong. Nothing has changed, since Checkmate took on its first mission. America’s very existence is still at stake, as you, more than anybody, understand. The enemy is still out there, still living among our people, still prepared and committed to striking and killing. Bottom line: You and your folks have done one hell of a job, Gray. I can’t risk losing Checkmate, and that’s exactly what would happen, if you present this Steele case to the Justice Department.”

“So... We merely tuck our tails and shuffle off into the sunset? Those Metro bastards shoot an innocent American patriot, thumb their noses and get away with it — again? Like they hosed Lashawn Miles and walked? Like they always do? C’mon, Todd! I can’t live with that! I know damn well you can’t, either...sir! Erik Steele was one of ours!” Manor was red-faced, fighting to control an infamous temper.

“That’s absolutely correct. I can’t. And won’t. And I don’t expect you to accept this atrocity, either. But let me remind you, general. Your job is to execute, to perform the ops that carry out Checkmate’s assigned objectives. Mine is to give you the resources you need, approve target candidates, and keep an eye on the big picture, right? Well, here’s a big-picture tidbit you’d better understand: Our esteemed U.S. Attorney General won’t give a rat’s ass about Erik Steele, and he will never order a Justice Department investigation of Las Vegas Metro, regardless of how much evidence you dump on his desk.”

Manor was taken aback. “Beg your pardon, sir. What the...?”

“Very simple,” Bright interrupted. “Erik Steele was a white, Anglo-Saxon, middle-class, successful, former Army officer. The AG is on-record, publicly declaring that he will not pursue civil rights-abuse cases, unless the victim is 'disadvantaged' or ‘of color.’ Now, does that sound like ‘equality under the law?’”

“Bull,” Manor scoffed. “No AG would say that sort of BS in public!”


“This one did. Guar-an-damn-teed, son. Look at his record. In less than two years, he’s taken on fifty-plus civil-rights cases. Every single one involved a victim ‘of color.‘ No red-headed white dudes in the lot. I tell ya, this AG is dead-serious, and young Steele doesn't qualify.

“Furthermore, he absolutely will not take on the mega-bucks boys who control Las Vegas. Those filthy-rich cockroaches wrote big checks to fund this president’s campaign. They also elected the current Senate Leader — who happens to be the senior senator from Nevada – and they have a whole shit-pot-full of Washington politicians in their britches’ pockets.

“Trust me; Las Vegas Metro cops are the no-foolin’ enforcers for those same big-bucks moguls, too. Do you really think the AG will risk upsetting a Vegas Daddy-Mega-Bucks by busting a few killer-cops who simply shot and killed a middle-class white guy? No blippin’ way,” Bright declared, flicking a hand dismissively.   

“Which brings me to the reason I asked you to come over,” Bright said, his tone softer. He walked to a towering window of the den, flipped a wall switch, and tugged on a cord, drawing heavy drapes closed. A muted hum emanated from the window, which now vibrated at random, continuously varying audio frequencies generated by a tiny transducer mounted on the glass. A nosy neighbor beaming a laser at the den’s window to detect microscopic vibrations would now hear nothing but muffled “white noise,” not the conversation in Bright’s den.

Such stringent security measures could have but one meaning: Whatever Todd was about to say would be ultra-classified.

“Gray, as you know quite well, Checkmate was set up to root-out and covertly neutralize terrorist sleeper cells. You and your team have succeeded beyond my wildest hopes, though there’s much yet to do. What you haven’t been privy to, though, is an intel operation — I publicly refer to it as a ‘study,’ but it’s far more than that — which has uncovered yet another serious national security threat.” Bright carefully set the coffee mug on a compact conference table, placed the knuckles of both hands on its surface and stared hard at Manor. The retired general returned the favor over his mug’s lip, eyeballing his boss through a swirl of fog rising from the savory brew.

“Son,” Todd said firmly, “that intel team has identified a new, incredibly dangerous terrorist cabal. I believe it’s the most grave domestic threat to national security the U.S. has faced since nine-eleven. This bunch has killed more Americans, at a higher rate, than al Qaeda has over the last nine years.”

Bright resumed pacing, left hand in a pocket, the other gripping his coffee cup’s loop handle. Senses now hyper-attuned, Manor waited, familiar with Bright’s manner of shifting into professor mode. “These terrorists are deeply entrenched in our society. They look like us, talk like us, live in our neighborhoods and are, for the most part, well-respected citizens. But, as a group, the bastards are killing Americans and undermining individual freedom every single day across this great country. And they’re becoming more powerful every day.”

“They have a name?” Manor asked.

“For now, intel’s code name for them is ‘INDIGO.’ Might change, at some point, but it’s sorta descriptive. And appropriate.” Bright switched on a projector and fiddled with a laptop computer. A PowerPoint title slide appeared on a compact white-board nestled between two of the room’s floor-to-ceiling, built-in bookcases: “INDIGO: DOMESTIC TERRORIST THREAT. PRIORITY ALPHA,” accented by “Top Secret-Eyes Only” labels and red/white-striped edging.

“INDIGO is directly responsible for an imminent, clear-and-present national security crisis, and we believe Las Vegas is its centroid. All the elements that make INDIGO the most-dangerous, fastest-growing, most-disgusting, scariest and threatening bad-ass threat in America today are present in Vegas.”

“And that’s why your intel team has been focused on Vegas the past six months or so,” Manor said mildly, a lopsided smile creasing tanned skin.

“So you figured it out. Smart ass,” Bright chuckled. He downed another swig of Colombian dark roast. “What tipped you off, son?”

The former two-star leaned across the highly polished table to retrieve a stainless-steel coffee pot, then topped up his mug. “Couple of my guys were tapped to help your snoopers put the pieces together. Your intel team claimed to be from ‘a three-letter agency’ that couldn’t be divulged. Put that together with your order in late oh-nine to beef up the Vegas Checkmate cell, and I assumed something big was about to pop out West. Knew you’d fill me in, when the time was right.”

Bright chuckled again, a throaty rumble, and wagged a finger at his former student. “Bloody nice deduction, Sherlock! Ya never fail to impress, Jarhead.” The smile vanished, and Bright’s hooded eyes were again dead-serious. “Yeah, I’ve been noodling for some time on how to handle this new threat. In a thimble, here’s the deal: We’re launching a large-scale operation to take INDIGO down. It’ll kick off in Las Vegas, then be expanded across the entire nation. Steele’s killing — or execution — just lit the fuse.”

