24 Hours With Spencer Field
Amazon.com
Barnes & Noble
Powell's Books
Synopsis:
Faced with the mission of retrieving a high profile birth certificate, covert operative Spencer Field finds himself up against an old rival. With love on his mind and vengeance in his heart, Field takes a detour from the mission to take the law into his own hands.
Book Excerpt:
PROLOGUE
In a post 9/11, post-Iraq war America, much was at stake. The United States military – under the command of then-President George W. Bush – had invaded Iraq and toppled Saddam Hussein, establishing the first real Democracy in the middle east. They had swept into Pakistan and toppled both the Taliban and, after a long and drawn out campaign – Osama bin Laden's Al Qaeda terrorist network that claimed responsibility for the attacks of 9/11, among others.
American military forces were stationed in Korea, Germany, the United Kingdom, and now Iraq, Pakistan, and soon Israel. The size of the American military had not grown at a sufficient rate to sustain such a vast base of operations, and both Russia and Iran were emerging to be even greater threats than ever feared.
While American forces served to maintain peace abroad, a quiet coup was building on their native soil at home. One man – Santos Dominick Menge – had suddenly appeared on the national scene with a plan – a plan that would elevate him to the highest office in the land and beyond with virtually no opposition. No opposition, that is, except for one man. One man on a mission, driven by his love of country, his love for the woman he lost, and a burning desire for vengeance.
ONE
Indianapolis, Indiana
10:03 PM
It wasn't going to be easy. He knew that, no matter how much he tried not to admit it to himself. He was in not a line of work that lent itself to easily accomplished tasks. Not for most people, anyway, and from time to time he found himself in the midst of what would turn out to be something quite difficult to accomplish safely and, well, discreetly. Discretion, of course, was the most important part of his job. If he couldn't complete assigned tasks with a great deal of discretion – well, let's just say that his life depended on discretion in virtually all that he did.
The call had come quite late that evening, which was not unusual at all, though the call could come at any time of the day or night. There didn't seem to be any pattern. He could receive the call as soon as his Handler (Handler with a capital 'H' because that's the only name he had ever known her by) got word from the Agency (again, capital 'A' because discretion was so critical that the Agency had never been given a formal name), or it could be days or even weeks later. The funny thing was, it always seemed to be an assignment of extreme urgency by the time it trickled down to him. He often wondered if his Handler sat on the assignment intentionally, trying to test his mettle. It seemed the more he accomplished for his Handler and the Agency, the more ways they found to challenge him. It certainly wasn't a job that got easier as time passed.
Spencer Field was not the kind of man who gave up easily on a challenge. He supposed that was why they continually pushed the envelope with him. Somehow, he always seemed to accomplish even the most difficult assignments. Sometimes he wasn't sure how he managed to pull through. This latest assignment wasn't the most difficult assignment he had ever received, but it wasn't the easiest either, by far. The hardest part would probably be the deadline – he had exactly twenty-four hours to complete the mission and report back to the Agency via the secure satellite phone he had just retrieved from the Agency's drop location. It was a different satellite phone for every assignment – he supposed that helped to avoid tracking and to complicate investigation by the authorities.
At thirty-eight years old, Spence was wiser in the ways of the world than his age might indicate. His time in the deserts of Kuwait and Iraq, both in uniform and covertly with the Agency, being shot at not only by men in robes and turbans but also by women and children, had taught him self preservation skills that could not be taught in a classroom and were rarely learned on the street. Probably one of Spence's most beneficial physical traits was his utter averageness. Of average height, weight and complexion, with light brown hair and blue-gray eyes, one of Spence's most basic yet valuable skills was the ability to blend in with a crowd. His average appearance made it difficult for witnesses to his covert activities to describe him accurately, and even more difficult for the authorities to put together a composite sketch that didn't look like half the men in your neighborhood hardware or automotive parts store. On the down side, he felt that his average appearance was so average that he rarely felt the women take notice of him. On second thought, however, that might not be a down side after all.
Spence sat behind the wheel of a beat up old Volkswagen microbus on an otherwise deserted street in the heart of midtown Anywhere, USA. That was how he thought of most cities he found himself in. Of course they all had names, but sometimes the names were so obscure, and he spent so little time in each one, quickly moving on to the next town and the next mission, that he didn't often dwell on things like the name of a place. In fact, the more he was able to forget after completing each assignment, the better off he figured he was. Truly forgetting about something made it unnecessary to lie about it should the authorities pick him up. He had passed more than one polygraph test thanks to his ability to forget details so quickly and thoroughly. Not that he had ever fallen into the hands of the authorities, that had never been a concern for Spence (knock on wood). The Agency would sometimes pull him in and test his ability to endure under the pressures of interrogation by running him through the paces, and those paces had included polygraph on more than one occasion and, during the advanced stages of his training, even waterboarding. His Handler had once called him a master of deception. Spence let her have her fun with labels, but he knew that deception wasn't enough to keep him alive in a tight spot.
