Book Zero

By CW Nelson

The RogueOps story begins …

 

Griffin Dunn, Secretary of Defence, Davis MacLand, Director of National Intelligence and Jack Rollins, Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation discover that they, along with President Alistair Scott are on a hit list for assassination. In a secure, secret meeting they discuss their options…

    "Okay, on point. We bring in USCE. The United States Constitution and Code Enforcement. The Regular and Irregular Militia. The good guys with guns. America's last line of defense. And, we bring in RogueOps to oversee all this."

    SecDef Dunn stabbed an icy glare at the FBI director and lit a fresh cigar. "Where did you hear about RogueOps?"

       Dunn's eyes narrowed. His brow wrinkled. "You know his name?"

    "What the hell, Griffin. I am director of the FBI for Christ's sake. I'm the guy still cleaning out bad actors that Kenyan entrenched in the department."

    "So yes, I have heard of RogueOps and Lachlan Hawke."

    Dunn leaned back and nodded.  "Hawke oversees USCE although they have their own rank and file. A ragtag bunch of ex-military malcontents."

   "A bunch of damned cowboy vigilantes is what they are. Their only legitimacy is operating under Hawke's RogueOps umbrella."

 

Middle of the South Atlantic—

Hawke wired a message to his brother. Gary and his family were on a summer adventure. Sailing back to Virginia from New Zealand. They arranged for a sailing rendezvous off the coast of Argentina.

Logan McKay sat at Atlantic Storm's TajTel console monitoring local broadcasts. He yanked the headphones off. "Hey, Hawke! Get over here! You need to take this!"

    Hawke pulled on the headset and listened. "Baltic sloop SeaScape. Mayday Mayday! This is Baltic sloop SeaScape. Position 55.37 W, 37.93 S bearing SSW at 18 knots."

    "Hostiles about to overtake. They fired on us and ordered us to heave to. Cannot outrun them. Repeat! Mayday Mayday! "   

"Gary! This is Hawke. This is Hawke! I'm on my way. I'm on my way!"

    More mayday calls.

    "Gary, do you copy? Come back!"

       …silence

   Gary kept repeating the mayday.

 

Hawke slammed Atlantic Storm's MAN Turbo Diesel throttles to red line, set double headsails and a Genoa. Gary Hawke's Maydays escalated to a high pitch and his channel went dead.

Two and a half hours at 40 knots Hawke arrived twenty minutes before the air-sea rescue helicopter The pirate was gone in any one of 360 degrees on the compass.

 

Atlantic Storm drew closer. Hawke let out a long, blood-curdling scream. Gary and the mangled bodies of his beautiful wife and three children hung from the lower mast spreader. They hung in the bright sun disemboweled.  Mutilated until death released them from the horrors they endured.

 

One Year Later

    "TajTel located Magus Sammada from Interpol data," McChafin took a draw on his pipe..

    "Why do I need to know this?"

     "Magus Sammada killed your brother."

   

RogueOps is just getting going …

• Language: English
• Publisher: CW Nelson
• Release date: Jul 9, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201642570

CW Nelson

CW Nelson – Author Military wolves raised CW Nelson The ‘Old Man’ flew frontline paratroopers in WW2 and Korea. B-47 Stratojet nuclear bombers during the Cold War. NRO B-47s on soviet espionage missions.   Cold War Intel advisor for CIA Director MACV Aerial Recon USAF Liaison, Office of Naval Intelligence Liaison, MACV US Army Chief of Staff Director, undisclosed USAF NASA projects Colonel Nelson retired from the Pentagon Additional author resources- CW Nelson worked material logistics for several federal agencies. Criminal activity support for State, County and Local Law. An old school FBI Regional Director. Security & Intelligence Agencies. Director DHS-Services Counter Terror Group. Military personnel. US Marine Corp. Snipers. Military Sigint, which plays a large role in RogueOps TajTel operations. —Identities private  C.W. joined the US Navy. Then wrecked a 435hp SS 396 Chevelle... and his military career. He was successful in large family ranching operations and AG land development. A builder, developer. He lives with his lovely wife Vicki in Sun Valley, Idaho. Snow capped Sawtooth Mountains & pristine river valleys are home where he writes about what he loves most. The Land of the Free - Because of the Brave Thanks to all First responders, Police & Military personnel. Apologies to those that find my characters far-fetched. Excuse literary license to make a damned point.

Book preview

1 — Anarchy Park

Nothing has more power than the ability to investigate systematically and truly all that comes under your observations in life.

—Marcus Aurelius

—Philosopher: Roman emperor, 161 to 180 AD.

Washington, DC—

Black thunderheads billowed high on the eastern horizon. Lightning streaked across the sky. Thunder rumbled. Bolts of blue plasma flashed through thick bulletproof windows. A violent storm advanced on the corrupt stronghold of U.S. government.

