Talon's Code

By B G JOHNSTON

Late at night in the Oval Office, President Stanley Coles gets bad news. Dr. Walter Boldt, the brains behind a game-changing TOP SECRET space weapon, has likely defected. CIA believes Boldt is in Tehran, and with so much at stake, Coles covertly authorizes the Talons—a shadowy, illicit team of three men and one woman—to kidnap Boldt and bring him back. The Talons quietly gather where the law doesn't allow—inside the super-secret National Security Agency.

 

Dex Battle, a solitary man, is happily holed up in his mountain cabin, but he's a Talon and he must go. When he and a teammate are sneaked into Iran, they're pulled into a deadly web of espionage and international intrigue. And when things get toughest for Dex, he has visions of an ancient Native American whose spirit he'd encountered once before—while in college, experimenting with a hallucinogenic drug.

 

Meanwhile, an American jet blows a Chinese helicopter out of the sky. China responds, and the two countries move quickly to the brink of war. Dr. Boldt's space weapon will give the US a significant edge, but there's a major problem; it can't be activated without Boldt. The clock is ticking, and if the Talons can't bring him back quickly enough, the two countries will clash in the Pacific where China has an overwhelming advantage. And countless Americans will die.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tomahawk Writing and Publishing
• Release date: Mar 24, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224023035

B G JOHNSTON

Bill Johnston was born into an Air Force family that frequently moved from state to state. After high school, he joined the National Security Agency where he advanced to senior executive ranks. Later, Bill accompanied his then wife, Anna—an Army veteran and cybersecurity expert—to England, where he began to write fiction. Currently, he lives near Colorado Springs where he completed his first novel, Just Plane Deadly. When Bill isn’t writing, he’s probably reading; fishing; stubbornly rooting for the Raiders; or risking a few bucks in a Las Vegas casino with his two gambling buds, John and Craig.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Arlington, Virginia

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Ghostly was the word that came to Walter as he stood on the cyber lab’s front steps and stared at the nearly-deserted parking lot. A few pole lamps glowed, but the moonless, jet-black sky easily overwhelmed them. The nighttime air was warm and muggy, but Walter shivered. He wasn’t a paranoid sort of fellow, but something felt wrong tonight. He took a deep breath to calm himself. The faint smell of slightly brackish water in the nearby Potomac River seemed to help, but his parked car was more than two hundred feet away and cloaked in inky darkness. His heart beat faster as he took the first few steps toward it.

On a whim, Walter had stopped at the cyber lab on his way home from work to run a quick computer simulation he’d been thinking about. He planned to finish up in time to be home for dinner, but he got wrapped up in his work. Now, it was nearly ten p.m. and to make matters worse, he hadn’t let his wife know about his unscheduled stop at the lab. She must be worried as hell, he thought, privately scolding himself for leaving his phone in the car.

About halfway to his vehicle, Walter thought he heard the faint sound of footsteps behind him. He silently prayed it was just his imagination, but was it? Now his heart wasn’t just beating faster, it was pounding, and the hairs on the back of his neck were standing at attention. He was afraid to look back, desperately wanting to reach his car and lock himself inside, but his bum knee slowed him down.

He hurriedly pressed the key fob’s unlock button. The double-chirp was a welcome sound, but the small degree of relief it provided was short-lived. Just as his fingers touched the door handle, two strong hands gripped his shoulders from behind. Walter resisted, but he was no match for an assailant who brutally slammed him to the pavement. He felt a rough cloth bag yanked over his head, then someone pulled its drawstrings tightly around his neck. A pair of hands grabbed his left foot; a second pair of hands grabbed his right. Walter struggled to breathe and tried to shout for help as he was dragged along the asphalt, but the only people who likely heard him were his captors.

*     *     *

The White House, Washington, DC

The Next Evening

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President Coles eyed the antique clock on the mantle above what had earlier been a hardy blaze in the fireplace. Now the flames were little more than a glowing pile of embers. It was getting late, nearly eleven p.m. He sighed and turned to the man sharing the Oval Office with him—Secretary of Defense, Ray Tate.

Your visitor is late, Ray, the president said, frowning.