He tapped the computer’s touch pad and pointed at a new slide. “Here’s the cornerstone of INDIGO,” he said, then resumed pacing. Manor read and re-read the slide, before answering.

“You gotta be... Is this serious, Todd? The front line of this INDIGO terrorist bunch is American police officers? C’mon...!”

“‘Bout the response I expected, my boy,” Bright interrupted. “But ride this pony for a minute or two, okay? Police officers — who, by the way, like to be referred to as law enforcement officers or 'LEOs’ these days — in cities and towns of all sizes are killing American citizens at an alarming rate. Americans are eight times more likely to be killed by a police officer than by a terrorist, according to mortality data from the Center for Disease Control. Mostly via shootings or brutal beatings. Hundreds every year, and the number is climbing, damned near exponentially.” Bright tapped the touch pad, changing slides.

“Check these random stats: In Los Angeles, officer-involved shootings [OISs] are up forty percent in the past year. The Justice Department has opened investigations of police-abuse cases in dozens of big cities: Newark, Seattle, Denver and Atlanta, for example. And, of course, the infamous New Orleans Police Department, which, until now, set the standard for corrupt police forces. One hell of a lot of New Orleans cops will be going to prison for killing citizens in the Katrina-hurricane aftermath. More on that later...,” he said. 

“Take a gander at this brief sample of cases: Kathryn Johnson, a ninety-two year-old grandmother in Atlanta. Shot thirty-four times in her own home by cops, because they made a terrible mistake. Broke into Mrs. Johnson’s house at night, based on bad poop from a drug-addict snitch. ‘Sorry, wrong home. Sorry, we accidentally shot poor Miz Johnson to death. Here’s four-point-nine million bucks for her heirs. Move on now. Nothing to see here!’ Four Atlanta cops went to prison, and nine others either were disciplined or resigned for conspiring and covering-up their deadly deed. Damn near got away with it, too. If the feds hadn’t jumped in, those lyin’ fart-knockers would have walked!

“Here’s one of the worst New Orleans cases: After Katrina, several black kids out hunting for food are shot to death on a bridge by ‘courageous’ cops. Hasn’t gone public yet, but the FBI is all over this one, too. Right now, it looks like five ‘Nawluns’ officers may serve life sentences for not only murdering those kids, but for taking part in yet another elaborate cover-up-by-cops. This one stinks like a striped skunk-kitty in a French sewer, son. You’ll be hearing a lot about this sorry case in the next few months.

“These are ‘bout as disgusting,” Bright continued. “A kid is shot and killed in Long Beach, California. Just sittin’ on a back step, pointing a water nozzle and making shooting-like sounds. Cops watch him awhile, never say word-one to him, then shoot the guy to death. Another: A mentally deficient woodcarver in Seattle, simply crossing a street, when a dumbass cop thinks the poor guy ‘makes a furtive gesture’ and shoots him to death. A deaf kid carrying a basketball at night. Shot and killed, because some dipshit cop mistook a basketball for a gun, for God’s sake!”

Bright accessed the next slide. “Check this: In San Antonio, Officer Daniel Alvarado killed a fourteen-year-old kid, who had been scuffling with another kid at a bus stop. He chased down the victim, Derek Lopez, cornered the kid in a shed, then shot Lopez to death, because ‘he bull-rushed...and lunged right at me,’ according to Alvarado. Now, this overweight slug-of-a-cop had been suspended four times and threatened with termination for ‘sloppiness or defiance in carrying out administrative duties,’ according to a TV news story. Investigators and an autopsy proved the killer-cop was lying, but Alvarado’s murder of Derek Lopez was ruled ‘justifiable’ by the San Antonio Police Department. Shit fire!

“Now, before you uncork,” Bright added, raising a flat palm, “hear me out. A former Marine in Arizona is shot to death in his own home by an incompetent, rabid SWAT team that was serving warrants, for God’s sake! Of course, the cops didn’t find any drugs or piles of money. ‘Another bad tip. So sorry.’ But a combat-proven former Marine — a kid who had honorably served his nation — was deader than Lazarus himself.

“Kelly Thomas case: A homeless man with mental problems is beaten and Tasered to death by several cops in Fullerton, California. But their murderous beating is caught on surveillance video. Thanks to pressure by the Thomas family and hundreds of outraged citizens, the local DA finally screwed up enough courage to charge one of those cops with second-degree murder and another with manslaughter.”

His face flushed with anger, Bright gulped a slug of coffee and jabbed the cup at a new slide. “On the lower end of the abuse scale, here's a Florida cop arrested for dealing meth. And check this one: A concealed-weapon-licensee is cursed, beaten and threatened with death by a stupid Neanderthal cop in Ohio. Uh-oh! The whole interchange is captured on the patrol car’s dash-cam video, and the bully-with-a-badge is now in deep doo-doo.

“There’s more: A cop in Colorado Springs is caught sexually abusing kids at school, and child-porno is found on his computer. Another off-duty Colorado cop runs a red light, broadsides and kills a female Air Force Reserve officer. Guess what: That same low-life cop had been cited for reckless driving and put on probation a few months before. Not fired. Not jailed. Because cops are routinely given a bye, doncha know. Real people would be fired and thrown in the clink for these violations. But not holier-than-thou dirty cops!”

Manor eyed his boss, surprised. He’d never seen Todd so cranked up and overheated. The guy was practically spitting nails; really hacked off! “In some cases,” Bright continued, red faced, “cell phone and surveillance-video cameras are capturing these repulsive misdeeds, leaving normally cop-sympathetic DAs no choice but to nail the guilty rogues. However, in eastern Colorado, our brave boys-in-blue are finding ways to sidestep video-camera technology. A few of these slope-heads have been randomly stopping drivers late at night, under pretenses of traffic violations. The cops intentionally aim their patrol cars’ headlights into a pasture, rather than on the car they just pulled over. The cops then find a reason to drag the driver out of his car and beat the hell out of him, knowing full well their crimes are not being captured as dash-cam video imagery! These a-holes just shout a few choice comments, so the audio recording supports their version of what happened. Now why would cops randomly stop and beat people? ‘Just for fun,’ one bragged in a cell phone conversation we intercepted recently.”

