P B Obeng Read online

  everyone has an agenda

  P. B. OBENG

  Copyright © 2018 by Paa-Kofi Obeng

  The right of Paa-Kofi Obeng to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted. All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the author, except in cases of brief quotations embodied in reviews or articles. It may not be edited amended, lent, resold, hired out, distributed or otherwise circulated

  without the publisher’s written permission.

  Permission can be obtained from www.ascendancepublishing.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Published by Ascendance Publishing

  ISBN: 978-0-9998186-0-2

  Cover design, il ustration & interior formatting:

  Mark Thomas / Coverness.com

  “The love of liberty is the love of others;

  the love of power is the love of ourselves.”

  -William Hazlitt

  (1778-1830)

  PART ONE

  Unknown Origin

  Prologue One

  June 1st

  Delohar, Lemalia

  Three bullets. With only three bullets a world leader’s life is snuffed out.

  Just three bullets are all it takes to throw a nation into chaos and set the world on fire.

  Mohann Aldessa was the newly elected president of the small eastern Mediterranean nation of Lemalia. As a nation it is as much a melting pot as the United States, with ethnic origins in Europe, North and East Africa, and Southeast Asia. Today was inauguration day for the country’s first democratically elected president in over fifty years. Sadly, what was meant to be a joyous occasion devolves into chaos.

  As onlookers react in horror and disbelief, Aldessa’s security detail immediately converges on his body, instinctively brandishing their automatic weapons as they look to return fire. The police make a failed attempt to maintain calm. Hysteria overtakes the crowd and a major stampede ensues, with dozens trampled in the tumult.

  Amidst the confusion, a sniper on the rooftop of the adjacent

  parliament building meticulously field-strips his weapon, a Remington 7.62 mm M4OA1 sniping rifle. The man, dressed in cargo pants, a black t-shirt and a well-worn M65 field jacket, carefully places the disassembled rifle into a rectangular weapons case. He pulls a small 3

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  silver-colored cell phone from his inner coat pocket and presses #7 on the touch screen. As he lifts the phone to his ear, his coat sleeve slides back, revealing a distinctive tattoo of a bald eagle clutching lightning in one claw and arrows in the other.

  The call is answered. “It’s done,” the sniper says in a sterile tone.

  He nods in acknowledgement of the orders given by the other

  conversant. “I understand.” The sniper ends the call, grabs his belongings, and quickly retreats from the rooftop. As he leaves, the man fails to notice the security camera perched on the satellite tower above him.

  4

  Prologue Two

  June 3rd

  CNN Headquarters

  Atlanta, Georgia

  “How are things on the ground in Lemalia, Giles?” Wolf Blitzer, anchor of The Situation Room, asks foreign correspondent Giles Woodbridge.

  Reporting from Delohar via satellite, Woodbridge responds in his unapologetically thick British accent.

  “There’s been rampant unrest since the assassination of the newly elected president, Mohann Aldessa of the moderate People’s National Democratic Party. His opponent, Emerante Legaud, seized power

  shortly after the assassination.”

  “As I understand it, Legaud is a well-known hard-liner from the New Revolutionary Party.”

  “That’s right, Wolf. He has called for the nationwide expulsion of all foreigners as well as the immediate nationalization of all foreign and domestic business interests.”

  “That’s a pretty bold step, considering that he wasn’t the one elected to office,” Blitzer retorts. “What’s been the UN’s response?”

  “The Security Council ratified a resolution condemning the

  assassination,” Woodbridge replies. “The secretary general issued a statement saying that the UN will not formally recognize Legaud’s 7

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  presidency.”

  “So what’s their next move?”

  “It’s believed that economic sanctions will be levied against Lemalia.”

  “Is that wise, considering the fact that Lemalia provides the bulk of Duritium to the global market?”

  “It seems the Security Council has decided to take a harder line since Legaud’s rise to power,” Woodbridge answers.

  “From what we’ve gathered so far stateside,” Blitzer adds, “the White House has not released a statement concerning the recent turn of events in Lemalia.”

  8

  Chapter One

  Where All My Troubles Began

  July 3rd

  Office of the Secretary of Defense

  The Pentagon

  Arlington, Virginia

  Secretary Charles Hanahan is a middle-aged man with a shaved bald head and mid-sized frame. Even though he’s gained a little weight over the years, he’s still quite fit for his sixty-three years. With the demands of his role as defense secretary, he has to be. He pulls a stack of manila folders from the file cabinet behind his well-worn leather chair and plops them onto his already cluttered desk.

  “Well, Captain, here’s your team.”

  Even sitting across the table from him, Captain Alicia Conrad cuts an imposing figure. With a five-foot, nine-inch frame and athletic build, she’s a formidable sight. Although possessing the defined physique of a soldier, Conrad is still able to maintain an hourglass figure.

  She has been an army officer for over ten years and comes from

  an esteemed military pedigree. Even with the expectation of constant readiness that military service fosters, Conrad still does not appreciate 11

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  short notices. When she received a phone call the previous day from the Secretary’s office, all that she was told was, “You have a meeting with SecDef at 0800 tomorrow at the Pentagon.” No further elaboration, no courtesy, just an abrupt “click.” Given all this, it is no surprise that she responds as she does.

