RWD: 4.x (Intermission)(James Tagg)

4.x (Intermission)(James Tagg)

The coffee had gone cold an hour ago, but James Tagg kept the ceramic mug clenched between his hands anyway, using the weight and solidity of it to anchor himself as he stared at the wall of monitors dominating his temporary office. Each screen told a piece of the same story—a story that was rapidly becoming his professional obituary.

NORAD's tracking data painted stark white lines across a map of the Eastern Seaboard, twin trajectories that had appeared without warning and disappeared just as suddenly. The first launch had achieved a clean suborbital insertion, reaching an apogee of three hundred and eighty-seven kilometers before deploying what their analysts believed was some form of surveillance package. The second had followed a flattened ballistic arc, splashing down somewhere in the mid-Atlantic after demonstrating a range that put half the continent within striking distance.

Two missiles. Launched from his jurisdiction. By an organization he'd been tasked with containing.

The phone on his desk buzzed for the fifteenth time in the past hour. Tagg ignored it, just as he'd ignored the previous fourteen calls. He knew who was on the other end—Deputy Director Renick calling about some complication, the FBI's Domestic Security Division with their inquires, Homeland Security's Critical Infrastructure Protection unit with their demands. All of them wanting answers he didn't have, explanations for a situation that had spiraled so far beyond his control that he could barely see the original parameters anymore.

"Sir?" His aide, a young analyst named Patterson, appeared in the doorway with the careful posture of someone approaching a wounded animal. "The conference call is ready. Chief Director Costa-Brown is holding on line one, and Washington is standing by on the secure channel."

Tagg set down the coffee mug and straightened his tie. Three weeks ago, he'd been confident, aggressive, ready to clean up the mess that was PRT ENE through decisive action and a firm hand. Now he felt like a man trying to plug a dam with his fingers while the water rose around his ankles.

"Put them through."

The wall-mounted display flickered to life, revealing a grid of faces that represented the hierarchy currently debating his professional future. Chief Director Costa-Brown occupied the center square, her expression carefully neutral in the way that suggested she'd already written Tagg's career obituary. To his left, Director Armstrong from Boston looked tired and vaguely sympathetic—the expression of a man who understood how quickly these situations could deteriorate. The remaining squares held representatives from various federal agencies, each one a reminder of how far outside normal PRT jurisdiction this crisis had spread.

"Director Tagg," Brown began without preamble. "I've reviewed the preliminary reports from this morning's incidents. I need you to walk me through the timeline, step by step."

Tagg activated his own display, calling up the chronological analysis his staff had compiled. "At 0847 hours, we received simultaneous reports of armed gunmen conducting raids on criminal enterprises across the city. Merchant operations in the Trainyard, ABB drug labs near the docks, Empire safe houses in the suburbs. Early reports suggested coordinated strikes by an unknown paramilitary force."

"The same force you've been tracking under the designation 'Hollowpoint,'" interrupted a voice from one of the federal squares. FBI, if Tagg remembered correctly.

"That was our assessment, yes. The tactical coordination and precision matched the pattern we'd observed in previous operations. We deployed available assets to contain the situation and assess civilian casualties."

"Available assets," Costa-Brown repeated, her tone carefully neutral. "Which were?"

Tagg felt heat creep up his neck. "Armsmaster, Miss Militia, Velocity, Assault, and Battery from the Protectorate. The Wards remained on standby per current protocols. New Wave responded independently to reports in their patrol area."

"Seven capes to cover six simultaneous incidents across a city of three hundred thousand people."

"The incidents appeared coordinated specifically to strain our response capacity," Tagg said, hearing the defensive edge in his own voice. "By the time we realized the pattern, Lung and Oni Lee had already engaged our teams at multiple locations. The ABB was... aggressive in defending their territory."

That was putting it mildly. Lung had transformed into his full dragon state within minutes of the first raid, requiring both Armsmaster, Miss Militia, Assault and Lady Photon to coordinate containment efforts while Velocity and Battery attempted to corral Oni Lee who had taken to harassing response teams with hit-and-run tactics. The entire PRT had been locked into a city-wide game of whack-a-mole, chasing fires while the real objective remained hidden.

"And during this engagement," said another voice, "at approximately 0917 hours, NORAD detected the launch of two surface-to-surface missiles from your area of responsibility."