Manor stood abruptly and pointed to the screen. “I hear ya, Todd, but these are all anecdotes, not hard-core data,” he countered. “Yeah, they’re egregious, appalling cases, but they’re exceptions, not the norm. You know damned well that today’s cops are up against heavily-armed gangs committing violent crimes throughout the nation. These aren’t the good ol’ fifties, when Officer Mulligan patrolled the neighborhood with nothing but a nightstick and bought five-cent lemonade from the kiddies. Police officers today are being gunned down by drug-crazed killers armed with full-auto AK-forty-sevens! Especially along the southern border, where Mexican gangs are crossing over and bushwhacking folks in Texas, New Mexico, Arizona and California.”

Bright shook his silver-capped noggin vigorously. “Only get partial credit for that, ol' boy. That’s precisely the perception police chiefs and their public relations lackeys promulgate, aided and abetted by cop-union thugs trying to scare the hell out of taxpayers. And backed by politically biased, dollar-driven Hollywood producers, who make cheesy ‘reality’ shows about law enforcement, always with the enthusiastic support of crooked police chiefs trying to spruce up their sleazy departments’ tarnished images.”

A key-tap brought up another slide. “Your false perception is not backed by stats, either, son. Check these: ‘Officer deaths are down nearly fifty percent over the past twenty years,’” he read. “The number of police officers nationwide doubled, during that period. Cops are far safer today than they were in 1974, when the U.S. logged the highest number of police officer fatalities. On the contrary, ‘An officer is one-hundred-thirty times more likely to be implicated in an act of misconduct than to be killed by intentional violence in the line of duty.’ These are facts backed by independent research, son! Every one is documented and peer-reviewed!”

Todd pointed to a new slide. “And yet, citizens are led to believe just the opposite. Police unions routinely circulate blatantly bogus statistics that claim officer deaths are on the rise, using examples like this one in Alaska, where two officers were hosed at a traffic stop. Sad story, and Alaskans are rightly outraged. But for every cop-killed story we see on TV, there are several dozen cops-kill-a-citizen stories that may or may not even make the local paper, let alone the national news.

“And Hollywood is stoking this nonsensical notion of ‘cops-under-siege,’” Bright stressed. “How many TV shows about police are on the tube every week? Ten? Twelve? Hell, we have Cops, half a dozen versions of CSI, NCIS-type shows about military-services’ law enforcement, and one gawdawful puker that glorifies jailhouse guards in Las Vegas! Even that discontinued shoot-em-up, Twenty-Four, falls into this category — though it did feature a covert team of feds going after terrorists, as opposed to good-looking detectives and hard-nosed street cops taking down drug lords and scumball gang-bangers. Now, you tell me, Gray: What’s the common theme of these shows?”

Manor glared at his boss, jaw muscles twitching. “Enlighten me, sir.” The Checkmate director was dimly aware of a vague, low-grade irritation, an out-of-sorts annoyance that spread from gut to chest to cranium. The same pissed-off frustration he experienced, when a loudmouth TV commentator assaulted his sensibilities by blithely twisting the facts of a complex military operation into something shamelessly untrue. Todd’s cops-as-terrorists theory was the source of that too-familiar gnawing, consuming irritation.

Bright spread his arms and grinned disarmingly. “Hell, cops are cool, man! Cops are handsome and beautiful, smart, witty and oh-so-courageous! Cool TV cops risk their lives three or four times an episode, protecting poor, defenseless slobs from those dastardly, unshaven thugs that dog our lives every single frickin’ day! These brave boys-and-girls-in-blue take out ugly, remorseless sleaze-bags who prowl parking lots and threaten what they call ‘civilians‘ — us lowly taxpayers and our wives and kids. Sure, these brave, damn-near-holy TV officers routinely bend the rules and often operate outside the law, but, what the hell? They’re doing it to protect us, for Lord’s sake!

”In short, son, American TV viewers and movie-goers are being brainwashed, relentlessly assaulted with the idea that police officers and federal law enforcement dudes and damsels are saint-like heroes! In the process, people are subtly programmed to accept rule-bending and law-breaking by cops as the price of public safety. We’ve become a police state of slavish ‘sheeple.’ Consequently, rogue killer-cops know damned well they can shoot, murder, execute, beat and do whatever the hell they please, and get away with it! That’s how your man, Steele, was shot and killed yesterday. And, without external intervention, Steele’s killers will get away with his murder and cover-up!”

Manor grimaced, nodding reluctantly. “Ahhh! I hear ya, and you may be right. But my Jarhead gut says this is a huge stretch, Todd. Okay; no argument on the Hollywood cop-glorification and its brainwashing effect. That’s the subtle power of entertainment, the most powerful ‘psywar’ tool known to man. As you've seen first-hand, we use it to great advantage in the special ops community.

“But I fail to see the harm here. People want to believe their police officers are good-hearted public servants, and Hollywood just plays to that sentiment. Exaggerated and over the top, true, but TV shows and movies also breed respect for law and order, as I see it.”

“Again, only partly correct,” Bright parried. “That’s an outdated, largely incorrect perception, my boy. Things are a-changin’ damned fast, and those changes are cause for alarm. In the last few months, we’ve seen an alarming spike in police fatalities. Nationally, they’re on track to top a hundred-fifty this year — roughly a seventeen-percent jump in twelve months — which would make 2010 the deadliest in decades. In Los Angeles, assaults on cops are up forty-two percent. Oh, by the way, officer-involved shootings in L.A. also are up forty percent. Hold that thought, son, because there’s a correlation between OISs and attacks on cops.

“Yeah, there are a number of factors tied to both OISs and the spike in cops being killed, ranging from a lousy economy to frustration over job losses, home foreclosures, bankruptcies, etcetera. But, based on data produced by another little research project I launched, there’s also a huge backlash against the escalation of police-abuse cases. The FBI’s statistics are in line with what my guys discovered: One hell of a lot of people hate cops these days. And the number’s growing exponentially. Some of that vitriol translates to intentional attacks on cops.”

