Prelude of “Zombie Necropolis”
Copyright 2012 by Bryan Cassiday. Excerpt. Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
PRELUDE
CIA black ops agent Greg Coogan couldn’t believe his eyes. If anyone outside of the Agency tumbled to this, the blowback would inflict incalculable damage on the CIA’s resurgent reputation. After all, it was the CIA, along with the SEALs, that had been instrumental in the tracking and execution of the notorious Osama bin Laden. But now this.
In his midthirties Coogan wasn’t a novice, but, experienced or not, he didn’t know what to do. He had to tell someone, but who could he trust in the Agency? Agency employees were sure to close ranks on this one. Nobody in the Agency would want this particular intel to leak beyond Langley’s walls.
Though at this moment, Coogan wasn’t in Langley and neither were his coworkers. They were all hunkered down in the bombproof, airtight Mount Weather Emergency Operations Center in Virginia.
Sitting at his desk in his cubicle, Coogan was watching a video on his laptop concerning the Erasmus medical center in Rotterdam, Holland. The video had been sent to him as an attachment to an e-mail. He had been treated at the Erasmus hospital for a bullet he had taken that had just missed his femoral artery in his thigh while he was stationed in Europe a few years back, which might explain why the e-mail was addressed to him.
The medical center was a bleak-looking complex with towering cranes parked in its many areas that were under construction. A few pedestrians were strolling on a cement concourse outside of a white skyscraper that had large white block letters perched on top of it saying Erasmus MC.
Within moments, a nightmare began as a knot of medical staff workers in white scrubs were disgorged from the high-rise. The staff personnel staggered drunkenly toward the unsuspecting pedestrians and descended on them and, incredibly, commenced tearing them apart limb from limb.
Coogan turned his face away from the laptop’s screen in horror. He had to tell someone of his discovery. But who? The Agency was riddled with bureaucrats who would do anything to cover their asses.
If the intel Coogan had got his hands on leaked to the public, it could lead to a major overhaul of the Agency and, Coogan knew, heads would assuredly roll.
Coogan could think of only one person he could trust—a fellow worker in the National Clandestine Service, otherwise known as the black ops arm of the CIA. The fellow worker was Chad Halverson, who was about the same age as Coogan.
They were both members of SOG (Special Operations Group), which was responsible for paramilitary operations in the NCS. Officially, Coogan and Halverson were known as paramilitary operations officers, who neither wore uniforms nor carried government ID. Unofficially, and off the books, they were in actuality CIA hit men.
Coogan had been trying to contact Halverson by phone for hours—with no success. Coogan, in fact, had no inkling where Halverson was. For some reason, Halverson wasn’t answering his phone.
Coogan reached for his encrypted Agency satellite phone and urgently punched out Halverson’s phone number one more time.
No answer.
Coogan threw down his phone and cursed.
It was vital that he get in touch with Halverson.
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