  “Come again, Mr. Secretary?”

  “You’ve been selected to lead a group of superhuman operatives under the jurisdiction of the United States government,” Hanahan responds.

  “Selected by…?” The ergonomic chair creaks ever so slightly as she leans forward to hear Hanahan’s response.

  “The whole NSC1: DNI2 Norton, Joint Chiefs Hoppert, Secretary

  Nichols, both POTUS3 and the VP, and of course yours truly.”

  Conrad smiles. “A unanimous decision, huh?”

  “Yup.”

  “I’m curious, who else was on the NSC’s short list?”

  “A few senior-level Marines, a guy from the NSA, and a couple of others who aren’t worth mentioning,” he says flatly.

  “And Blankenchip? I know he’s been dying to get his own special ops team for the longest time.”

  “Are you serious?” Hanahan responds incredulously. His tone is

  somewhat expected given that he and Lieutenant Aaron Blankenchip are not exactly on the best of terms. “We need someone who can manage a mix of egos and personalities—not a hard case like Blankenchip. Don�
��t worry though; he’s also on the team.”

  “I see,” Conrad responds.

  “Why are you so worried about that anyway? What matters is that 1 National Security Council

  2 Director of National Intelligence

  3 President of the United States

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  we picked you.”

  “I understand, and I’m thankful for the opportunity, sir.”

  Sensing the hesitance in her voice, Hanahan probes further. “But?”

  “I just don’t want it to seem like you picked me because of my dad.”

  “Please, it’s not like nepotism wasn’t alive and well in this town long before your family showed up,” Hanahan responds. “Look, it has nothing to do with that; we picked you because you have what we need.”

  “That’s reassuring, sir,” she says, her voice lightening up a bit.

  “Besides, I couldn’t have you languishing behind a recruiter’s desk.

  That was just temporary until you got yourself together.”

  Conrad nods in acknowledgement.

  Hanahan continues, “You were always meant for greater things,

  Alicia.”

  “Thanks.”

  “What did your dad used to say when you were a kid?”

  She glances down and quietly responds, “Be better than yourself.”

  “Exactly. Your dad, God rest his soul, knew how great you could become.” He reaches over to grab a framed picture of him and John Conrad and their 82nd Airborne Division unit. He gazes upon it. “He trusted me to watch over you and the twins. There is no way I’m going to allow your potential to go to waste.”

  Conrad could see the conversation going to an uncomfortable place so she quickly shifts back to topic.

  “So, why this? Why now?”

  Hanahan pauses briefly before speaking. “The Minneapolis event.”

  Three years prior an al-Qaeda operative named Mahmoud El-Hayek

  leveled the Mall of America single-handedly. This was accomplished not with a bomb but with his superhuman ability to generate localized nuclear fission reactions. He single-handedly unleashed the equivalent 13

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  of a megaton yield nuclear bomb. The death toll exceeded 50,000 and left the rest of Minnesota a virtual wasteland due to the residual radiation.

  “We live in a post-human era now, Alicia,” Hanahan continues. “Since the beginning of the space race, people with unbelievable abilities have popped up all over the world. Some are harmless, others pose a threat.”

  “Like me?” she jokingly responds.

  Hanahan smiles. “No. You are our best asset in dealing with this emerging threat.”

  “You’re being too generous, sir.”

  “It’s true. You’re the best investment ever made in military research.”

  “I see.”

  “Any threat to our security must be dealt with swiftly and lethally,”

  he says, his tone becoming noticeably grimmer. “I figure when you’re in a fight with a pit bull you get your bigger, meaner pit bull to deal with him.”

  “So… I’m America’s attack bitch now?” she says sarcastically.

  “No. It’s just an analogy, Alicia.”

  Taking the opportunity to display her vocabulary acumen she

  counters, “It’s actually a metaphor, sir.”

  “Same difference,” he snaps back.

  She smiles. “OK, so what have we got?”

  “First things first. The name of the team is Vigil.”

  “Vigil?”

  “Yeah, it’s the only thing we could agree on at the NSC meeting.”

  She raises her eyebrows. “OK.”

  “It’s essentially a task force created for the sole purpose of protecting US interests and allies.”

  “So, it’s like a super-powered CCI squad?”

  The Crisis Conflict Intervention unit—or CCI for short—was a sub-14

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  division of the Army Special Forces. Several top Green Berets couldn’t even meet the strenuous requirements for membership. Their original intent was to perform, for lack of a better term, politically gray missions.

  For all intents and purposes, CCI is essentially a black-ops division of the Special Forces. Both Conrad and Blankenchip are former members.

  “Not quite,” Hanahan responds. “CCI was strictly covert ops; this’ll have more of a public face. And we’re pulling in civilian agencies as well.”

  “I see.”

  “It’s one of the most ambitious interagency initiatives like it since the creation of the Department of Homeland Security.”