“With due respect, sir, that reeks of academic bullshit,” Manor declared, louder than he’d intended. “Give a professor and his eager grad students a juicy research target, and they’ll find data to support the sponsor’s premise! Plain old ‘dry lab’ exercise, familiar to every college chemistry student! Pardon an aging Jarhead’s skepticism, Todd, but the idea that millions of Americans hate their cops pegs my BS meter. I don’t buy it.” 

Bright nodded absently, tapped the computer’s touchpad, and brought up another slide. He simply waved at the screen and waited, silent. Manor read several comments pulled from news websites:

“I have no problem killing or wounding a corrupt cop [who] tries to kill me for no reason at all. And I will gladly do it in self-defense. ...Police are supposed to ‘Serve And Protect’ the public from criminals. But, when corrupt cops commit criminal actions, including murdering and beating innocent people for fun, then we, the people, have a right to self-defense, no matter what country we live in.”

“Being a cop is one of the safest occupations in the country. I have never... in [my] 51-year [career], worked at a job as safe as being a cop. ...They whine and cry...[but] are in absolutely no danger of paying for their crimes, unlike the rest of us. If they continue on their present course, I foresee the day there will be a bounty on [cops]. It's entirely up to them. So far, they haven't shown the self-discipline to avoid the coming unpleasantness.”

Bright called up a second slide, noting, “You’ll soon appreciate these, as you and your Checkmate guys dig into the Steele killing. ‘Metro’ refers to the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department.”

“What really angers me is that there are people right here in Las Vegas [who] are ready and willing to excuse any action taken by a Metro police officer, regardless of how outrageous that action is, simply because it was committed BY a police officer. They are nothing more than a cadre of boot-licking cop-worshipers, who will [soon] regret their adulation, when they become a target of these thugs. All it's going to take to start a riot is one more outrageous and egregious murder by [Sheriff] Uriah’s paramilitary, steroid-fueled, shaven-head mafia.”

“Next thing you know, a cop randomly walks into a bar nearby ‘to do a routine check,"’ where a guy happens to be [having a drink]. ...and [the guy gets] shot dead by the Metro mob. These stories come through the newspaper like a cheap fiction essay. [This story] will fade into the background, get covered-up, and the Wild West will continue in this cow town. Metro is one of the most corrupt police forces in the country. I wouldn't call Metro if my life depended on it.”

“A bunch more of these are in the study report — which I’ll give you — but you get the idea. Again, classified FBI data align closely with these findings. Point is, comments like these in open forums are merely the tip of a gargantuan, very dangerous national-security iceberg, son,” Bright said soberly. He eyeballed Manor for a long beat.

“Researchers have a rule-of-thumb that says, ‘For every person who writes a comment, there are ten to twenty others that feel the same way.’ When the bulk of a community's citizens don’t trust their cops, and actually hate the boys-in-blue-or-brown, chaos and crime always follow. And damned soon. Most people can’t — or won’t — consider scary futures like that, so they blindly place their trust in police forces. And therein lies the root of a serious problem.

“Something like ninety-five percent of police-abuse cases are never brought to trial, because juries are inclined to take a police officer’s word over that of an average citizen. Why? Because juries are average folks, who desperately want to believe that an officer testifying on that stand is like your good ol’ Officer Mulligan, that honest, trustworthy cop you knew as a kid. The fearless neighborhood giant-in-blue, who you and your buds idolized.

“But there aren’t many Mulligans in uniform now, and old-school good-guy cops are vanishing faster than fresh lettuce at a jackrabbit convention,” Bright stated flatly.

“The Mulligans are being replaced by young officers, though," Manor declared, a sharper edge to his words. "Again, where’s the problem?” Jaw muscles were in high gear and his body language screamed “Bullshit!”

“Today’s new cops are the problem, Gray,” Bright said quietly. “Truth is, the young cops replacing old-school officers are ruthless assholes, for the most part. They're very different. They lie. They cheat. And they kill without remorse. Ask any trial attorney who’s had to deal with this latest generation of police officers, and you’ll hear the same tale: Today’s cops are a breed apart from the ones we knew and admired.” Bright switched to a new slide: “MODERN POLICE OFFICERS.”

“There are exceptions, of course, but today’s cops really are an entirely different animal. And they’re damned scary,” Bright declared. He read the slide: “‘Born between 1961 and 1981, these are the Baby Boomers’ kids. Dubbed the ‘Thirteenth Generation,’ by authors Strauss and Howe in ‘The Fourth Turning,’ they’re the thirteenth generation of Americans. Excellent book, by the way. Even a hard-headed Marine would get a lot from it,” Bright grinned. In a rapid machine-gun staccato, he read from a series of slides, salting quotes from the book with his own commentary.

“Anyway, Thirteeners are a unique bunch, shaped by their time. According to ‘The Fourth Turning,’ they’re the first ‘latchkey’ generation; a product of open classrooms, divorced parents, devil-child movies, the AIDs epidemic, a weird sexual landscape of unconventional ‘courtship rituals,’ and a general shift from a G- to R-rated society. Today, Thirteeners are a ‘splintery culture’ with a cynical, ‘hardened edge,’ characterized by pragmatism, not idealism.

“At the high end of the social spectrum, Thirteeners are the cyberspace whiz-kids who founded Google, Facebook, Amazon and other high-flying Internet companies. Risk-taking is their norm, whether on the battlefield or in the board room. I suspect some of the best young military officers — like your man, Steele — are top-tier Thirteeners. They tend to be entrepreneurs, not corporate drones, and risk-taking is tempered by a survival-at-all-costs modus operandi. That can be good or bad, of course.” Manor nodded firmly, in solid agreement.

Bright gulped a swig of coffee, slammed the mug down and jabbed the laptop’s touch pad. “However, on the other end of the social spectrum, we damn straight have a problem, Houston. The dregs of Thirteeners are what social workers call ‘drug babies‘ — kids born to drug-addict moms. These were scary kids, I tell ya. Absolutely no compassion and completely devoid of conscience. These were typically little fat kids and skinny nerds, the misfits who were teased, humiliated and marginalized for whatever reason. They brutalized animals, beat up old folks for fun, and, ultimately, killed people with no reservation whatsoever.

“Nowadays, those bad-ass drug babies are in their twenties and thirties, and the worst are found in two distinct populations: Criminals...and cops.”