Indeed, SecDef Tate replied after a long sigh. I’m sorry I had to ask you to meet with him this evening, but I don’t think it should wait until tomorrow. I’m sure he’ll be here soon.

I’ll trust you on that. It’s been a long day and I still have some papers to review. I’ll be in the library. Leah will let me know when he arrives.

Of course, Ray answered. He rose from the light-brown Chippendale chair and waited for the president to leave. And then he started to pace.

Outside the White House, a dark sedan pulled over to the curb on H Street, its wipers swiping away a thin film of mist. Fog was moving in—not pea soup level yet—but thick enough to put halos around the glowing streetlights and give the White House a foreboding look.

A lone passenger got out while the driver remained behind the wheel. A police officer in a shiny yellow rain slicker unlocked and opened the entry gate for the man while a Secret Service agent waited just inside the guard shack. Follow me, he said as the visitor passed through. The agent turned and hurried to the hedge-lined walkway. The visitor had to pick up his pace to catch up. A moment later, a guard posted at the White House’s rear entrance opened the door and let them in.

Less than an hour ago, Leah Samuels-Price, the president’s chief of staff, had sent a driver for the visitor, saying only that her boss, President Stanley Coles, wanted to see him immediately. Leah was waiting for him just outside the Oval Office, and after a brief welcome, she led him inside. SecDef Tate was standing near the center of the room, and when the two men saw each other, they both smiled. Ray Tate was a man the visitor knew well, liked, and admired.

Devon, Ray said, It’s so good to see you. Thank you for coming. Please have a seat. The president will join us momentarily.

The visitor nodded and they both sat down. I’m sorry you were summoned on such short notice, Ray said, but what you sprung on me a few hours ago was very disturbing, and I thought the president should know about it immediately.

Before the visitor could respond, President Coles entered and moved quickly to the Resolute Desk. The visitor and Tate rose and the president hastily motioned for them to sit down.

Coles looked like he’d aged several more years than the three that had passed since Inauguration Day. His fifty-five-year-old face under a full head of curly gray hair had looked almost boyish on the day he was sworn in, but now it bore numerous worry lines and considerable bags under his eyes. Despite the stress that was no doubt the cause of his aging appearance, the visitor knew that Coles planned to run for reelection. His approval ratings weren’t in the proverbial toilet, but they weren’t stellar either. Winning the election in less than a year was anything but certain.

The president took his seat. Skipping pleasantries, he turned to the SecDef and said, You set this meeting up, Ray, so you kick it off.

Yes, Mr. President. This is Dr. Devon McNeely. He’s director of DARPA, the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency.

Nice to meet you, Dr. McNeely, the president said, glancing at him only briefly.

McNeely shifted in his chair and quietly said, Thank you, sir. Given the circumstances, he expected a rather righteous ass-chewing from President Coles.

Let’s get right to the point, Ray, the president said impatiently to his SecDef. You told me a scientist is missing. Why is his absence so damned important that the three of us need to gather after eleven o’clock at night?

Rather than answer, Ray addressed McNeely. Devon, you’re up to bat. Please tell the president what’s going on.

Yes, sir, McNeely replied. He cleared his throat, hesitated a moment, then met the president’s gaze. Dr. Walter Boldt is no ordinary scientist. He’s the brains behind a revolutionary magnetic propulsion breakthrough that gives us an enormous space warfare advantage.

This is a very big deal, the SecDef interjected. That’s why I insisted you know about it tonight.

Then let’s proceed, Coles said, his eyes boring into McNeely’s. What do you think happened to him?

We don’t know for sure, but Walter didn’t come to work this morning and he didn’t call to say he wouldn’t be there. We put security on it right away, and when they contacted his wife, she told them he failed to come home last night and he never called her. She notified the police, but we at DARPA didn’t get the word.

The president rolled his hand, signaling for McNeely to continue.

His car wasn’t in its usual spot at DARPA headquarters, but a security officer at a remote cyber lab run by NIST—the National Institute of Standards and Technology—found it in their parking lot late this afternoon. It wasn’t locked and his iPhone was inside.

Anything interesting on the phone? Ray asked.

