Voyager

VOYAGER

by

Carl Rackman

Preface

Voyager is a modern suspense thriller set in the present-day United States, mostly in New York City and Washington D.C.

This story is a work of fiction. Locations refer to real places, but all characters, events, conversations and scenarios exist only in the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons is unintentional and purely coincidental.

Glossary

Some specific acronyms related to technical, military and law enforcement may be unfamiliar to many readers. Some of these are explained here to aid understanding of the story.

CBP Customs and Border Protection, a federal agency that monitors and controls immigration, trade and customs enforcement at points of entry to the United States.

DSN Deep Space Network, an interlinked network of very large radio antennae and dishes spread across the globe which monitors and transmits radio signals and data for all NASA’s spacecraft. It operates 24/7 worldwide.

FBI Federal Bureau of Investigation, a division of the US Department of Justice responsible for counterterrorism, counterintelligence, law enforcement and criminal investigation across the United States.

JPL Jet Propulsion Laboratory in California. It is NASA’s spacecraft engineering, testing and manufacturing facility. It is also the site from which unmanned spacecraft are monitored and controlled.

NSA National Security Agency, a US federal agency responsible for electronic intelligence gathering and data monitoring.

OIG Office of the Inspector General, the Department of Justice’s internal investigation service which investigates incidents related to FBI agents’ conduct and disciplinary matters.

SWAT/TAC Team A highly-trained, armed police unit used in high-risk interventions, for example, hostage rescue, active gunmen, and forcible entry to defended buildings.

TSA Transportation Security Administration, a federal agency created after 9/11 which is responsible for protecting the travelling public in the USA.

Prologue

Tuesday, September 11th 2001

The Pentagon, Virginia

10:27 a.m.

Hold on, Helen. Just keep moving, okay?

It’s all right, Brad. The…the stairway’s clear… We’re on fifty-two now, there’s no fire here at all. There’s…

Lieutenant Bradley Barnes tried to suppress his panic. He was nowhere near a TV, but he knew exactly what was happening. A hijacked flight had hit the north façade of the Pentagon half an hour before. It was the opposite side from where he worked, and he was among the few intelligence officers trying to secure the building while the majority of other staff had already evacuated. The phone call was his lifeline to his fiancée, Helen, who was trying to escape the North Tower in Manhattan.

She had managed to walk herself and at least twenty others down an interminable succession of stairwells from her offices just beneath the impact zone. It was a miracle they had survived at all. But Brad knew the neighbouring tower had collapsed barely half an hour before; she was on borrowed time. He prayed for all he was worth while trying to keep Helen on the line.

Brad, are you still there?

Of course I’m here, sweetie. Just keep—

Wait! The fire department’s here. I can… Yes! Thank God!

Okay, just stay on the line, Helen! Stay with me, okay, sweetheart?

Brad, it’s okay. We just need to get everyone down about two flights of stairs. She broke off talking to reassure the others. Wait, I’ve got… Yes, it’s okay, we’re all going to get out of here…

Helen had looked after everyone else before herself. She was just that kind of girl. Brad prayed her kindness would be rewarded with survival.

Helen? Keep moving, sweetheart. You hear me?

I’m here, Brad. There’s about a dozen firefighters here! We’re going to be okay. They’re taking everyone down, they’ve got lights and stretchers…

Brad felt the waves of relief. The knot of nerves in his stomach began to ease.

It’s okay, Brad. Oh, honey, we’re going to be—

He heard a sudden chorus of screams over the phone and a scraping sound.

Helen! Are you still there? What’s that sound, Helen? Helen!

She came back on, her voice urgent but not panicked, Oh God, we’re not going to make it! It’s coming down! I love you! I love you so much, honey. Goodbye, Brad. Be strong for me, okay? I lo— Her voice cut off and the call failed.

Brad let out a wail, an animal cry of pain. He couldn’t help himself.

Sir, you have to get off the phone, we’re under attack!