Gray Manor shot a hard glance at his boss, who was half-smiling, one palm raised. “Yeah, yeah. Your BS flag’s waving, I know. Trust me. Every damned thing I’m telling ya is backed by solid, irrefutable data, son. Stay with me here...”

Todd downed the last now-cool coffee and scowled, not pleased. “But here’s the ultimate kicker: Low-functioning Thirteeners, whether they’re hard-core criminals or over-aggressive cops, share a couple of sobering characteristics. They tend to be cowards — zero courage under fire — and they kill without hesitation or remorse, rather than risk taking a hit.

“Now, there’s a good explanation for this,” Bright added, changing slides again. “Thirteeners were raised on video games. New-generation cops have been killing everything from monsters and aliens to bad guys of every stripe, since they were six years old, always without consequence. These kids' brains have literally been wired to shoot and kill — and with nary a ghost of regret. They have no ‘off switch’ and no brain-governor of empathy, like us old farts do. None! That’s why young cops routinely jump to the lethal end of the force spectrum, going for the gun, when a less-lethal option is still open.

"And that, ol' boy, is one of the most-dominant reasons for a skyrocketing increase in officer-involved shootings across the nation. Bad-ass Thirteeners make bad-ass killer-cops, and America’s police forces have hired an inordinate number of ‘em. They’re out there, on the streets at this very minute, and they’re killing innocent citizens on purpose. Primo, upstanding folks like Erik Steele.”

Manor stared at Todd’s white screen, now blanketed in statistics, nodding absently. Too much coffee and too little breakfast, compounded by what he was hearing, had turned his gut to soggy, burnt-campfire ashes. An unpleasant, too-familiar mixture of regret and anxious, jagged-edged darkness settled over his being.

“Christamighty, Todd. I don't know... If what you’re pitching is valid, we have a boat-load of rogue cops on the streets of this country. More than ever before, right?”

Bright nodded gravely. The big man had dropped into a chair and tipped it back, balancing on two spindly legs. “‘Fraid so, son. And they’re not just in America. You were in Iraq, as I recall, when the Abu Ghraib jailhouse fiasco took place.” Manor tipped his head in agreement, grimacing. “You might recall that most of the soldiers abusing Iraqi prisoners were National Guardsmen and Reservists. Several of those guilty part-time soldiers were cops back home. This handful of jerks caused an international incident, embarrassed Uncle Sam big-time, and probably were responsible for another hundred or so GI fatalities at the hands of inflamed Islamist fanatics. All because a few Thirteener mil-cops saw nothing wrong with humiliating and abusing Iraqi prisoners and terrorists. 'Hell, we get away with this behavior back home, so what's the big deal in Iraq?'”

Bright struck the table with a fist and dropped his chair’s front legs. Leaning toward Manor, he said, “And a dollar-to-a-donut says you saw a bunch of your Marines doing far worse in the field. Right?”

Manor closed his eyes and nodded, expelling a long breath. “Yeah; damn sure did. Some of the young ones... Let’s just say I understand what those authors said about heartless, cruel and unmerciful Thirteeners. You wouldn’t believe...” His voice trailed off, remembering.

Bright tapped the computer again, recapturing Manor’s attention. “I know more about those cases than I care to, son,” he said sympathetically. Thumping the table again, he switched gears. “But this ol’ dog also knows his favorite Jarhead’s sittin’ over there thinking, ‘Shoot, a batch of rogue cops hardly constitutes a serious national security threat.’ And he’d be correct. I told you before: Bad-ass cops are just the front line of INDIGO, the cornerstone of a much bigger, more-pervasive terrorism issue.” He tickled the computer’s touch pad, beaming a new slide on the white board: “LAS VEGAS - A FIVE-HEADED SNAKE.”

“Which brings me to Las Vegas and your man, Steele,” Todd said, standing again. “Vegas is new-generation domestic terrorism in spades. It’s the centroid, a perfect example of this current threat, and it’s damned serious. Massive amounts of money flow through 'Lost Wages;' billions per year. Follow the money and here’s what you’ll find: A cabal of corruption on a scale that makes New York and Chicago pale in comparison. You lash up giant multinational gaming corporations, a shamelessly corrupt police department, a complicit district attorney, polluted public-service-employee unions, and powerful politicians, and you have a den of evil that’s destroying lives in droves. Steele’s merely the latest casualty. This clique of crooks and killers is responsible for thousands of bones bleaching in the Nevada and Eastern California desert sun.

“The details are on this,” Bright said, sliding a flash-drive memory stick across the table. “Everything our intel team has uncovered, plus my analysis of what it all means. In short, Metro — Vegas cops – are the enforcers for giant gaming firms, taking care of the bodies and other ‘business’ for big string-pullers like Antone Galocci. Been that way a long time — since the Mafia created modern Las Vegas. There are a half-dozen major players, but Galocci’s the kingpin. He calls the shots and tells the sheriff what to do. The chicken-liver district attorney and his minions make sure dirty cops are never held accountable, primarily through the most unjust, un-American travesty of due-process in the kingdom, the Clark County Coroner’s Inquest system.”

Manor frowned and started to speak up, but Bright waved him down. “No sense in jumping into that cesspool this morning, son. The county statutes are on that thumb drive, and I guar-an-damn-tee you’ll get a close and personal look at that sorry inquest crap soon enough. They’ll have to convene one for Steele’s murder.” Todd commanded a new slide.

“Mix in one of the most arrogant, cocky and crooked police unions on the planet — the Las Vegas Police Protective Association — and this brew really starts to stink. Finally, toss in the political ingredient. On the local scene, Metro’s Sheriff Alex Uriah and his jaw-droppingly corrupt senior staff — which Metro patrol cops derisively call ‘The Tower,’ because it's hopelessly disconnected from street-reality — answer only to a coterie of county commissioners. But the commishes can’t get elected, without the backing of cops and firefighters. Sooooo, damned few commishes challenge anything ol’ Uriah and his killer-cops do, no matter how egregious or damaging to the public welfare.

"On the national front, the U.S. Senate Leader just happens to be Senator Alfred Slaten, the senior senator from... Bingo! Nevada! Ol’ whiny Al routinely carries the water for big-money gambling gurus, and consistently protects the local gendarmes and so-called ‘justice’ cowboys from federal interference.