It was locked, and we gave it to the Bureau. They think they can break into it, but it might take as long as a week.

How about surveillance? the president asked. There were cameras, right?

Unfortunately, no, McNeely answered. And that’s only part of the problem. That particular cyber lab has a fenced-in parking lot but no guard to monitor it. There’s an open gate with a sign that reads ‘NO PUBLIC PARKING. US GOVERNMENT AND OFFICIAL VISITORS ONLY’. So, getting in and out of that lot is completely on the honor system.

Why the hell is security so lax at a government cyber lab? the president asked.

All of the work done there is unclassified, and the lab is usually open to all government personnel as well as contractors and invited foreign nationals. There’s no security to speak of inside the building, other than a single guard for each shift—days, eves, and mids—who keeps an eye on the lab equipment and tries to keep unauthorized people out.

President Coles leaned back in his chair and slowly shook his head. All right then, he said. Speculate for me. Give me your best-and worst-case scenarios as to what might have happened to Dr. Boldt.

Best case, Mr. President, is he intentionally met someone there last night, left his car behind, and went with whomever it was for personal reasons. Maybe he’d had a fight with his wife and needed to get away. Or perhaps he forgot to tell her he had plans with a friend. He might also be having an affair and decided to meet his lover in the parking lot and go someplace with her. If any of those are the case, he’ll most likely show up soon.

And the worst case?

McNeely looked at Ray then back at President Coles. He frowned, cleared his throat again, shifted in his chair, and said, Mr. President, I fear Walter likely defected.

Defected? the president said, abruptly rising from his chair, leaning forward, and placing his hands on the desk. Why do you think so?

He had to know the cyber lab’s parking lot wasn’t guarded or surveilled. It was a perfect place for him to leave his car and meet someone who could get him out of the country. Also, we checked his desk and his computer and didn’t find anything regarding his work that would allow us to continue with the project. We fear he might have taken valuable information with him. We’re concerned about him leaving his phone behind too. He might not want to be tracked by its GPS.

And if Dr. Boldt did defect, the president said, where do you think he went?

We don’t know, but wherever it is, the possibilities of what they could do with his magnetic propulsion knowledge are frightening. I can’t emphasize enough how important it is to find him and bring him back quickly, even if it’s against his will.

How soon is quickly? the president asked, taking his seat. Do we have a day? A week? A month?

I can’t say for sure, Mr. President. FLINTLOCK is a very complex and compartmented program so Walter doesn’t have all the pieces, but his magnetic propulsion invention is what makes it all work. If we don’t get him back within a week, I’d say, it will likely be too late to prevent him from sharing enough details to be catastrophic for us. The significant space war advantage he’s given us will virtually evaporate.

A week, the president said, rubbing his chin.

McNeely shifted in his chair again, practically squirming, and then continued. And there’s another complication. We’ve begun to deploy FLINTLOCK, but you won’t be able to activate it without him. Everything is locked down tight, and until it’s fully tested and certified, it can only be unlocked by Walter’s biometric characteristics. The bottom line is, if you want to use the new space weapon for any reason, you won’t be able to do so without him. Everything we’ve sunk into FLINTLOCK will be for naught if we can’t bring him back.

FLINTLOCK, the president said, steepling his fingers and staring at McNeely. A word that keeps coming up. What is it, anyway? A program so damned secret no one dares tell me about it? I certainly hope not, doctor. That’s not something I’ll tolerate.

McNeely blinked and looked at the SecDef, who said, I’ll take it from here if that’s okay, Mr. President. Devon had nothing to do with that.

Alright, the president replied, glancing at the clock again, and then at McNeely. You’re excused. Thank you for coming. We’ll be in touch if necessary, and please do let Ray know if you learn anything about Dr. Boldt’s location.

McNeely stood, nodded to both men, and left the Oval Office. When the door closed behind him, President Coles stared at his SecDef and said, What the hell, Ray? If FLINTLOCK is so goddamn important, why haven’t I been briefed on it?

That’s on me, Stan, Ray answered, leveraging their friendship to break protocol by referring to the president by his first name, which was common for Tate whenever he and the president were alone together. I wanted you to have legitimate deniability about any knowledge of FLINTLOCK in case something went wrong. It’s the kind of program that will be terribly damaging to you if it’s exposed.