  He notices that Conrad’s attention is drawn to one of the files. “Still with me?”

  She looks up. “Yes, go on please.”

  “These people aren’t ordinary—much like you.”

  “So I’m a weirdo. Thanks, sir, didn’t know you cared.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  She flips through the pages in one of the folders. “OK, Cynthia Fighting Bull, formerly Cynthia Sorrell… Codename Pseudo.” She

  pauses to make an editorial comment. “We’re using codenames?”

  “For now.” Hanahan replies.

  “The NSC was really into the whole superhero motif hungh?”

  He responds peevishly. “Maybe a bit.”

  “Maybe a bit too much.” Conrad continues reading. “She’s a CIA agent in the Directorate of Operations’ Spyscape division. Age twenty six, genetic endowment: metamorphosis. Genetic endowment? We have genetic mutants on this team?”

  “I believe the politically correct term is ‘Variants’,” Hanahan admonishes.

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  “Whatever.”

  “There are two, as a matter of fact.”

  “Who’s the other?”

  “FBI agent by the name of John Arrowhawk.”

  “The one who cracked the Kerrington case?”

  “Yup—one of the youngest ASACs4 to crack a case of that magnitude.”

  “Isn’t his brother some kind of eco-terrorist or something?”

  “Or something.”

  “I see. So, what’s his power?”

  “He’s essentially a human power cell. He can absorb, convert, and manipulate all energy forms. You name it: nuclear, electrical, kinetic, whatever. He’s your heaviest hitter in terms of raw power.”

  “Hmm, and this one?” She picks up a 4x4 inch photo of a large-

  framed man.

  Hanahan takes the photo from her hand and draws it closer for a better look. “He’s a Secret Service agent by the name of Terrell Morrison.”

  “I’ve never heard of him. What’s his story?”

  “He was caught in the Houghton Biomedical Research Lab accident and was exposed to a synthetic Duritium-based reagent. As a result, he can take on the physical properties of any substance he comes into contact with.”

  Conrad points to the final photo. “And the last one’s good ol’

  Blankenchip. Is he the only complete normal on this team?”

  “He’s not so normal, with that Battle C.A.T.5 suit he designed.”

  “Tell me about it. How much did it cost to design and manufacture that thing?”

  “About fifty million.”

  4 Assistant Special Agent in Charge

  5 Cybernetic Armor Technology

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  “And they say we have a national debt of over 30 trillion.”

  “Hey, it’s one of the perks of being in the service for as long as he’s been.”

  “When I get twenty years of service can I get my own high-tech body armor?”

  “Why? It’s not like you need it.”

  With a smile that could melt the fiercest of hearts, Conrad replies,

  “That’s why you picked me for the job, right?”

  “That, and you have one of the best military minds I’ve ever seen since y
our father,” Hanahan adds.

  “You really know how to flatter a girl, sir.”

  “I try. There’s a press conference at the Pentagon at 1400. I’ll see you then.”

  Taking this as her cue, Conrad salutes the secretary, gathers her beret and briefcase, and promptly leaves his office.

  As he clears off his desk, he glances at the ominous headline on the front page of the Washington Post that reads, “Turmoil in Lemalia continues to send world stock markets into tailspin.” Hanahan folds the paper in half and throws it into his desk drawer.

  17

  Chapter Two

  Bureaucrats

  Interstate 495

  The Washington Beltway

  Conrad navigates the perpetually congested Washington Beltway in her late-model Ford SUV, with the intent of getting to her Silver Spring home before lunchtime. Although her eyes are fixed on the road, her mind drifts back to the meeting with Hanahan. The thought of being active again is both appealing and honestly quite frightening— How would she transition back to active duty? What would she do to keep them all on the same page? These thoughts run through her mind just before the ringtone of James Brown’s “The Big Payback” from her cell breaks through her fugue. She looks at the caller ID and sees that it’s Maurice Hodges, case officer with the Montgomery County Department of

  Child Welfare Services. Hodges has been a constant thorn in her side since the beginning of her custody case with the county. Her disposition immediately changes as she lifts the phone to her ear.

  In a flat voice she answers, “Conrad.”

  Maurice Hodges’s voice is the perfect amalgam of the character Steve Urkel from the 1990s television show Family Matters and comic actor 18

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  and economist Ben Stein.

  “Yes, Ms. Conrad, this is Maurice Hodges from the Department of Child Welfare Services.”

  She can’t help but grit her teeth every time he opens his mouth.

  “Yeah, I know who you are. What exactly is it that you want?”

  “Just calling to remind you of your pending court date.”

  “Yes, I do remember, Mr. Hodges. Is there anything else you would like to waste my daytime minutes on?”

  Hodges is put off by the curt response and pauses a moment to gather himself before responding.

  “No, nothing else, but considering that you’re one of our decorated servicewomen I have to say, your tone and manner are quite rude—”

  She interrupts him mid-sentence. “Look, I’d love to listen to your diatribe on proper phone etiquette, but unlike some people—such as yourself—I use the air I breathe to do work that actually matters. So if you’ll excuse me…”