“Goes deeper and is far more complex, of course,” Bright said, waving a hand, “but that’s the gist of how Vegas operates. Gray, without a doubt, this is the most dangerous, corrupt cabal of evil you’ll ever encounter.”

Manor cracked a half smile. “Really? I tracked down Saddam Hussein, you know. He and his kids weren’t exactly competing with Mother Theresa for sainthood status!” Bright laughed and flicked a palm.

“Yeah, yeah,” he said. “For sheer ballsiness, flagrant corruption, and in-your-face thuggery, though, Vegas wins a gold medal. It was recently named the ninth most-dangerous city in America — and I doubt if that ranking considered murders and abuses committed by cops. Las Vegas Metro cops wracked up 156 officer-involved shootings between 2000 and 2009. Sixty-two of those were fatal — a forty-percent fatality rate. In twenty-ten, the bastards are on-track to hit twenty-five to thirty OISs, and a bunch of those will be fatal. Erik Steele was OIS number seventeen, and we’re barely half-way through the year.

"Fact is, Metro consistently, year after year, has one of the highest OIS rates, per capita, in the nation.” He pointed to a new slide. “According to Vegas news reports, ‘Las Vegas has seven times more officer-involved shootings than cities with populations over one million!’ And comes in first in Taser use.

“Gray, Las Vegas cops have killed Americans at a far higher rate than al Qaeda has, post-nine-eleven! And nobody — especially the FBI — is doing a damned thing to stop ‘em.”

“Until now,” Manor interjected forcefully. “Hell, Todd! We’ve got video data of Erik’s shooting. Documented phone calls that prove Captain Greel and his detectives corrupted and manufactured evidence, stole two firearms from Erik’s condo, and conspired to cover up this grossly negligent murder-by-cop. And who knows how many eyewitnesses saw the whole damned thing! The Justice Department will have to investigate, once we turn this over to the attorney general!”

Bright chuckled, shaking his head slowly. Hands in his slacks’ pockets, he paced slowly, back and forth through the projector’s bright beam. Slump-shouldered, Todd’s shadow on the white board resembled that of a slimmed-down Alfred Hitchcock, the master of intrigue.

“Son, think this through. Do you really think our current weasel of an AG won’t back down, if ‘requested’ to do so by the senior senator from Nevada? The same senator who controls the Justice Department’s budget? No way. And that’s just for starters. When Antone Galocci and other mongo-dollar donors from Las Vegas show up on the White House porch to bitch about an ‘unwarranted’ FBI investigation into Erik’s shooting and a 'slanderous alleged' Metro cover-up, do you honestly believe the AG will ignore his president’s ‘suggestion’ to just forget about that li’l ol' Steele thingy?”

Manor’s jaw muscles were flexing again. Exasperated, the Checkmate director ran a hand through short-cropped gray hair and muttered something unintelligible. Aloud, he said, “We can’t let these shit-birds kill two of our operatives and just ride off into la-la land! Not going to happen, sir!”

Bright nodded, switching to a new slide. “Roger that. Gray, Vegas may be the shortest-burning fuse, but America, in general is ready to explode. Without all the gory background, it boils down to this: U.S. citizens — the taxpayers — are ready to revolt. Not just rednecks and loose-hinged lefties. I’m talking about middle-America, the hardworking men and women who suck it up and go to work every day. The folks who've always left governing to the political class. Until now. They’re pissed, and they’ve had it with out-of-control spending, overregulation, spiraling taxation — and devil-child Thirteener cops.”

Todd stood in the bright-white projector beam, ticking off bullet points by jabbing a finger against the white board. “One: Citizens see law enforcement agencies as the local mask of abusive big government, because cops repeatedly cross the line, and are disgustingly arrogant, corrupt, abusive and in-your-face. More and more Middle America folks absolutely despise cops. And for good reason. Too damned many police officers are scared little Thirteeners — those ex-high school bullies or picked-on nerds. Weak police-department screening, poor, outdated training, and lousy leadership by sorry-assed superiors like Sheriff Uriah in Las Vegas have resulted in those bullies and nerds being given badges, guns and unchecked authority, then turned loose on the public. Unfortunately, a percentage of those cops are cold-blooded killers, and they’re out to get even.

“Two: So many police departments are corrupt that communities are literally disbanding them! Sure, these are small burgs in central Ohio and backwaters of the West, but purging entire police departments is a concept that’s gaining favor, even in big cities. In fact, there’s an impressive law journal paper circulating on the Internet, entitled Are Cops Constitutional? It’s loaded on your memory stick; please take a look at it. Sounds off-beat as hell, but that well-documented study is causing quite a stir in high places, and a few heavy-hitters are seriously contemplating an entirely new model of law enforcement for America!

“Third: When citizens fear, distrust and despise local police forces, crime flourishes. Citizens don’t report crimes, either those in progress or after the fact — especially in Las Vegas — because calling the cops too often results in innocent citizens being abused or killed! Consequently, powerful gangs look for cities where citizens hate cops, knowing those are ripe target communities. The bad guys then move in and set up shop with no opposition. Never fails: A corrupt, rogue-filled police force translates to a sharp spike in crime. 

“Fourth,” Bright continued, “our current crop of national leaders has launched an all-out, covert effort to enact the Mother of All Gun Control Laws. And to make that happen, they’ve undertaken a blatantly illegal program called ‘Fast and Furious.’ The Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives — what you and I used to call the ATF — allowed more than two thousand high-power weapons to be purchased illegally, then ‘walked’ across the border into Mexico.”

“Whoa!” Manor interrupted. “That makes no sense. Why would the feds intentionally orchestrate something that nutso?”

Bright grimaced. “To throw gas on the anti-firearms fire in this country. Yeah, it’s sickening, warped logic, but anti-gun ideologues planned to show Congress that weapons bought in the U.S. were winding up in drug cartel hands and, in turn, were responsible for thousands of Mexican deaths. That was supposed to justify passing the most draconian gun-control laws to date, both in the U.S. and through the United Nations. 

“Thank God, though, the ATF still has a few good, honest agents, and they blew the whistle on ‘Fast and Furious.’ All the facts haven’t gone public yet, but a few dogged reporters are all over it, and I suspect the story will go high-profile very soon. This is serious enough to bring down our dirt-bag U.S. Attorney General...and maybe get the president impeached.”