It was a master sergeant, pulling at Brad’s arm, trying to take the phone away from his ear.

Brad lashed out angrily. Jesus! Helen! Helen! Are you there? Please—

Sir! There’s another plane inbound. It’s heading this way. We have to get underground. Right now!

But she’s… Helen! Please, Lord, no don’t let her be—

Lieutenant! Get downstairs now, Goddammit!

Brad was numb. He still clutched the phone, desperate to know, unwilling to give up hope.

Chapter One

0147 hours, Saturday, 3rd September 2016

East Williamsburg, Brooklyn, NY

Some of the street lights had been down for weeks, but the men who watched the area through night-vision goggles had no fear of the dark. Darkness was their friend.

The building they were watching, a run-down multistorey industrial block once a busy commercial centre, was now mostly disused. The walls facing the street were defaced with graffiti and topped by high fences edged with razor wire. There were lights on inside, but the grubby windows gave them a brownish hue adding to the general dingy aspect.

Fourteen years ago, Bradley Barnes had left the Army to join the FBI. As Assistant Special Agent-In-Charge of a highly specialised FBI Fly Team, Brad’s purpose in this raid was to collect forensic intelligence for the New York Counterterrorism Unit. He was supporting a larger FBI assault group who would be taking down the building as soon as Brad’s boss, Special Agent-in-Charge Wayne Duberry, gave the ‘go’ signal.

The four Fly Team members were dressed in identical black combat fatigues. Each operator wore a bodycam attached to their upper chest linked in real-time to the New York Field Office, where Duberry was co-ordinating. They hunkered in the shadows of a municipal vehicle yard, crouched between two school buses thirty metres from the objective’s entrance.

The accompanying FBI SWAT team began to disperse for the assault. The TAC leader whispered his final instructions to the eight armed operatives who were preparing to breach the building.

It was home to a very unlikely source of domestic terrorism - a bunch of UFO conspiracy nuts. Their organisation had been infiltrated by a militant group in the two years since their website began to attract the attention of anti-governmental militias out west. FBI web traffic analysts alerted Duberry’s unit when the discussions turned sharply toward low-level terrorism a year or so back.

Brad remembered the incredulity around their operational briefing when the group ringleaders were first presented. ‘A bunch of geeks’ was the general appraisal by the tough CT field agents. The Bureau had an undercover informant who had so far provided useful information about their background activities. But far from being a national security threat, it seemed as though the group was a run-of-the-mill bunch of Roswell conspiracy whackjobs. Until this week, Brad thought.

The informant was now strangely quiet after a frantic rush of new messages. He had seen secretive activity among the group’s leadership and noticed they were becoming extremely tight-lipped. Then two new arrivals to the group significantly changed the dynamic. These guys looked paramilitary, the informant had said. They were big, muscular military types, and the group’s chatter changed abruptly from talking about the disruption of government communications to outright insurrection.

The informant’s last message came on Thursday, just two days ago, when he claimed to have seen the newcomers carrying in automatic weapons.

Since then there had been silence.

Duberry received permission from FBI Headquarters in Washington to authorise a strike on the group’s hideout. Through the informant they had a good idea of the interior, the numbers of defenders and their likely weapons.

Duberry wasn’t taking any chances, so the full resources of the New York Field Office were behind the plan. With any luck, they would achieve complete surprise and be able to secure the building and group members without firing a shot. But the ominous sightings of automatic weapons made Duberry very conscious that he didn’t want another Waco in the middle of a residential neighbourhood in Brooklyn.

Brad’s team were to follow the SWAT team and sweep for forensic intelligence: prints, DNA, cyber intel – the whole nine yards.

His guys were a motley mixture of federal experts. Darrell Jones, a wonkish lab tech from the Evidence Response Team at Quantico, had the forensic kitbags. Special Agent Jake Santer was a forensic computer technician. Watching Brad’s back was Special Agent Monica Diaz, a stocky woman of twenty-six. Brad knew looks could be deceptive. Monica was the rising star of the Fly Team program – smart as a whip and twice as tough. This was her third op, and she had proved to be an ice-cool operator.

