of whom either knew or were on the scent of that banned ordnance with delivery systems that left the country in question right before the Shock and Awe began,” he told Rubin. “A lot of nasty stuff, which, had it been buried in the sand or dumped in the Tigris or Euphrates, we would have known about it by now, since the general consensus among the science community is an ecological and environmental Bhopal meets Chernobyl would have swept the country in question, an invisible firestorm that might have struck down or driven out the Coalition forces.”
Rubin shook his head. “I’m not tracking how you equate this supposed Houdini act with recent events.” He glanced at his watch. “Kindly and quickly enlighten me.”
“Colonel James Braden, United States Special Forces, ran a black ops unit in Afghanistan. Fact—he lost five ops in an ambush by Taliban and al Qaeda fighters near the Afghan-Pakistani border. Nonconventional weapons were used in the fight, specifically VX. The way I heard it, he was one step behind netting the twenty-five-foot Saudi shark. Rumor—he liked the hands-on approach when interrogating prisoners. A few people in the loop privately confirmed his tactical techniques for Q and A, then later changed their story, all of whom shortly after disappeared. Instead of getting court-martialed and landing in prison for life the man damn near received a presidential citation. He was put in charge of Task Force Talon. Handpicked his own troops.”
He paused as the dancer finished her number to lukewarm applause, scanned faces for a sign of special interest aimed his way.
“I’m listening,” Rubin said, clearly getting impatient.
“Locklin’s description matches an operative, believed seen with Braden in Kurd-controlled Turkey right before a convoy suspected of hauling the last of the wicked stuff was hit by Braden, his Task Force Talon and Turk Special Forces. Rumor—Locklin was Braden’s inside eyes and ears to the mystery of the vanished ordnance. Suspicion—the Iraqis had help from our side smuggling the nasty stuff out of the country. Why? If I could raise the Storm Trackers from the dead I might find out. The word I get is that whatever they were smuggling into Turkey was there at the time of the hit, but is now nowhere to be found. Which leads me to Camp Triangle. I’m sure you’ve heard of it?”
“You would be wise to keep all of this to yourself,” Rubin said.
“Is that a threat?”
“Merely a suggestion.”
“In that case, stick your advice.” The scowl told him he’d struck a nerve, sure now the Pink Man had something to hide. He decided to torque up the heat and attitude.
“I know a chosen group of the worst of militants detained at Guantanamo Bay were rounded up in the dead of night and whisked off in a C-130 to this corner of Brazil that meets Paraguay and Argentina. It was a secret pact arranged by the White House in collusion with Brazil to let Camp Triangle come to life in this neck of jungle. I’m thinking to keep the natives with the big guns and the power down there quiet and cooperative, Congress passes a massive foreign aid package to Brazil, ostensibly to help the Brazilians combat crime, corruption, poverty—but I think both of us suspect into whose coffers all those billions will disappear.
“Now, I think the President was convinced by your buddies in the Special Countermeasure Task Force that the Triangle—a haven for drug and arms smugglers, international crime cartels, Hamas, al Qaeda and other Arab terror groups paying for safe refuge while planning operations—is a treasure trove of invaluable intelligence. That much truth they spoke. Word is, however, the Man was further swayed by reasons laid out to him about the basic necessity to spread the growing problem of housing captured fanatics in another but classified direction. Seems Task Force Talon was rounding up militants quicker than there was space at Gitmo to hold them. My sources inform me that some of the detainees removed from Gitmo—calling themselves the Warrior Sons of Islam—claim direct blood lines to some of the world’s most wanted terrorists, including a couple of household names.
“Now, a young Marine, rotated out of your classified detainee base, was en route to tell a very interesting story to the Justice Department about what’s going on down there in Camp Triangle, only he turned up dead in his vehicle, the victim of an apparent self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head.”
Rubin didn’t blink. “And all of this related to White House leaks, how and why?”
“There’s more, unless you’re in a big rush to race out of here.”
Rubin gestured with his hand for Brolinsky to continue.
“Wolfe-Binder.”
“Never heard of it.”
He suspected Rubin was lying, but Brolinsky didn’t miss a beat. He pressed on. “There are twenty-seven industrial chemical plants in the continental United States. Seven which manufacture defensive biochem weapons—a definite misnomer—but this is what we tell the Russians to make it look like we’re honoring the treaty to ban biochem weapons. Number eight plant, Wolfe-Binder, just popped up on the radar screen. This classified plant in New Orleans is purported to be an armed camp, guys in HAZMAT suits, clandestine flights leaving in the middle of the night, loaded down with more, I suspect, than just agricultural pesticide, though that’s the claim as to what they’re processing. I’m sure you know insecticide is a main precursor for nerve gas.”
“Among nonflammable retardants and other precursors, but I don’t have the recipe at my fingertips,” Rubin said, sounding bored.
Brolinsky ignored the brush-off. “How do I know all this about Wolfe-Binder, you ask? The plant’s assistant manager became suspicious when men in black fatigues wouldn’t allow a manifest or any record of these midnight runs to be recorded. So he does his civic duty, puts in a call to the FBI. FBI and Justice Department agents go down there to take a look, but the whistle-blower has disappeared. The story they get is the man was a drunk, had a habit of disappearing for days, or calling in sick. Utter bullshit, since anyone with common sense would have fired him in the first place.” Brolinsky paused, saw the Pink Man’s dark eyes flicker.
“Never mind I think the guy was dumped in the bayou as gator bait, the plant was a one-eighty picture of what the FBI was told. No armed guards. No spacesuits. Every drum and vat that was tested turned out to be pesticide and other industrial chemicals. Spotless as a saint. However, most of the manifests indicated the bulk of the pesticide was being flown to Brasilia. When questioned, the manager claimed it had something to do with the recent foreign aid package to Brazil that Congress passed.”
“Once more…”
“Your Special Countermeasure Task Force is an off-the-record supersecret service for the President. Which puts them, in my opinion, too close to the President, with too much power and authority in the White House,” Brolinsky said.
“They—we—are more than that.”
“Right. You plan foreign itineraries, map out logistics for overseas jaunts, specifically Mideast countries, you handle threats to the President directly. You handle foreign agendas for the VP, diplomats, cabinet members, supposedly plugging up security holes against assassinations, suicide bombers and such.” Brolinsky smiled, shook his head.
“How did you do it? How did you manage to get the President to approve of what is essentially an unofficial secret government enforcement, maybe even a black ops arm right inside the White House? I can only imagine the bitter rivalries it’s created. The Secret Service for one thing, taking a back seat, step and fetch it for you people. I can only picture the scandal that would threaten to topple the administration if news of this reached the public.”
“Not