“Holy...,” Manor breathed. “And this is tied into your cops-as-terrorists theory somehow?”

“Yep; damn straight. Hang on to your skivvies. This cow-pie gets even smellier. Next,” Bright said, turning back to the screen, “take a gander at another factoid: The number of legal gun owners in America now tops eighty million. And growing daily. Gun and ammo sales soared, after the last election, when Democrats won both Congress and the presidency. Firearms and ammo manufacturers have posted obscene profits, thanks to rabid anti-gun rhetoric emanating from the White House and the Hill.”

He pointed to a sub-bullet. “When hunting season opens in Wisconsin, three-hundred-thousand-plus rifle-toting, camouflaged hunters hit the field. They constitute the world’s eighth largest army!”

“And five bucks says those eighty-mill gun owners are seen as a sobering threat, at least by the anti-gun wing nuts,” Manor suggested, one eyebrow raised.

“Well...sort of,” Bright hesitated. “Let me drop a couple more elements on ya, before herding all these mavericks into one corral, okay?” Manor nodded, tipped his chair back and locked interlaced fingers behind his neck.

“So, to summarize: People are frustrated by a stinkin’ economy, loss of jobs, escalating taxes, a dysfunctional, ever-more-intrusive government, and abusive, arrogant cops who think they’re above the law. Mix in a growing fear and hatred of those cops; the fact that roughly twenty-five percent of Americans are armed to the teeth, and a rapidly growing belief that this country’s on the brink of a second revolution, and you have the makins’ of disaster.”



Bright walked around the table and brought up another PowerPoint slide. “Which brings us to Las Vegas. Good ol’ Sin City is tinder dry, ready to explode. It’s where our li'l band of analysts believes revolt will be ignited, then spread across the nation. Notice I didn't say 'maybe.' Will!

"All the volatile elements are there: Massive quantities of money controlled by a half-dozen gaming mega-corporations run by largely immoral billionaires, and some have ties to the Mob. A super-corrupt police force that answers only to the ‘organized gambling’ sector, serving and protecting big-bucks guys, rather than their real employers — the community and its citizens. A joke of a justice system, headed by a district attorney who exists for the primary purpose of protecting gaming gurus and their enforcers — hundreds of crooked thugs sporting Metro badges. Public-employee unions that exist solely to elect the right politicians and to arm-twist the DA, making sure crooked cops and firefighters stay out of prison. And a local economy in shambles.

“Vegas was one of the fastest-growing cities in the country, before the Great Recession tanked the whole damn place. Up to twenty-five percent of homes are on the market, house prices continue to drop, and most homeowners are underwater on their mortgages. Unemployment hovers around fourteen, fifteen percent, in real terms. Tax revenues are down drastically, which means more layoffs and fewer services. And, worst of all, hotel-resort and gaming profits have virtually vanished, compared to those tallied five years ago.

“Here’s Las Vegas’s dirty little secret, son,” Bright said, both hands on the conference table, leaning toward his guest. “Vegas is no longer the big dog of gambling and entertainment. It's in decline, maybe irreversible, and people like Antone Galocci and his big-money buds know it. Macau, the gambling Mecca near Hong Kong, now wracks up five times the annual revenue of Vegas. Wealthy Asians who kept the green flowing in Southern Nevada aren’t flying to the desert these days. They’re staying close to home, going to Macau, instead.

“In the U.S., Florida is on the verge of legalizing gambling, which virtually guarantees millions of east-coasters will no longer flock to Vegas for fun. Two of the richest Vegas gaming gurus are on-record, saying they’ll build new hotel-casinos in Florida, if gambling is legalized. The largest Asian gambling consortium recently bought fourteen acres outside of Miami, and is spending millions ‘encouraging‘ Florida politicians and voters to approve large-stakes gambling.” 

Bright slapped the table and straightened. “Son, the Las Vegas economy is already in the toilet. When the big-money honchos flush it, a hundred thousand folks will suddenly be out of work, on the streets, and royally pissed off. A spark like young Steele’s murder-by-cop, at precisely the right time and place, will blow Vegas to smither-frickin’-reens. Metro’s killer cops will be hunted down by pickup-loads of armed-and-furious folks, and all-out war will erupt. The first casualties will be hundreds of brown-shirt Metro cops, including a hell of a lot of honest, good ones. But gunned-up-and-angry Joe Taxpayer won’t give a flyin’ frap whether that AR-15-totin’ cop is a good guy or one of the Metro shit-birds who murdered Erik Steele, Lashawn Miles and dozens of other white, black and Hispanic kids. It’ll be an awful, ugly blood bath, Gray. And that damned crooked, gutless Sheriff Uriah and his out-of-control killer cops will be one-hundred-percent to blame.”

Bright retrieved his coffee cup, refilled it and dropped into the chair opposite his Checkmate director. “Questions?” Bright said, taking a gulp.

Gray Manor shifted uncomfortably, staring at a slide projected on the wall, thinking. “Well... It’s clear that Vegas is a mess, and could easily spark a riot. But I... Uhh...,” he stammered. “Hell, Todd. How do all these elements constitute a ‘clear and present danger’ and a new class of domestic terrorist? And why would Checkmate get involved? I don’t see the golden link, boss.”

Bright smiled broadly, rotating the coffee cup between rough paws. He eyed Manor closely, soft brown eyes barely visible beneath heavy lids. “Aw, come on, son! You were always way ahead of your poor ol’ prof! Don't give me that ‘I don’t get it’ hooey. Think, Gray!”

Manor grimaced and stood. He walked to the white board/screen and, in turn, tapped each bullet point Todd had addressed. Except for the projector’s cooling fan whisper, the room was silent for several long minutes. Finally, Manor turned and walked to his seat. Hands on the chair’s back, he said, “It’s your combination of elements that’s put Vegas on the edge. A cabal of corruption that includes gaming mega-corporations, a dirty Metro force manned by scared, quick-to-shoot Thirteener cops raised on video games, a dishonest district attorney, union thugs, thousands of heavily armed, P.O.’ed citizens, and a distinct probability that the money-moguls are quietly abandoning Vegas, while publicly claiming to be investing in it. Anything else?”