Griffin Dunn sat quietly at his desk, thinking. The aroma of his cigar, the scent of waxed walnut furniture, new leather upholstery and two walls of leather bound books defined the lair of a powerful man. Even so, thick gray eyebrows set off a troubled look in Dunn’s piercing, steel blue eyes. He leaned back in his overstuffed leather executive chair and looked out his windows on the top floor of the old War and Navy Office Building.

AntiFa and BLM crowded Lafayette Park directly across from the White House grounds. The violent vanguard of radical communist street thugs. Traitors.

National Guard soldiers, Secret Service sharpshooters and the steel perimeter fence were the only defenses separating Secretary of Defense Griffin Dunn from their violent rebellion. The wind blew harder. The anarchists pulled their black hoods tighter, turned up their collars and braced against slashing rain.

A hard rap rattled the heavy double doors. Dunn lowered the leather wrapped binoculars and took a draw on his cigar. Davis MacLand walked in and shut the doors louder than necessary. He went straight to the credenza.

Griffin Dunn turned back to the windows and lifted his leather wrapped binoculars. A gift from a friend. Navy admiral Billings. Hawke served with him off the coast of Kuwait during Desert Shield in 1990.

Damn it MacLand! Call before stomping in like this. What the hell is so damned important?

MacLand was Director of National Intelligence, DNI. He turned over two cut crystal tumblers and sloshed them half-full of scotch from a matching decanter.

MacLand let out a nervous sigh and sat in front of Dunn’s seven-foot wide desk. He took a drink and leaned back. Lightning streaked across the sky. A blinding flash. A loud crack shook the bulletproof windows. A tall oak in Lafayette Park exploded in a flash of light.

Griffin Dunn dropped his binoculars. MacLand bolted out of his chair and spilled his scotch.

Flaming wood shrapnel and large branches smashed into protesters. Gusting wind hurled burning leaves and set other trees on fire. AntiFa radicals and Black Lives Matter anarchists stopped disrupting traffic and smashing baseball bats into windshields.

Two hundred radical anarchists panicked and ran. Many held hands over their ears. Blood ran from blown eardrums and down their necks as they stumbled and fell over each other in the streets. Dunn estimated three dozen anarchists lay dead at the base of the shattered and blackened tree.

They watched for a minute until Dunn shrugged it off. Serves those damned Commi bastards right. What’s so damned important, MacLand?

MacLand picked up his glass and refilled it. You better brace yourself, Mr. Secretary.

Dunn looked at the glass on his desk. Scotch at seven in the morning? The pressure getting to you?

MacLand took a slug to calm his nerves. The SecDef was one thing. The heavy, leather bound memorandum he carried was another. They stared at one another. Dunn’s chiseled Nordic face and graying military buzz cut hardened his commanding presence to a sharp edge.

Bill Konouski delivered an ‘Eyes Only’ memorandum to my office an hour ago. It’s from Jack Rollins. MacLand took another drink, leaned back and looked at the names printed on the cover. Mr. Secretary. MacLand let out a faint whistle. We have Helmit Zellick, National Reconnaissance Office... He took another slug of scotch.

MacLand, get to the damned point!

Davis dropped a thick red folder on his desk. Intel says a cabal of South American mercenaries plans to assassinate several of our key people. They’re recruiting leaders of violent gangs and radical anarchists to serve as ground forces. The spear point in an overthrow of the United States.

Dunn squared his broad shoulders and glared at the National Intelligence director. You better be straight on this because I’m not in the mood for bullshit. He looked back out the window at the dead anarchists and noted that several were still alive, broken bones, struggling on the ground under large oak branches.

We should shoot all those AntiFa bastards and their damned nigger pals. They riot, smash windows and burn business districts from coast to coast. They target and kill cops. They bludgeon and maim citizens. It’s out of god damned control and no one does a thing about it. Corrupt governors and mayors order law enforcement to stand down."

Dunn slammed a meaty fist on his desk. Damn it. Let’s give them the war they called for. Let’s be done with all of these traitorous bastards.

MacLand opened the memorandum to section B-1 and pushed it across the desk. Like I said, I got this from Jack Rollins an hour ago. Read it.

Dunn was uneasy with the DNI’s deadpan face. It didn’t fit. He was on shaky ground with him, but that wasn’t apparent since he charged in.

Dunn set the aromatic cigar on a brass tray at his elbow, took a slug of scotch and picked up the memorandum. The first page targeted Helmit Zellick. SecDef Dunn scanned the sheet. Zellick is NRO. This has nothing to do with us. They have their own people.

Turn to section A-1.

Section A-1 listed US President Alastair Scott, Griffin Dunn, Davis MacLand and FBI Director, Jack Rollins. The next page listed three columns of political, agency and military leaders. Ninety people designated for assassination.

Dunn turned to Section A-2 and slid out a dozen high-resolution satellite images. He leaned back and shuffled through photos of ground troops and other photos of air movements. Each had a label affixed at the top.

