“This… this is probably the most disturbing thing I’ve seen in real life,” said Agent David Morales.
Agent Cassandra Reed said nothing in response. A sweep of her flashlight across the room revealed three dead bodies - the remnants of a surveillance team.
“We’re not homicide investigators. What are we doing here? What are we supposed to do with this?” Morales continued.
Blood splatter marks decorated the walls and floors in giant sweeps.
“Don’t step anywhere,” said Reed.
“Yep… I hadn’t planned on it,” Morales replied.
Standing in the doorway, both shined their flashlights on the floor. The images would remain with them for the rest of their lives.
One mile away, in George Washington University Hospital, sat Jason Tran, a junior analyst who’d been missing from his appointed place of duty for 22 hours. The base of his skull felt like metal under tension. His shirt front had vomit, his own, on it.
“His name is Jason Chi Tran. According to his ID, he lives at 120 Garrett Road in Glen Burnie, Maryland. 29 years old. Birthday’s in three days. He hasn’t said a word since he came in. Hasn’t slept either,” said nurse Robin Foley. “His other identification says he’s NSA.”
“NSA? Why did he come here and not Walter Reed,” asked Dr. Ali Rafiq.
“If I knew that I would be making more than I am now,” Foley snapped before walking down the hall toward the restroom.
“NSA…” Rafiq mumbled to no one in particular.
Dr. Rafiq leaned over the nurse’s station counter and picked up the telephone, unsure who to call.
“You’re right,” said Reed. “We’re not homicide investigators.”
“I’d usually be pretty hungry right now, but I don’t think I can eat,” said Morales. “The idea of food makes me want to throw up.”
“Somebody beat you to it.”
“Hmm?”
“I think someone threw up outside the door. Smell hit me pretty hard.”
“You know what I noticed?”
“What’s that?”
“I only counted three.”
Reed turned to her right, Morales turned to his left, and they nearly bore holes into each other.
About 30 feet underneath the Midway Commons basketball court at the National Security Agency, junior analyst Phillip Steward was waiting for both his audio/video to finish downloading from his dedicated server and his ramen noodles to finish in the microwave. Steward liked to play a game and try to time his noodles with his morning download. He was close this time. His download was completed two seconds before the microwave beeped at him.
“Oooohhh so close! Two seconds left on the clock for the visiting ramen team, but I don’t think they can cover that much field!” he said to himself. Steward spent a lot of time alone. He set his ramen down to cool and clicked on his download, file name “Corcoran 1751.”
A four-person team had been set to 1751 Corcoran St., just northeast of Dupont Circle, to surveil the Embassy of the Republic of Belarus.
What he saw and heard on the recording both baffled and intrigued him in a way only Nolan films or Pynchon novels could. What he saw was footage of a pale, flickering figure accompanied by garbled audio that sounded like faint whispers.
Specter Protocol will return with part 2 soon.
You have my attention.