How so? the president asked.

It involves a revolutionary, physically-intrusive weapon that we’ve already started to deploy. If that becomes known, it will surely trigger international outrage. And you can be damn certain that asshole Speaker of the House would take great pleasure in impeaching you. The Senate would probably vote to convict you too. Throwing you under the bus would be a great way to ease international tension.

And that’s why you kept me out of the loop? the president asked. To protect me? Very noble, Ray, but I suspect it’s more along the lines that I might not have authorized whatever FLINTLOCK is, and you wanted it to proceed no matter what. Am I getting warm?

The SecDef lowered his eyes, stared at the Oval Office’s royal blue carpet for a moment, then slowly nodded. That’s partly true, Stan, but FLINTLOCK is a game-changer. It has the potential of preventing a war or winning one, so I gambled that I could sell it to you after it was fully tested and deployed. But the deniability reason is absolutely true too. I would have taken full responsibility, and you could have sworn under oath, and been completely honest, and said you knew nothing about FLINTLOCK. Now you can’t. He waited a moment, then said, If you’d like, I can give you a rundown on FLINTLOCK—what it is and what it does.

Coles groaned and shook his head. Not tonight. I’m certainly curious, but I’m beat. It’s been a hell of a day, and I’d like to hear about FLINTLOCK when I’m able to give it the full attention it no doubt deserves. I’ll take a raincheck. Let’s just focus on Dr. Boldt for now. He’s apparently the key to everything, so we sure as hell better find him fast.

Agreed, Ray said. And if he did defect, it’s our worst nightmare. We’ll need to bring him back when he doesn’t want to come back, and we can’t send the military or CIA because whatever country he left for will grant him protection under the International Humanitarian Law. In my opinion, Stan, we have only one option. I think we need to activate Peregrine.

Christ, Ray, Coles said. You know how risky that is. Peregrine is our last resort. We lost one of the team last time, and the program was nearly exposed. What if they get caught this time and the fact that you and I authorized it comes out? We’ll probably both end up behind bars.

It’ll be risky for sure, but if we’re caught sending the CIA or a Seal Team, the entire immunity-for-defectors house of cards will probably collapse. Others will use it as an excuse to do the same thing to us, and people who defect here will no longer be safe. Peregrine would at least have a chance of not being linked to the US Government—and more specifically to you and me—if the mission goes to hell.

President Coles sighed, put his hands on the edge of the desk and rose from his chair, Shit, Ray, he said, frowning. I’ll authorize Peregrine, but we’d better pray to God it isn’t exposed.

CHAPTER 2

Mount Charleston, Nevada

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The local TV weather gal predicted another triple-digit heat wave for Vegas, but Dex Battle didn’t mind. His cabin would stay comfortable. At an elevation of nearly nine thousand feet, and surrounded by thick forest on Mount Charleston’s slope, temperatures rarely went higher than eighty degrees. He didn’t plan on going anywhere anytime soon, and there was no place he’d rather be.

He muted the TV and took a sip of black coffee that was too hot to gulp. Suddenly, someone started banging on the front door so hard and fast it sounded like a rock music drum riff. Shit, he thought as he stepped out of the kitchen, my plans for a quiet, easy morning probably just crashed and burned. He took a few steps toward the door, planning to grab the .45 he kept in the top drawer of an end table, but he stopped dead in his tracks.

Hendrix, open the door, a man shouted. I know you’re in there!

Goddammit, Dex thought. Nobody but Talons call me Hendrix. He groaned, made his way to the door, and opened it to see a smiling, familiar face. Dex glared at him and said, What do you want, Vaughan? If it’s another fucking Peregrine mission, you can count me out.

Vaughan’s smile grew broader. His blond hair was shorter than the last time Dex had seen him—barely more than a buzz. At around five-foot-nine, and about one hundred forty pounds, with fair skin and blue eyes, Vaughan looked like he’d just flown in from Scandinavia. His slight frame didn’t take up much space in the doorway, but underestimating him was a mistake that men twice his size had too often made.