Tri-Border region: Argentina- Brazil- Paraguay-

Dunn thumbed through Zellick’s National Reconnaissance Office satellite imaging. Smoke curled from his cigar as he quickly assessed the Intel. Convoys of trucks snaking around mountain roads. Cargo planes hopping to airfields in Venezuela, Honduras, Guatemala and central Mexico.

Dunn turned to Section A-3 and pulled out NRO statistics folder. He thumbed through them and slammed them on his desk.

Christ, MacLand! This identifies 72,000 revolutionaries spread across seven nations to avoid detection. Military weapons vehicles. Personnel carriers. Fuel and supply trucks.

Dunn pulled a photo off his desk and held it up. This photo shows white tarps with UN insignias draped over 18-wheelers. Looks like every other asylum seeker caravan but it isn’t. Dunn tapped the photo with the bit of his cigar. And this UN truck. It’s towing a fucking howitzer!

Yes sir.

I’m looking at active Intel on a military invasion.

Yes sir! Against the United States of America.

Dunn leaned forward. "USMCA agreements my ass. Mexico is part of this. How the hell did anyone miss that? They joined the UN Migration Compact that mandates the ‘Right to Freedom of Movement’ across any border."

Griffin Dunn stood at the windows. Davis MacLand walked up beside him.

Mexico wants all out war.

Right. Escalating caravans over the past five years were also a smoke screen for armored troops right behind them. Who would know with UN 18-wheelers rolling with them? Food trucks. Medical. Clothing. Shelters and other support vehicles.

SecDef Dunn flipped his chair around. Get Jack Rollins over here!

Dunn pressed the intercom to his front office. Heather. Send up a barrel of coffee. Plenty of sandwiches and donuts.

Dunn pulled out a SatPhone. It clicked and buzzed as the call connected. This is Zellick. Do you have Davis MacLand with you?

How the hell would you know that?

I received a wire from Jack Rollins. Said MacLand was on his way to your office with the memorandum.

Yeah. He’s here.

A lot of our Intel is in there. Did you read it?

Jack is on his way over. Griffin looked at his watch. 07:30 hours.

After he debriefs us, I’ll call you back. It’s +6 for you in Berlin. Give us another three hours. 13:30 hours your time.

2 — Title 18 Codes

Washington, DC—

Loud thuds shook the door. Jack Rollins stomped in. Six foot two, 240 pounds of athletic muscle. A thick shock of black hair and angry gray eyes darted around the room. He made a quick assessment of everyone and everything. Doors ajar, ways in ways out.

Rollins walked to the windows and chuckled. I heard about that on the way up. Other than the shitstorm at hand, how is everyone doing this dandy morning?

Rollins didn’t expect an answer and got none. By now you talked with Zellick. They nodded.

Good, we can move on with this.

Rollins grabbed a plate of assorted donuts and a large mug of coffee. He took a chair at the conference table and opened a large leather satchel.

Okay, on point. We bring in USCE. The United States Constitution and Code Enforcement. The Regular and Irregular Militia. The good guys with guns. America’s last line of defense. And, we bring in RogueOps to oversee all this.

SecDef Dunn glared at the FBI director and lit a fresh cigar. Where did you hear about RogueOps?

Rollins hunched his shoulders and took a slug of hot coffee. Look, I know Lachlan Hawke has done special operations for the government since he retired from Navy SEALs and ONI.

Dunn’s brow wrinkled.

His eyes narrowed.

You know his name?

"What the hell, Griffin. I am director of the FBI for Christ’s sake. I’m the guy still cleaning out bad actors that Kenyan entrenched in the department."

So yes, I have heard of RogueOps and Lachlan Hawke. He does black bag stuff for the president. I don’t know specifics and I don’t want to know. It’s above my pay grade by 20,000 feet. Besides, I like my life the way it is. Alive and breathing.

Dunn leaned back and nodded. Ah hell, Rollins. It’s good you brought it up. You’re right. RogueOps tracks down and intercepts bad guys for us. Some of your bad actors were on their list.

Hawke oversees USCE although they have their own rank and file. A ragtag bunch of ex-military malcontents. Guys and gals not happy with how things took a dive after that Kenyan faggot hijacked the presidency.

The damned toughest soldiers and civilians this nation ever produced. Ex- generals and admirals. Officers, noncoms and the best enlisted men and women ever.

SecDef Dunn grinned, something rare.

A bunch of damned cowboy vigilantes is what they are. Their only legitimacy is operating under Hawke’s RogueOps umbrella.

Yes sir. I’m sure they share the same warm and glowing affections for you.

Yes, I’m sure they do. What do you have?

The author recommends reading this to know what the United States Militia and USCE does and why. You can skip forward but USCE’s agenda may be sketchy.

Rollins met their hard eyes. "USCE men and women knew this day would come. They have been ready to take point against these players for years. That Kenyan’s military purges jacked them sky high on U.S. Title 18 Codes in Chapter 115. As you know, it covers Treason, Sedition and Subversive Activities.

USCE focuses on Section 2381 for Treason.

You know all this but let’s review it. Let’s be damned clear on what the hell we are doing and what authority we