Brad listened to the faint scratching of radio talk in his earpiece.

Tac Three, Tac One, sitrep. Over. The SWAT team leader asked for the latest situation from an agent with powerful thermal imaging equipment trained on the building.

Tac Three has fourteen heat signatures on two floors. Eight on the first, probably three women. Six signatures on the second level; two of them are big guys, probably your main suspects. Over.

Roger. Any sign of weapons?

Can’t really tell. Body postures indicate they’re unarmed, but they may be concealing handguns.

Roger. TAC team, check in.

Each pair responded, whispering as they numbered their team from two through to eight.

Sniper team, check in.

The SWAT sniper team covered the small courtyard behind a barbed wire wall and exits from the building.

Mack Two-Five, ready.

Ross, check in.

Ross was the Fly Team call sign. Ross One was SAC Duberry at the op centre, while Brad had his own personal call sign in the field: Ross One-Five.

Brad keyed and whispered into the mic, Ross One-Five, team ready.

All call signs stand by.

Brad peered at the scene round the fender of a darkened school bus. There would be no firefights at all if they played this one right. It was silent and surgical all the way.

He made one last check of his equipment – assault rifle, night vision, respirator, grenades and spare magazines. He glanced back to see his team crouched behind him.

Diaz flicked the ‘okay’ sign with her fingers.

The street was clear of people apart from the huddled forms of teams who would make the breach. All that remained was for SAC Duberry to give the go signal.

All call signs from Tac One, the next voice you hear will be Ross One. Stand by.

The entire team held their breath. The silence was almost unbearable. Brad’s fingers opened, then clenched again on the grip of his rifle. He checked the safety for the umpteenth time with the inner side of his gloved forefinger. He ignored the slight itch around his eye from the night vision. It’s show time.

The squelch broke.

All call signs, this is Ross One. The operation is go.

Immediately, Tac One picked up. This is Tac One. I have control.

Brad tensed. They were committed to the mission.

Stand by.

Brad held his breath.

Breach!

The entire building snapped into darkness as the power was cut.

Brad held his team in between the buses as the four pairs of SWAT operatives bunched at the main entry door. They glowed in the green display of Brad’s night vision.

Two of the operatives burst through the door with a heavy ram. The others disappeared into the darkness of the entrance, the glow of their swinging flashlights diminishing as they penetrated deeper into the building.

Brad stood up and stepped out from behind the bus using the wall of the adjacent building as concealment. He glanced up and down the street; his eyes followed the muzzle of his rifle in perfect co-ordination.

There was no movement that he could see either in the street or inside the building. His team moved soundlessly across the street towards the entrance.

Darrell and Jake stopped just inside the entry door, covering the outside, while Brad led Monica to the first interior doorway.

He crouched low, almost crawling, and poked his head cautiously around the corner of the doorjamb at shin level.

It was already over. The breach team had achieved complete surprise.

Five men already knelt, cuffed and sitting in cones of light from the SWAT members’ flashlights. They blinked, astonished, offering no resistance at all.

One of the black-masked operatives took their photos with a secure cell phone. Another team member herded the silent, fearful trio of women to the far side of the room. They hadn’t said a single word, nor made a sound.

Brad knew shock when he saw it. If these hippie kids were the soldiers of the revolution, they weren’t exactly off to a flying start.

He motioned Darrell to hold, and then set off up the steps with Monica at his back. He made a cautious entry to the next floor, but it was the same story. Three cuffed men huddled while another Tac team member took their photos.

Four other SWAT members had moved cautiously upstairs.

A minute or so later Brad heard a squelch in his earpiece.

Ross One, this is Tac One. Levels one and two clear.

Roger, Tac One. Good job.

Tac One, Tac Five. Level Three— The voice cut off.

