The Deep State Trilogy Read online

  The Deep State Trilogy

  A Global Conspiracy Box Set

  DC Alden

  Copyright © 2019 DC Alden

  First edition published 2019

  This edition published 2019

  The right of DC Alden to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyrights, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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  Contents

  Glossary

  Volume One

  Tower

  Kill the Bill

  Amen, Brother

  Football Violence

  Capstone

  Tricky Vicky

  Danger Close

  Hunter Killers

  Mugged Off

  Clubland

  Tracker Dog

  The Expendables

  Palm Grease

  Crime Scene

  Revelation

  Angola, Baby

  Tear Up

  Under Pressure

  Kings Ransom

  Closing In

  Hedge Bumpers

  Assault

  Safe House

  Pub Fight

  The Plan

  Northwood

  The Gathering

  Sail Away

  Volume Two

  Beast

  Vann the Wild Man

  The Candidate

  The Chancery

  Holly

  Deep State

  Ready, Freddie?

  Baghdad Unplugged

  Primate

  Dark is the Night

  Shamal

  Naked Death

  Hard Stop

  Eye Spy

  They Live and Breach

  Touchdown

  Blackjack

  Terminal Velocity

  Clickbait

  Gone Girl

  Open Borders

  About Fortress

  Fortress Intel

  Fortress Thanks

  Volume Three

  Lab Rat

  Bunker Mentality

  Crash Test Dummies

  Grave Decision

  Savage Kingdom

  Funky Cold

  The Cabin in the Woods

  Cash Point

  Snowcat

  Stand To

  Breacher Up

  Double Down

  Black Dolphin

  Bowel Movement

  Horror Show

  Bug Zapper

  Bombay Blues

  Throwback

  Dry Run

  Feet Wet

  Cry Me A River

  Don’t Tread On Me

  The Need for Speed

  Shanghai Surprise

  Born in the USA

  Bitch Slap

  Three Stretchers Outside Flagstaff

  Say Hello, Wave Goodbye

  Impeach This

  Permanent Vacation

  Did you enjoy The Deep State Trilogy?

  What’s Next?

  Glossary

  AAR — After Action Review

  AFB — Air Force Base

  APC — Armoured Personnel Carrier

  BSO — Basic Security Option

  CDC — Centres for Disease Control and Prevention

  CentCom — Central Command

  CIA — Central Intelligence Agency

  CQB — Close Quarter Battle

  DDO — Deputy Director of Operations (CIA)

  DEVGRU — The Naval Special Warfare Development Group/SEAL Team Six

  DOD — Department Of Defence

  EOD — Explosive Ordinance Disposal

  GAT — General Aviation Terminal (private)

  GDP — Gross Domestic Product

  HAHO — High Altitude High Opening

  HVT — High Value Target

  JDAM — Joint Direct Attack Munition

  Jefe — (Spanish) A boss or leader

  JSOC — Joint Special Operations Command

  JSOTF — Joint Special Operations Task Force

  JSOTF HQ — Joint Special Operations Task Force Headquarters

  Langley — CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia

  LZ — Landing Zone

  M4 CQBR — Close Quarter Battle Receiver - variant of the Colt M4 infantry rifle

  MI5 — Military Intelligence 5 — UK Domestic Intelligence Service

  MRE — Meals Ready to Eat

  NSA — National Security Agency

  NVD — Night Vision Device

  NVG — Night Vision Goggles

  Op — Operation (Military)

  OTC — Operator Training Course (Delta Force)

  PNG — Persona Non Grata

  ROE — Rules Of Engagement

  Rucks — Rucksack

  SAD — Special Activities Division (CIA)

  SATCOM — Satellite Communications (equipment)

  SecDef — Secretary of Defence

  SecState — Secretary of State

  SITREP — Report on current military situation

  SOCOM — United States Special Operations Command

  SOG — Special Operations Group (CIA)

  TIC — Troops In Contact

  TOC — Tactical Operations Center

  WMD — Weapon Of Mass Destruction

  XO — Executive Officer

  A Warning…

  This is a work of speculative fiction.

  However, much of it has been inspired by real events and real people.

  People who walk among us every day.

  Volume One

  The Deep State Trilogy

  “It would have been impossible for us to develop our plan for the world if we had been subject to the bright lights of publicity.”

  David Rockefeller

  Address to the Trilateral Commission

  Tower

  “This is it? This is everything?”

  Engle blinked behind the lenses of his horned-rimmed glasses as he appraised the government flunkey before him. The younger man was dark-haired and square-jawed, with shoulders that strained at his cheap suit. He looked more like an athlete than a bag carrier for Special Advisor Marshall, and his manner, well, to say it was abrupt was an understatement. The guy was just plain rude.

  At sixty-seven years old, and Director for Special Projects at the United States Geological Survey, Professor Bruce Engle was unused to being dictated to. Keyes, on the other hand, was a low-level bureaucrat, yet he seemed indifferent to Engle’s status, or indeed the importance of any of the VIPs sitting around the conference table. Engle glanced at the others, his own indignation mirrored on their faces.

  “That’s all of it?” Keyes repeated. “Including backups?”

  Engle waved a liver-spotted hand at the piles of folders, tapes and CD-ROM discs stacked at the end of the table.“It’s all there, as requested. And why isn’t Marshall here? He should be here.”

  “You spoke to him this morning.”

  “He called me at five am. I was barely conscious, for Chrissakes. I don’t appreciate these sudden changes. Of arrangements or personnel.”

  “Mister Marshall has authorised me to act on
his behalf.”

  “This is unacceptable,” the professor grumbled.

  Frank Marshall was a National Security Special Assistant at the White House, and Engle’s only point of contact since the data had been confirmed. He’d ordered Engle to make a list of names of those who knew the whole picture: the security guys from the International Energy Agency, the whistle-blowers from Saudi Aramco, Gazprom and ExxonMobil, and two of Engle’s trusted colleagues at the USGS in Virginia. Twenty-three men and women in all, the only people on the planet who knew the terrifying truth, now gathered around a grimy conference table in a disused office in Manhattan. Marshall had impressed upon them the need for secrecy. Disinformation was to be positively encouraged, at least for the foreseeable future. They’d all agreed, especially Engle; lately his nightmares of crumbling cities and starving populations were keeping him awake at night.

  Keyes produced a plastic tray and pushed it across the table.

  “I’ll need all your identification, please.”

  “Is this really necessary?”

  “The Secret Service will need to record your personal details.”

  Engle tossed his wallet into the tray. Keyes took a moment to examine the driving licences and social security cards, the corporate IDs and passports, then handed the tray to someone waiting outside the room.

  Two more men appeared, both young and fit like Keyes, wearing the same cheap suits and each pushing a small cart. They began clearing the table, dumping documents and CDs into the carts. One of them dropped a folder, the computer printouts within spilling across the floor.

  “Goddamit!” Engle swore, clambering to his feet. With considerable effort, he knelt down and retrieved the documents. “This is sensitive data,” he grumbled. “Be careful.”

  He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and speed-dialled Marshall’s number. No signal. He approached Keyes, who waited by the open door. He seemed oblivious to Engle’s presence, his gaze fixed on his watch, his index finger resting on the lobe of his left ear. That’s when Engle noticed the small, flesh-coloured receiver nestled inside. Odd, he thought. Perhaps he had a hearing impediment. He cleared his throat.

  “Mister Keyes?”

  The government man looked up, and Engle saw there was something wrong. Keyes was sweating, his eyes darting over the professor’s shoulder, towards the men clearing the table behind him.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Me? Sure.”

  Engle held his cell phone aloft. “I can’t raise Marshall.”

  “He’s on his way. Step aside, please.”

  The men with carts squeezed past him and rumbled outside. His precious data – all of their data – was now in the hands of someone else.

  “He’s coming here?”

  The distant chime of an elevator seemed to startle Keyes. He reached for Engle’s hand and shook it. It was clammy, hurried.

  “Take a seat. Help yourself to coffee. Mister Marshall will be with you shortly.”

  Then he was gone, the door swinging closed behind him.

  Engle turned to his colleagues and shrugged. “That’s it, then. I guess we wait.”

  “They seemed to be in a real hurry,” observed one of the guys from the International Energy Agency.

  “I think they call that indecent haste,” Engle agreed.

  He flopped into his chair, fatigue compounding his irritation. He understood the need for secrecy but a decrepit office was taking things too far. The furniture was dated, the walls yellowed with age, the brown carpet almost threadbare in places. This office hadn’t been used in years. Overhead, a bank of strip lights buzzed and flickered. Engle slipped his glasses off and loosened his tie. He pinched the bridge of his nose as a painful drum began to beat behind his eyes.