Nice to see you, too, Hendrix, Vaughan said, winking at Dex as he entered. You look pretty good. No worse for the wear. I see you still have that chipped front tooth, though. Why didn’t you get it fixed?

None of your goddamned business.

Okay, Mr. Congeniality, Vaughan said, holding up his hands in mock surrender, still smiling. He stopped just inside the door and carefully looked around.

What are you looking for, Vaughan? Snipers? We’re not in Ukraine anymore you know.

Not snipers, Vaughan said. Where’s your fucking devil cat?

Dex smiled for the first time since his visitor had arrived, recalling the previous, and only other time, Vaughan had been there. Nearly a year ago, Vaughan was foolish enough to pick the lock and let himself in after Dex refused to answer the door. Dex’s cat, Dancer, pounced, and was about to rip Vaughan’s face off with his large claws and sharp teeth when Dex called him off.

Dancer is around here someplace, Dex said. I think he’s been pining for you. Probably wants to kiss and make up.

Not likely. He nearly made me shit my pants. I’ve been on the wrong end of a gun, but your cat was worse. I’ve never seen one that big and that mean up close before. Shouldn’t he be in a zoo?

Relax, he’s fine. He knows you’re not a threat this time because I let you in. Anyone who breaks into my house will regret it, though. I don’t need a burglar alarm with Dancer around.

I’ll vouch for that, Vaughan said, then changed the subject. I called you earlier. Why didn’t you answer the phone?

I didn’t recognize the number, but let’s just get to the point, Dex said. Why are you here? Signing up with Peregrine was a huge mistake, and I made it perfectly clear after the last mission that I never want to go back.

Vaughan didn’t answer immediately, noticeably tensing up as Dancer sauntered over. God, I hate that cat, he said. What is he, anyway? A damn wildcat or a mountain lion or something?

He might be a big guy, but he’s no mountain lion. He’s part serval, though, and servals are stronger and faster than bobcats. He’s about forty pounds, and I’d wager he’s deadlier than the meanest pit bull you’ll ever meet. He’s a lot faster than one, and his teeth and claws are way sharper.

I’m not one to argue that, Vaughan said, looking at Dancer and then back at Dex. You know what? I didn’t notice it last time, but you and your psycho cat have the same color pale green eyes. That’s kind of weird.

Thanks for pointing that out, pretty boy. I guess we can’t all be blue-eyed babe-magnets like you.

Aw shucks, Hendrix. You’re making me blush, Vaughan said with a smile. Anyway, all kidding aside, I’m afraid your friend here’s going to be an orphan, at least for a while. Morrison sent me to bring you back to the nest. There must be some serious shit going on somewhere, and he wants us to fix it.

Dex’s jaw tightened and he shook his head hard. Hell no, Vaughan. I just said I’m done with that whole thing. I told Morrison to leave me out of his future adventures, so why is he trying to rope me back in?

Must be your charming personality, Vaughan said. Actually, it wasn’t Morrison who made the decision. He just sent me here. It was our old friend the Secretary of Defense who wants Peregrine to soar again. He insists we be at Joint Base Andrews by 1500 tomorrow. I’ll pick you up at 0800. We’ll have a Gulfstream III waiting at Nellis to whisk us back east in style and comfort, courtesy of the SecDef.

Tell him and Morrison they can go fuck themselves.

No can do, my friend. You know how Peregrine works. You’re one of us, you always will be, and you’ll never be out of their sight. You signed up for this, just like I did, and they’ll use us up until we’re too old or too dead to be of any help. Be ready by 0800 tomorrow.

He turned around, opened the door and walked away while Dex gave him the finger. Vaughan didn’t look back to see it, but it made Dex feel a little better.

After a fitful night of almost zero sleep, Dex got up early to pack. It was tough to know what to take because he didn’t know where he’d be going. Maybe it’ll be a resort island where Vaughan and I can lie on the beach, watch the pretty ladies, and drink coconut rum all day. Yeah right. Odds were astronomical it would be someplace colder, or hotter, or more crowded, or more desolate, and definitely a lot more dangerous. He took the easy way out and threw a few items in a backpack, knowing that those who would soon control his fate would provide whatever else he’d need.