Tac Five, say again? Over.

Brad felt a prickle down his neck. He glanced round at Monica and nodded his head in the direction of the upper floor.

This is Ross One-Five. All teams commence tactical search. Three suspects unaccounted for. Moving to level three. Out.

Tac One hustled his team upstairs. Tac Three, I need your eyes up here. Check levels three and four! And I need the goddamn lights back on!

Brad led Monica quietly up the stairs, rifle poised and his feet testing each step for creaks. He was highly alert; his pulse was beating in his ears.

As he reached the top, he peered around the door at floor level. It didn’t look good. He could see the black-sneakered feet of a SWAT operative lying flat on the floor.

He signalled for Monica to stand by to take down the room.

Monica moved very close up behind him, and Brad prepared a concussion grenade. He felt Monica squeeze his shoulder and counted to three.

He tossed in the grenade and waited for the flash before piling into the room and immediately turning left to cover the corners. He knew Monica would be right behind him covering the main room.

Clear! He waited for Monica’s answering call. Instead, he only heard her surprised exclamation.

Oh my God!

Suddenly the power in the building snapped back on bathing the whole room in light. Brad kept his night vision on, but immediately saw why she had reacted.

Monica was staring at the bodies of three other SWAT agents. None of the SWAT men appeared to have been shot, but their heads lay crooked at unnatural angles, their faces and lips grey.

This is Ross One-Five, we have agents down on level three!

This is Tac One. Is the room clear?

Affirmative. Three agents down. Three suspects and one agent unaccounted for. Brad whispered through his intercom to Diaz, There are two more rooms on this level, and these guys are not playing games. Get ready to clear the next ones.

Diaz protested, her low voice a hiss. Sir, shouldn’t we wait for the other guys?

We don’t have time. We have to keep them busy until support gets here. Brad could sense Monica’s unease.

She looked back at the bodies of the SWAT guys. Sir, I—

Diaz! This is the job they pay you for. I’m going to clear that room, and you better goddamn well be right behind me! You got that?

She nodded, shocked, before replying. Sir.

He took his position near the door. They’ll be waiting. We go with gas. Respirators on.

They quickly pulled the bulky masks from their hip packs and secured them. Monica gave the okay sign.

Brad counted down and then hit the door.

Monica tossed the CS grenade inside, and Brad threw a shock grenade straight after it. He counted to three and piled into the room again, hugging the left hand wall. He saw nothing in either corner.

He then felt a loud pop-pop-pop in his ears; Monica had fired her weapon. He resisted the reflex to turn around until he had cleared his sector. Clear.

Monica replied, Clear. Suspect down— Her voice suddenly rose. Oh, no.

Brad turned to see the prone body of a suspect holding an assault rifle. But he then realised what was wrong. The weapon was fastened to the dead man’s hands with duct tape. Brad turned the body over and realised it was their informant, gagged and set up to look like a threat.

Diaz had put a three-shot burst straight into his chest.

Sonofabitch! Brad felt anger rise within him. These guys were playing them like fools. Okay, Diaz. Leave it. We have one more room. They have to be in here, and they may be holding our last guy hostage—

They both flinched at a loud concussion before realising it was a stun grenade being thrown on the floor above. Tac One had sent his troops upstairs to the top floor.

Ross One-Five, this is Tac One. Are you on level three?

Brad whispered back, Affirmative. We are preparing to breach the last room.

Okay, stand by, Ross One-Five. I’m coming down with Tac Two.

Brad noticed Monica’s shoulders slump with relief. She’s scared, he thought and suddenly realised he had forced her beyond her limit, and that was why she had made a critical mistake.

Okay, Mon, we’ll sit tight.

She gave a strained smile.

The black-clad figures of Tac One and Tac Two, wearing respirators, appeared cautiously from the first room.

Tac One shook his head. Who the hell are these guys, Barnes?

Brad shrugged. Not the bunch of geeks we expected.