Tagg nodded grimly. "The launches occurred from a location in the industrial waterfront district. By the time we had assets available to investigate, the launch site had been abandoned. We found evidence of a temporary installation—launch rails and chemical residue consistent with solid rocket fuel."

"No perpetrators."

"No perpetrators," Tagg confirmed. "The site was professionally cleaned. Minimal forensic evidence."

Director Armstrong leaned forward slightly. "James, help me understand the tactical picture here. You're suggesting this Hollowpoint organization orchestrated six simultaneous diversionary attacks just to test a weapons system?"

"That's our current assessment. The raids were successful—they disrupted significant criminal operations and resulted in the seizure of drugs, weapons, and cash valued at approximately fifteen million dollars. But the timing and coordination suggest the primary objective was creating a window of opportunity for the missile test."

"A missile test," repeated the FBI representative.

Tagg felt his jaw tighten. "The range demonstration puts significant population centers at risk. New York, Washington, Atlanta—all within the demonstrated flight envelope. We're dealing with an organization that has progressed from street-level vigilante actions to possession of strategic weapons in the span of three weeks. Our threat assessment indicated—"

"Your threat assessment," interrupted a new voice—Homeland Security, based on the accent—"failed to anticipate this development. We now have an unknown actor with demonstrated extensive strategic depth, no clear political objectives, and a history of unilateral action against unsanctioned targets."

The Chief Director cleared her throat. "What's the current intelligence picture? Do we know who we're dealing with?"

Tagg pulled up another file, his fingers moving across the tablet with practiced efficiency. "The missile components would require specialized knowledge and supply chains. Guidance systems, propulsion systems, composite materials—this isn't backyard chemistry. Someone with serious technical expertise and significant funding is backing this operation."

"That’s obvious, Tagg. Any leads on identity?"

Tagg hesitated. This was where the case file became frustratingly thin, a collection of circumstantial evidence and educated guesses that felt increasingly inadequate. "We have forensic evidence from multiple crime scenes, but nothing that's led to positive identification. The perpetrators are very competent—no usable fingerprints, DNA evidence is minimal and degraded. Voice analysis has been inconclusive as of yet."

"What about their targets? There has to be a pattern."

"The pattern appears to be consolidation of local criminal and parahuman power structures. They've systematically eliminate, co-opted or hamstrung competition for control of the city’s underbelly. The net effect has been a dramatic reduction in street-level violence and parahuman-related crimes."

"Except for the part where they're now launching missiles."

"Yes. Except for that."

Chief Director Costa-Brown leaned back in her chair, her expression thoughtful. "James, I need you to understand the political dimensions of this situation. The PRT's mandate is based on our ability to manage parahuman threats through legal frameworks and established protocols. When an organization demonstrates this level of capability while operating completely outside those frameworks, it calls into question our fundamental approach."

Tagg felt his stomach drop. "Sir, I understand the challenges, but—"

"Do you? Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like we have a terrorist organization with intercontinental strike capability that emerged and consolidated power in your jurisdiction while you were focused on gang violence and internal politics. The FBI is asking why they weren't brought in earlier. Homeland Security wants to know why we didn't detect the weapons development. The DOD is questioning whether the PRT is equipped to handle threats of this magnitude."

The words hung in the air like smoke from a house fire. Tagg could see his career burning in real time, thirty years of service reduced to a cautionary tale about the dangers of tactical myopia and bureaucratic overreach.

"What are my orders?" he asked quietly.

"Your orders are to maintain current operations while we conduct a full review of the situation," Costa-Brown said. "A joint task force is being established with representatives from relevant federal agencies. They'll be arriving in Brockton Bay within forty-eight hours to assume operational control of the investigation."

"And my authority?"

"Remains intact for routine PRT operations. But anything related to the Hollowpoint organization will be handled through the task force chain of command. Are we clear?"

Tagg nodded, feeling something vital drain out of him. "Clear, sir."

"Good. I'll want hourly reports on any new developments. And James?" Chief Director Costa-Brown's expression flattened. "I must warn you; you are treading on dangerously thin ice at the moment. Any more mistakes and I’ll have no choice but to can you. Are we clear?"

“...Crystal, sir.”