“One more,” Bright smiled. “Last week, my guys turned up evidence that Antone Galocci — and maybe two other gaming biggies — are in contact with one of the Mexican cartels. Not just drug-related, either. Looks like Galocci’s furious about being monitored by Checkmate, and is determined to exact revenge above and beyond having young Miles killed, possibly through terrorist-style attacks. He provides the money and planning; the cartel provides the muscle and handles logistics.

“Happens to be the same cartel that received most of those heavy-duty weapons our patriotic ATF stooges allowed to ‘walk’ over the border under the stupid ‘Fast and Furious’ program. With help from Galocci and Captain Mikey Greel’s cadre of rogue Metro cops, the cartel has quietly established a sizable gang of brutal Mexican killers in Las Vegas. Stand by for bodies without heads showing up all over the Strip. S'pose that'll put a li'l dent in tourism numbers? Stir in the other elements, and you have the deadliest sleeper cell of terrorists inside Uncle Sam’s borders.”

Manor nodded slowly, the full import of Todd’s  shock-jock briefing dawning. “And you want Checkmate to go after them, because some higher-up designated them as terrorists.”

“Mmmm.... Sorta. Gotta think bigger, son. Mexican gangs infiltrating Las Vegas, aided and abetted by jerk-o cops and gaming moguls, could be handled by the FBI — maybe. If the good senior senator from Nevada didn’t cut ‘em off, of course.

“No, here’s the issue that makes this a national-security concern,” Bright declared, sighing heavily. “If all these factors come together under the right circumstance — something as egregious and senseless as the Steele shooting — all hell will break loose, and uncontainable violence will spread across the country. A three-way shooting war among Mexican gangs, an army of well-gunned citizens that includes highly trained military vets, and hyped-up, over-aggressive Metro cops just in Las Vegas would be bad enough. But if similar gang-cop-citizen wars also explode in Los Angeles, Detroit, Atlanta, New Orleans, Dallas, Houston, Birmingham, Miami, Philadelphia, New York, and — God forbid — the District of Columbia, we’d have a full-blown revolution on our hands. Whole cities would be torched, and we’d incur thousands of casualties. The stock market would crater, people would stop going to work, stores would be stripped of bread, milk and meat... 


"Hell, son, America as we know it would cease...to...be!” The last words were emphasized by a clenched fist repeatedly pounding the high-gloss table, forcing two coffee cups and a polished-silver decanter to jump.

“And Checkmate’s role? How’re we supposed to prevent that?”

“Operation Gold Shield,” Bright clipped. He stretched an arm to the laptop and called up a new slide. Over the next ten minutes, Todd resumed machine-gun mode, outlining the most bizarre, outlandish, covert operation Gray Manor had ever encountered. Nothing in his Special Operations experience came close. Gold Shield was a high-risk, ultra-aggressive, dangerous and ruthless strategy unlike anything a U.S. military officer could imagine, let alone agree to implement.

“Sir, with all due respect...” Manor began, his voice thin and strained, struggling to conceal quasi-revulsion, “this operation could be downright seditious. Maybe even treasonous! Accepting this...uhh...mission virtually guarantees every member of Checkmate — and maybe you, as well — could spend the rest of our lives in prison. If it were exposed. It’s ludicrous...sir.”

“Maybe so. But a lot of very smart people with pay grades much higher than yours and mine firmly believe it’s the only way to avoid a calamitous revolution. Force the guilty parties to clean up their departments on their own, or endure a horrific, far worse fate.”

“But... Our own...?” Manor was visibly stunned and disoriented. He’d wandered into a Twilight Zone, another dimension, where darkness reigned and nothing, absolutely nothing, made logical sense. Combat he could handle. He’d killed Iraqi insurgents, Taliban fanatics and al Qaeda zealots, and ordered dozens more "takedowns" via methods that damn few had witnessed, and would never be understood by sheltered, naive Americans. But three decades-plus in the Marine Corps hadn’t prepared him for the insanity Todd Bright had broached.

“Todd, I...I can’t do this,” Manor stammered. “It runs counter to every fiber of my being. Violates the oath...”

“Bullshit!” Bright bellowed. “You raised your hand and took an oath to protect the Constitution and this nation against all enemies, foreign and domestic! Remember that? Been a hell of a long spell, since U.S. soldiers had to live up to the ‘domestic’ part of their oath, but that time has come, Gray. America’s very existence is threatened by this exceedingly dangerous enemy-within, and Checkmate is the only means of taking it out. And you’re the only man in this country who can provide the leadership to execute Gold Shield properly. And you know it, General Manor!”

Gray Manor’s glare silently screamed that he didn’t buy Bright’s argument; not one whit of it. “Sir, if you’re implying that this is an order, issued by you, to me, then I respectfully refuse on the grounds that I perceive it to be an unlawful order. ‘Just following orders’ issued by mid-level functionaries didn’t fly at Nuremberg in the forties, and it sure as hell won't fly in U.S. court today! I’m not going to be left hanging out there, swinging in the wind with an innocent team of loyal young Checkmate pros, when this crazy-assed Gold Shield shit hits the fan — and the evening news!”

Bright rose, retrieved a single sheet from his desk, and spun it across the table. “You won’t be alone,” Bright grunted. “You’ll swing in good company.”

Manor intercepted the sheet of thick parchment. A familiar seal and elegant gold lettering graced the top. He read the single paragraph quickly, then glanced up at Bright, shock and disbelief smeared across angular, leathery features. He re-read the sheet, slower this time. “I’ll be go-to-hell,” he half-whispered.

“Naw,” Bright chuckled. “Super-Max in Colorado, maybe. But not Hell.”

“How in the Lord’s name...?”

“Wasn’t easy, for damned sure!” Bright growled. “I gave him the same briefing last Friday. The guy ripped several new orifices in my posterior, challenging every bloody point. You’re a toothless kitten, compared to Big Guy!”

Manor nodded slowly, digesting an unreal, irrational, outrageous order he knew he could not, would not reject: “...is hereby ordered to implement Operation Gold Shield in the most-expeditious manner possible. The full resources of the United States government are at your disposal... The gravity and criticality of your mission cannot be overstated. The nation’s very survival is at stake...” Yadda yadda...

Manor stared at a bold scrawl sweeping across the letter’s lower-right sector. The signature was that of his commander-in-chief, president of the United States of America.

***