Tac One, this is Tac Three. Level four is clear.

Tac One raised his eyebrows at Brad. Guess it’s on us. Let’s suit up. We make the breach, standard room clearance, you guys straight in on our tails. Grenades on three, okay?

Brad and Monica gave the okay.

Tac One and Two stepped up to the door. Tac One counted down before smashing in the door with his foot, and then Two tossed in the grenades.

There was a solid concussion accompanied by clouds of gas. They both swept in through the smoke, disappearing into it like a Vegas vanishing trick.

Brad and Monica burst in after them covering the main room. They peered around urgently, the laser pointers of their rifle sights scything through the smoke as it quickly cleared.

Brad’s eyes settled on nothing until they saw the body of their last comrade.

The man was stripped of his fatigues, and his ankles and wrists were taped flat to the floor of the empty room with duct tape. His white skin was heavily marred with bruises and ugly breaks in his limbs.

He stared at them, very much alive, but in terrible pain.

Dear Lord, son, what have they done to you? Tac One was appalled. Where are the sons of bitches?

The man gasped in pain before managing to utter, Get away! They’re not people! Run!

Brad felt a chill down his spine.

Tac One was straight on the radio, rattling out the words. Ross One! I need EMS and backup now! Agents down! Suspects have escaped! He turned back to the broken agent on the floor. Son, where are they? How could they escape? We’ve secured the whole building!

The man’s eyes strained up towards the far wall. They all looked.

A gaping hole led through to the fire escape. The wall must have been about eight inches of masonry. It looked as though a clean man-sized hole had been punched through it.

The assailants were gone.

Mack Two-Five, do you have eyes on the exterior?

Affirmative.

Are there personnel out there?

Negative, Tac One.

Have you been watching the whole time?

Sir, we had eyes on the stairwell exit to the roof and the fire escape. Nobody came up.

Tac One sounded increasingly desperate. Keep searching! I need a chopper with a searchlight up here now! Cover the fire escapes. I need a point search of the surrounding blocks. Two male suspects, tall, muscular build, probably armed. Find them!

Monica was talking quietly to the injured man as Tac Two tried to tend to his immediate injuries. Sir, he keeps saying the suspects are not people. What do you think he means?

What the hell do I know? As far as I can see, he’s right. They’re ghosts, replied Brad.

Monica gave Brad a searing look. Whether anger, disgust or simply rebuke, he couldn’t tell.

He fought his own anger, which burned in his gut, causing the blood to rise in his face. He was also mad that Monica was making him feel ashamed when she accidentally shot their only reliable witness. What had happened to suddenly turn this quiet group of UFO nerds into professional killers? Without the informant, it would be an uphill struggle to find out. Brad felt impotent and struck out at the only thing he could.

Why did you shoot him, Diaz? That informant was our only link to these bastards! he asked.

He was armed. Or that’s how it looked when we breached the room. I told you we should have waited! Her voice was rising.

Brad had pushed too far. He suddenly felt the anger deflate, chased away by an unwelcome sense of shame.

Okay, Mon. I’m sorry. Let’s just get this guy safe and see what we can find out. We’ll talk about it at the debriefing, okay?

Monica nodded, but her fists remained clenched.

Chapter Two

Friday, 2nd September 2016

Jet Propulsion Laboratory

La Canada Flintridge, California

Dr Callie Woolf sat in the Red Planet Café in Building 167 at NASA’s Jet Propulsion Laboratory, known to the world as ‘JPL’ and to its denizens simply as ‘The Lab’. It was a sprawling, 177-acre campus set in a bowl-shaped plateau just north of Pasadena.

The café was modern, airy and functional, unlike the rest of the Lab, which was a jumble of the old and the new. The area had grown organically. The blocky, flat-roofed industrial buildings arranged in winding streets followed the contours of the terrain rather than the gridline pattern of the city beyond it. Each building occupying the untidy arrangement of lots was identifiable only by its