During the night while lying awake, Dex had grudgingly accepted his fate. Vaughan was right; Peregrine owned him, and Dex had no choice but to take part in whatever godawful mission they were calling him back for. Now his name would be Hendrix—his Peregrine cover name—until the mission was over.

When he saw Vaughan pull up out front at precisely 0800, he said goodbye to Dancer. Lucky for both of them, his nearest neighbor Connie—a widow in her seventies—was a serious cat person. She’d agreed to visit Dancer every day, pamper him, and make sure he was doing okay. She’d helped out with watching him before, and she and Dancer were pretty good buds.

Vaughan, waiting by the car, looked so damn cheery Hendrix wanted to punch him out. Instead, he locked up the cabin and looked around to admire the forest. I wonder if I’ll ever see it again; or Dancer; or my own damn thirty-fourth birthday? God, I sure hope so.

*     *     *

Joint Base Andrews, Maryland

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When the Gulfstream landed, Hendrix and Vaughan found their team leader, Morrison, waiting in a blue Buick SUV that could have used a bath. I’d hoped to never see you again, Morrison, Hendrix said as he and Vaughan got in the back seat. Nothing personal, but the idea of another Peregrine mission is about as appealing as a case of dysentery.

Don’t be a crybaby, Morrison said. It’s not a good look for you.

Bite me, Morrison, Hendrix muttered.

A woman Hendrix didn’t know sat in the front passenger seat. She’s pretty, he thought, noting her smooth skin, high cheekbones, and dark hair and eyes. Kind of looks like Cher when she was younger. The woman didn’t speak, and Morrison didn’t introduce her. He pulled away from the tarmac, exited the base’s main gate, and merged onto the Capital Beltway. The woman turned her head enough to sneak a glance at the back seat, but she still didn’t say anything. Hendrix opened his mouth to speak to her, but she quickly turned her head away.

I guess you’re not her type, Vaughan whispered, wearing a grin.

Yeah, story of my life, Hendrix whispered back.

*     *     *

Fort Meade, Maryland

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The Federal Protective Service guard, dressed in all black with a 9mm Glock strapped to his waist, took a few minutes to look them over, check their fabricated IDs against a hand-held device that looked like an oversized iPhone, and hand back the ID cards along with four rectangular plastic badges with VIP stenciled across the front. The four of them placed the ribbon-like lanyards with badges attached over their heads, leaving the badges dangling in front of their chests. Meanwhile, a sturdy, steel barrier slowly lowered into the pavement; when it was flush, a wooden gate-bar lifted. The officer waved them through, and Morrison drove to a reserved VIP parking space just outside the building. The stone and metal sign in front identified it as the National Security Agency and US Cyber Command.

The foursome left the car and headed to the building. When they reached the top of the entrance’s stairway, a slim Black woman with short black hair and a gorgeous smile met them. Hello, I’m Bev, she said. I’m the senior protocol officer here at NSA. She shook their hands and invited them to follow. Once inside, Bev led them around a number of turnstiles that Hendrix saw others passing through after scanning their picture badges and entering their PINs. Apparently, skipping all of that was a perk of having a VIP badge and a personal escort.

The eight-story structure held numerous rooms and areas that Hendrix didn’t get to see inside of and probably never would. He couldn’t help but wonder what kind of spooky shit was going on in some of them. The group followed Bev into an elevator that took them directly to the eighth floor. From there, she escorted them through a carved wooden double door with a placard outside marking it as the office of David M. Carney, Deputy Director.

She handed the visitors off to the Deputy Director’s executive assistant—a fit-looking young man with a prosthesis. Hendrix suspected his missing arm was courtesy of the Taliban or some other less than friendly Middle East faction, but he chose not to ask, worried it might trigger some rather unpleasant memories. The exec welcomed Morrison, Vaughan, Hendrix, and the mystery lady, and led them into a modern, sparsely furnished conference room.

The D/Dir, the exec said, pronouncing the title as DEE-Duhr, will be here momentarily. Please make yourselves comfortable. He turned and promptly walked out.

The conference room had windows along