Sitting in the old microbus, Spence mentally prepared himself for what must be done over the next twenty-three hours and some odd minutes. Time, unfortunately, wasn't something he could control as effectively as his own memory. No matter how hard Spence mighy wish, time kept ticking, and it was quickly ticking away now.
The assignment involved not the elimination of a threat, which was the case more often than not, though it might result in the elimination of someone should they become a threat to the completion of his mission. Spence – he of the ability to so easily and thoroughly forget – called upon his paradoxical photographic memory and replayed the brief call from his Handler.
“Spence,” he answered as the late night call came in. Every wasted word was one instant less he would have to complete the assignment.
“Agent Field,” the mysterious voice of his Handler began, “you will pick up a new sat phone at the drop in thirty minutes.” Click.
That had been forty-five minutes ago, and the Handler had indeed contacted him on the newly retrieved secure phone fifteen minutes ago.
“Spence,” again.
“Agent Field?” always with the formality.
“Yes, Field here.” he answered.
“I have been reading about the 1916 World Series,” the Handler challenged him for identity verification. It was the way the Handler ensured that the secure satellite phone had not landed in the wrong hands. She expected Spence to have encyclopedic knowledge of baseball. She, on the other hand, could refer to Wikipedia or any other knowledge base any time she needed.
“BoSox over the Brooklyn Robins, four games to one,” Spence answered after an almost imperceptible pause.
“Number 37?” the second part of the challenge.
“Stengel, Charles Dillon, also known as Casey,” Spence replied robotically.
“You have twenty-four hours to retrieve a document and deliver it to the Director. You will find details of the mission inside an old microbus on Canal Street. The key to unlock the vehicle is inside the battery compartment of your sat phone. Do not attempt to start the vehicle. Twenty-four hours.” Click.
Spence now sat in the seat of the old microbus, having found a blank, thin envelope above the sun visor. It was a cold and wet evening as the rain fell steadily on the streets around him. He slid his finger beneath the flap of the envelope and opened.
10:17 PM
Spencer Field was a veteran of both Gulf Wars. He was on the ground when American forces pushed Saddam Hussein out of Kuwait, and again when they dug him up from a spider hole like some frightened brown recluse hiding from the giant crushing foot of a human predator.
A veteran of both Gulf Wars, with the United States Army during the first Gulf War, code named Operation Desert Shield / Storm, but not of any official branch of the United States military during the second Gulf War, originally code named Operation Iraqi Freedom. In fact, Spence served in an agency whose existence wasn't even officially recognized by the United States government. Not officially recognized, but nonetheless established by President Ronald Reagan in 1982 and reauthorized by Presidents Bush numbers forty-one and forty-three. If President Clinton had any knowledge of the agency he kept the secret better than the others, as there has never been any indication of his awareness.
It was from this covert agency that the Agency to which Spencer Field now reported was formed. The original agency – now defunct by most accounts – was a victim of severe budget cuts resulting from the great economic crisis of 2008 and the resulting seven hundred billion dollar bail out bill. The Agency, as it was called – not to be confused with the Central Intelligence Agency – was a trimmer, fitter, more efficient, and somewhat deeper buried arm of the judicial branch of the United States government, authorized by President George W. Bush in the last month of his Presidency and funded by a vague clause in the Defense Appropriations Bill. On paper, the Agency fell under the direction and authority of the Chief Justice of the United States Supreme Court, John Roberts, though day-to-day operations fell under the watchful eye of a Director known only as “HE” or “HIM.” HE reported directly to Chief Justice Roberts, and then only when called upon by the Chief, which was very, very rarely. For all intents and purposes, the Agency functioned as an independent yet fully-funded autonomous organization.
Spencer Field was among a select group of agents chosen to continue as a covert agent under the direction of the Agency – chosen by none other than HIM. Field's record of accomplishments was legendary, if you twist the definition of legendary to mean known and highly revered by three people. Those three people, of course, were HIM, the Handler, and none other than the Chief Justice.
Spencer sat quietly in the tattered Volkswagen microbus with his finger inserted gently behind the flap of the unmarked envelope, anxious to read the details of his latest assignment. Time was wasting, and he hadn't been given much of it to begin with. Such vague initial directions as he had received from the Handler weren't unusual, but the target of his mission was. Spence wasn't often tasked with the retrieval of a document. Most assignments involved either the retrieval or delivery of critical information, priceless commodities, or, on occasion, the abduction or elimination of an unsavory element. He was intrigued by what document could have been so important as to warrant the assignment of the Agency's most successful covert operative.
