Who Can You Trust?

(Source)

Wilt Thompson was sitting in his little office at the Rod and Gun Club sipping a cup of coffee he'd just poured from his Thermos. He looked out towards the garage area when the small entry door next to the bigger garage door opened. It was Willy Batchelor and Leroy Beardsley, his second in command and his company sergeant major.

Batchelor had actually been a captain in the Rangers, Beardsley had retired as a Gunnery Sergeant. Batchelor had left the Army early after a series of terrible assignments and disagreements with those in command. To say that he was something of a loose cannon in those days was an understatement. But, as Beardsley liked to say, "Willy was all growed up now." He took his current duties very seriously.

Thompson nodded when the men came into the office and asked, "So, are the Feebs all set up out there?"

Beardsley chuckled as he nodded his head. "Yup, and we're pretty sure they have no clue that we made them soon as they parked their van."

Batchelor looked around, "So are we gonna wait for Morgan and Johansen?"

Thompson said, "Nope, they weren't invited."

That got a raised eyebrow from Beardsley and a "What the f ..." from Batchelor.

Thompson continued, "Something about those two just doesn't feel right. Particularly Johansen."

"Feds?" Beardsley asked.

"Maybe, I just don't know. I just feel that there are certain aspects of this operation that they shouldn't be privy to."

"Like?" Batchelor prompted.

"We've got a real shipment going into the Green Ridge area this Saturday and ..."

Thompson paused and looked around the building with a questioning look.

"I swept the place this morning, the Feebs haven't left their van, and I know that no one other than us three have been in here since Friday. We're clean."

Thompson resumed what he was saying, "Like I said, a real shipment is coming in Saturday, five crates of 7.62 ammo, some of it is already belted, and a case of G3s.¹"

"I thought we were going to be using M4s.²" Batchelor protested.

Beardsley chuckled, "Oh, we've got those as well, they ain't gonna be in the bait shipment. We're using those." He looked at Thompson, "Right?"

"We've got those, a couple of M60s, I might be able to get a couple of 60mm mortars as well. Guy in the West Virginia National Guard owes me money. A lot of money." Thompson answered.

"What are we gonna do about Johansen and Morgan, what about that Italian guy, Rosie or something?" Batchelor asked.

"You mean Rossi. He's a friend of Morgan, I don't think he likes Johansen." Thompson finished his coffee, then asked, "Who's watching the Feebs?"

"Billy Jones is on the monitors down at the maintenance shed." Beardsley answered.

"Is he armed?"

"Yup, sidearm and there's a scoped rifle up in the loft, with the cameras. Case the Feebs need to be put down."

"Okay. Let's close up shop for now. I'm sleeping here, I got here before the Feebs. Fridge is stocked. You guys head out, make it look like we're done for the weekend."

"What if the Feebs decide to try and get in here?" Batchelor was a little worried.

"If anything, they'll be interested in the big garage, the place where trucks can be loaded and unloaded out of sight. That will be their target. If they visit here, they won't find anything. Except me, tucked in for the night." He held up a bottle of whiskey.

"Before I go to bed, I'll make it look like I tied one on and decided to crash here."

While Ephraim Johansen had an office at the St. Elizabeth's Campus, and everyone at DHS thought he was an employee of DHS, in reality he was a full-time employee of the Central Intelligence Agency.

For months the CIA had been hearing rumors of dirty business going on at the FBI. People were recruited to protest at certain sensitive locations, who were then arrested by the Bureau and then prosecuted by the Department of Justice. Using evidence manufactured by the Bureau. It was almost as if the Bureau no longer cared about actual crime but were under orders to manufacture plots against the U.S. government.

Certain circles within the CIA were beginning to refer to the FBI as the Stasi.³ While there were still many Special Agents who were hard working and loyal to their oaths, many of the higher ups, the political appointees, were as dirty as their masters in the Administration. No one was saying the rot went straight to the Oval Office, but many believed that those around the President were traitors, in the pay of foreign billionaires.

Johansen had been planted at DHS where he'd met Jack Morgan. Morgan wasn't a direct employee of any Federal Agency in DC, he was a contractor, a "hired gun" as Rossi put it. It was hard to tell whose side Morgan was on. But the lack of remorse he'd shown for gunning down the Park Service SWAT team was a clue.

Johansen turned his chair and looked out his window, where he could see the side of the building next door and not much else. There was a group at the FBI who thought he worked for them, they were the ones behind this current mess. They wanted a big splash, cause an uproar to cause a groundswell of outrage against gun owners and the Second Amendment. As his contact had said, "Shed enough blood and we can convince the sheep that no one should have a gun unless they're military or police."

Johansen felt a chill run up his spine when he remembered that. His boss at the Agency, the man who knew his real identity and his real mission, had pointed out that this sort of nonsense needed to be exposed. A disarmed populace was fodder for the would-be dictators of what they called "The New World Order." Johansen's boss, and Johansen himself, wanted to see those people at the end of a rope. Time was running out.

Could he trust Morgan? He really didn't think so.

He was walking a knife edge, one false move and neither side would trust him. Johansen knew that his death would solve problems for quite a few people. What was his next, best move?

His phone rang, he picked it up, "Johansen, DHS."

"My name is Alex, ask Beth about me. Don't speak, meet me at the Tomb of the Unknowns, tomorrow morning, 0730."

The phone went dead, he got up and went down the hall to Chapman's office. She was in, he tapped on the door.

She knew they were taking a huge risk, but time was running out. She could sense it, so could Captain Choe. He'd made some discrete inquiries around town. A man he knew from the Navy at CIA said two words to him, "Trust Ephraim."

Thinking that to be some sort of Biblical reference, he found nothing relevant in the Bible. So he mentioned it to Chapman.

"Really?" her eyebrows went up so far Choe thought they'd disappear under her hairline.

"You get the reference?" he seemed more puzzled than before.

"Yes Sir, it's a guy. Let's go for a walk."

When Choe returned to his office at the Pentagon, really just a desk in an small alcove shared with six other captains, he thought long and hard about what to do. Eventually he decided, he'd been a destroyer captain in his youth, many weren't known for their daring and dash, Choe was an exception. Which is why most of his contemporaries were retired or otherwise beached.

"Going home early Bob, my stomach is wrecked. Damn Thai food got me again."

Captain Bob Cromwell looked up, "Geez, Alex, what kind of Korean can't handle spicy food?"

"The third generation kind I guess. I'll be in late tomorrow, I've got a meeting. Probably be in around ten or eleven." Choe headed for the door.

Cromwell waved him out then went back to work on the Power Point presentation his boss wanted by close of business. He had decided that if the Navy couldn't find him a billet at sea, then he would put his papers in. He was heartily sick of the puzzle palace.

Choe made a phone call on his way off the lot. He had decided to roll the dice. He'd talk to this Johansen. Maybe he was on the same team as Choe. One way or the other, he needed to know.

¹ The Heckler & Koch G3 battle rifle, used by the Bundeswehr.

² A 5.56×45mm NATO, gas-operated, magazine-fed carbine developed in the United States during the 1980s. It is a shortened version of the M16A2 assault rifle.

³ Stasi = Staatsicherheit, State Security, the secret police of the former Deutsche Demokratische Republik, the DDR, communist East Germany.