  He checked his watch and cursed. Where the hell was Marshall? He reached for his cell again.

  No Service.

  “Does anyone have a signal?”

  Heads shook around the table. Engle got to his feet, swatting the dust from the seat of his pants. He snatched at a nearby wall phone and jiggled the switch. Dead. He slammed the phone down and marched toward the door.

  The Head of Operations from Saudi Aramco got to his feet.

  “Bruce, where are you going?”

  “To complain,” Engle growled. He grabbed the door handle and twisted. It didn't move. He frowned, tried again. He turned to the Aramco executive.

  “Ahmed, help me please.”

  Engle stepped back as the younger Saudi grappled with the brass knob. The door shook but didn’t open.

  “It’s locked,” Ahmed said, looking at the others.

  Several of the men got to their feet. Engle moved aside, anger boiling in his veins. What in hell’s name was going on here? He watched the others yanking the handle, working their fingers into the gaps around the door, important people, all experts in their fields, now sweating with effort, forced to vandalise the fixtures and fittings. Disgraceful. Suddenly the lock gave way with a loud crack, sending two of his colleagues tumbling across the carpet. Engle hurried over and helped them to their feet. He buttoned the front of his sports jacket and marched towards the open door.

  “Wait here. I’m going to find out what the hell is going on.”

  Outside, the floor was open-plan, dark, empty. Engle hurried towards the lobby, busy with office workers moving back and forth between the elevators and some kind of brokerage firm.

  There was no sign of Marshall.

  He passed a stairwell. He heard a shout from behind the door, then the sound of rapid footsteps quickly fading to nothing. Engle pushed it open. Footprints stamped dusty trails on the concrete steps. A door slammed somewhere above, echoing down the vastness of the chamber. He grabbed the handrail and began a slow climb to the floor above. Puffing hard on the landing, he yanked open the door and stepped inside.

  “Hello?”

  His voice echoed across the empty space. There were no offices up here, no desks or chairs, no bathrooms, no light fittings, no wall partitioning, not even carpet. It was just an empty space, silent, devoid of life, stripped back to its industrial skeleton. Like a construction site. So where were all the workers?

  Curiosity got the better of him. There was an air of recent industry about the place. The dust was much thicker here, but not from neglect. The toe of his shoe caught something and he looked down. A heavy black cable snaked across the concrete floor, one of several dozen that trailed away towards the building’s massive central supporting columns. He wandered over towards them. The columns were huge, lancing from floor to ceiling like giant redwoods, partially boxed in by large sheets of timber. There were more building materials here, saws and benches, with sandbags piled high against the fresh lumber, the cables disappearing somewhere inside. He saw chalk marks on the wood, seemingly random numbers and roughly drawn crosses and arrows. Nearby, powerful-looking drills and jackhammers lay discarded in an untidy heap on the floor, as if their operators had abandoned them in a hurry. Engle shook his head in disgust; not even nine am and already on a break. Goddam unions.

  A sudden wave of dread gripped him.

  Maybe they’d been duped. Maybe Keyes wasn’t who he said he was, the meeting a ruse to steal their precious data. The Russians, perhaps? Or the Chinese? Both were masters at commercial espionage. Maybe that was why the man was so nervous. Why they’d been locked in.

  He had to speak to Marshall.

  He fumbled inside his jacket for his cell phone; still no goddam signal. He swore and strode across the room to the window. Finally, the signal bar crept upwards. He punched Marshall’s number and waited, relieved to hear a crackling ringtone. He thrust a hand into his trouser pocket and rocked on his heels as he waited for Marshall to pick up.

  He glanced out of the window, and for a brief moment forgot about the call.

  Engle never missed an opportunity to marvel at the sheer beauty of the world around him, the wondrous legacy of its violent creation, the land masses and eco-systems tha
t had, against all the odds, fused together over millennia to form a life-sustaining environment that most people barely appreciated. This was just such an opportunity.

  Beyond the thick glass, the sky was a glorious blue, the view breath-taking, the horizon, endless. In all of his visits to New York, Engle had never set foot inside the World Trade Centre, and here, near the top of the North Tower, he could see all the way out to —

  The morning sun caught a reflection, light bouncing off metal.

  Then he saw it, growing larger by the second as it hurtled across the Manhattan skyline, the rising, screaming whine of jet engines that rattled the windows and shook the floor beneath his feet. For a moment, Engle’s higher brain functions refused to process the scene he was witnessing.