Spence slowly separated the envelope at the seal and let the contents fall out in his lap: a key, a photograph, an empty envelope, and a memorandum printed neatly on onion skin paper.
Retrieve the original live birth certificate of one Santos Dominick Menge from the Department of Vital Statistics in Atlanta.
Upon completion, insert the certificate in the enclosed envelope and contact HIM via secure sat phone for further instructions.
Completion of this assignment by the specified deadline is crucial to national security.
Destroy this memorandum immediately in the prescribed manner.
Intrigued that HE was involved in this assignment – a highly unusual situation – Spence crumpled the onion skin memorandum and popped it into his mouth, disposing of it in the prescribed manner.
The picture -- that of a middle-aged man of Hispanic descent -- appeared to be a snapshot of Menge, though nothing was on the picture to indicate such.
10:25 PM
The key was a minor mystery, but not something Spence was immediately concerned with. The ticking away of his twenty-four hour deadline was his immediate concern, and he still had to get from Indianapolis to Atlanta. The sat phone chirped in his pocket, sounding like a klaxon in the quiet, rainy night.
"Spence," he said, punching the SEND button to silence the incessant chirping.
"Five minutes," the Handler said. "I wouldn't be in that rattle trap any longer than that, if it were me." Click.
It couldn't have been delivered much more plainly than that. Spence glanced at the time on the sat phone as he pressed END, noticing that he had killed nearly thirty minutes in that beat up VW van. He quickly gathered the elements of the package he had collected -- the key, the empty envelope, and the photograph he hoped to have a chance to study more closely -- and stuffed them all back into their original envelope. He stuffed the envelope into a hidden pocket of the SCOTTEVEST he wore, and reached for the door handle when a noise from the street behind him caught his attention.
Chink. Chink. Chink. It sounded like a chain hitting against the asphalt, as if someone was swinging it like a jump rope at his side as he walked. Chink. Chink. Chink. Footsteps -- belonging to more than one person -- moved closer to the van. Chink. Chink. Chink.
Spence slid smoothly from the seat to the floor, taking care not to rock the van in the process. Five minutes, the words of the Handler rang in his mind. I wouldn't be in that rattle trap any longer than that, if it were me. Five minutes. Five minutes. Chink. Chink. Chink. Five minutes.
As the footsteps came closer, circling the van, and the chink chink chink became louder, Spence low-crawled his way to the back of the microbus. Rolling slowly to his back, he spun to position his feet against the rear doors of the van and reached deep into his SCOTTEVEST. Chink. Chink. Chink. Five minutes.
The chink stopped abruptly, replaced by a faint hiss coming from the rear of the van. Close. Closer. Realizing that the time was now or never, Spence clutched the tiny Walther handgun that had been hidden in his SCOTTEVEST, drew his legs up, knees to his shoulders, and kicked at the rear doors of the microbus with all the force he could muster.
The rusted hinges on the old doors of the microbus were too weak to hold under Spence's strength. They didn't just open, they blew out at the bushings, clattering to the street with an echo that filled the night air. Whoosh! Flames came rushing from behind the microbus into the cargo area, engulfing Spence. Pulling his legs back up as before, he threw himself into a somersault, rolling from the van to a hard, bone-crunching landing on the asphalt. The flames licked at him as he came rocketing from the back of the van into the rainy night, dropped to a prone position, and rolled in the puddles, drenching himself to ensure any flames on his clothing were extinguished.
Chink. Chink. Click. In one swift motion, Spence sprang into a crouch, weapon at the ready, and scanned the street around him, looking for the source of what sounded to be the chambering of a round into a handgun. Silence. He darted from the street into a dark alley between two buildings and turned to examine the street from another vantage point.
Waroomp! The street lit up as bright as midday as the fuel tank on the microbus ruptured and imploded in a ball of fire. In the split second that exists between night vision and night blindness, Spence had the presence of mind to shield his eyes from the flash that would have rendered him temporarily sightless. Gazing from beneath the hand shielding his eyes, Spence saw movement from the opposite side of the street. Movement toward him. Quick movement. Spence fired two quick rounds into the night, then turned and fled as the wailing of sirens joined the crackling of flames to break the peace of the evening.
Topics/Categories:
Genre:
Type of Work:
Publishers:
Purchase From:
Original Publish Date:
February 25, 2009
- Share With:
