Threat Zero

by Nicholas Irving

  So far, so good. He moved the weapon onto the small ledge and sighted in the general direction of the scraping noise. The optical display within the retina gave him distance, wind speed and direction, altitude, and a variety of other essential shooting information. With the scope on white hot, he immediately saw a body moving in the deer stand. His shot was either at the head or an oblique shoulder or chest shot. He needed a first shot, first kill so whoever it might be didn’t make a radio call. The scope calculated everything he needed to do as Harwood placed the crosshairs on the man’s head. His thumb flicked the safety off as his trigger finger pulled directly back.

  It occurred to Harwood that it might not be Stone or Weathers in the stand, that it could be a random deer hunter. He considered that it wasn’t deer season and deer weren’t generally on the move at night. Rather, dusk and dawn were their preferred times and he was an hour past dusk now.

  The man in the opposing deer stand was sighting a long weapon of some type directly at his number one sniper hide selection. All of the circumstantial evidence pointed at this being Stone or Weathers. Harwood’s guess was that it was Stone. Weathers was the better shot of the two and more of an alpha. While Stone was a boisterous hothead, he was reasonably lost when it came to the strategic picture. Weathers was the consummate quiet professional. As the alpha, Weathers would want Stone on the first line of defense because he was expendable. And while he didn’t know Ravenswood, he still considered that Weathers would be calling the operational shots of defense of the compound for this meeting.

  The trigger gave way. The suppressed shot resonated loudly across the field, mostly the machinelike action of the bolt chambering another round, which pinged loudly. The brass kicked and landed soundlessly toward the end of the T-shirt. The man’s head kicked back. His weapon fell into the deer stand with a thud.

  Harwood scanned the tree line, finding what looked like four other deer stands, all empty. He saw movement to the southeast, toward the compound, of a vapory figure galloping away. Because of the optics, it was difficult to tell if it was a person or an animal, but it was definitely animate based on the heat signature. After ten minutes of no activity, he collected his T-shirt and brass, lowered himself from the stand, and shouldered his ruck.

  He carefully chose a concealed path around the open field to get to the deer stand on the far side. Dropping his ruck at the base of the tree, he climbed and found Stone’s dead eyes open and staring at him. He checked for a pulse and got nothing in return. Climbing over Stone, he found the entry wound center mass of the skull above his left ear. He’d been going for the temple, but this was equally effective.

  Harwood turned and sighted along the same general azimuth that Stone had been looking. Harwood could clearly see the hillock that was his number one sniper hide prediction. It appeared that fields of fire had been cleared. The shot was wide open at about one hundred meters. Even Stone would have been able to make this shot, he mused.

  He scanned to the southeast, looking for whatever he had seen. No joy. He turned and inspected Stone, finding a personal mobile radio and cell phone. He probably had regular intervals he was supposed to report. Harwood looked at the smartphone and saw that it was 8:40 P.M. The scratching noise had probably been Stone reporting back to Weathers or Ravenswood and he’d gotten careless.

  Harwood gathered Stone’s SR-25 rifle, Glock pistol, and K-Bar knife, and found his wallet and some receipts in his cargo pockets. He was careless in the Crimea and Iran fights and he was careless here. It had gotten him killed. Harwood felt no remorse.

  He retraced the route to his rucksack and secured the smaller items while disassembling Stone’s rifle and tossing the parts in different directions.

  Quickly, he shouldered his ruck and began moving toward the southeast of Brookes’s compound when a small light appeared from his outer tactical vest indicating a text had come into his burner phone. He found a hollow surrounded by trees, took a knee, and covered the phone as he looked at the text.

  It was from Monisha. Three words and a picture.

  CHECK THIS OUT

  He stared at the picture, nodded his head, and made a decision.

  CHAPTER 21

  Sloane Brookes paced in the room filled with the current FBI director Seamus Kilmartin, the president’s briefer Miles Everett, broken nose and all, former CIA director Josh Henry, media anchor Rocky Campagne, and Chip Ravenswood.

  “Everybody is in this thing,” Brookes said. She stopped walking, stared at the giant fireplace, thought she heard a noise, looked out the window, and continued. “As Ben Franklin said, ‘We must indeed all hang together, because most assuredly we shall all hang separately.’”

  “I haven’t done anything illegal,” Everett said.

  “Shut up,” Sloane snapped. “You’ve been feeding bullshit to the president. It’s called lying. Treason. Sedition. Suck on your pistol now if you don’t have the stones to power through this.”

  The two clonazepam had smoothed her out and helped her summon the courage to focus on the issues at hand, which were that the Reaper and Hinojosa were still alive. Hinojosa was the bait and the Reaper would come to them. It was that simple. She wanted the entire cabal present when it went down so that they could all be sworn to secrecy on the entire plan going forward and of course they would all be culpable in the deaths of the Reaper and Hinojosa.

  “Sloane,” Kilmartin said, “I think everyone just needs to focus here.”

  “I’m focused. This thing is within reach.” Turning to former CIA director Henry, she said, “Josh, where is Iran on screwing the nuke to a missile?”

  “Close. Both the funding and the technology have helped. It will be within the next twenty-four hours. They’ll start cold by testing on Israel. Their current missiles can range there now and with the miniaturized nuclear plans we’ve delivered, they believe they can score a first-time hit.”

  “Okay, good. So dipshit Smart cancels the Iran nuclear deal. Iran says okay fuck you and builds a nuke. Then nukes Israel. I like it. Smart will look like the dumbass he is and, Rocky, you can run me twenty-four-seven picking Smart and his administration apart.” She pointed at Campagne with a long manicured finger.

  Campagne nodded.

  “I didn’t sign up for this,” Everett said. “I’ve got a family. A pension I need to worry about.”

  “Too late for that, dipshit. How did Dillinger ever pick you to be the president’s briefer?”

  “Easy, Sloane,” Henry said. “We all have a role here. Everett’s job was to dampen everything you’ve been saying about Iran. You’re on Rocky’s show hammering away that Iran is a threat and he should have never canceled the deal. Everett is inside telling the president you’re just a stupid bitch and don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Has the convenience of being true,” Everett said.

  Brookes walked up to him and slapped him across the face. “You little cocksucker.”

  Everett smiled. “Been wanting to say that. Plus, it’s like method acting. If I believe it, I’m more convincing.”

  Brookes nodded.

  “What’s the word from Iran on launch? Can they go sooner than twenty-four hours?”

  “I’ll ask,” Henry said. He stood and walked into the dining room, putting his phone to his ear.

  “And for anyone wondering here. This isn’t sedition. Iran’s not an enemy we are at war with and they’re attacking Israel, not the United States.”

  “Well, I still wouldn’t go bragging to the Washington Post,” Kilmartin said.

  “No need. I’ve got Rocky.”

  Ravenswood looked at his phone, pressed a detent button on his neck, and said, “Go.” He walked away from the group into the hallway.

  “Better be some good news,” Brookes said.

  “Sloane, I think it’s best if we each leave shortly. We don’t need to be here for whatever is about to happen,” Kilmartin said.

  “Okay. You don’t, but I wanted to finish the conversati
on. I’m all about planning for success. When the nuke hits Tel Aviv, Rocky, I’m your first guest. And I want max airtime on this. Everett, whatever Dillinger gives you, dilute it even more. The reports coming in will be confusing at first and everyone will be focused on Israel more than Iran. Our role in this is covered after tonight.”

  “Yeah, with about forty bodies,” Everett said.

  She leveled a hard stare at the briefer and then continued. “Seamus, I want you to start an investigation into the Smart administration’s decision-making in canceling the Iran deal. What were Smart’s dealings with Israel? Did any of his businesses profit before or after he canceled that thing?”

  Kilmartin nodded. “We can do that.”

  “See that, shithead, that’s how you operate,” she said to Everett, who pushed his glasses up his nose using his middle finger.

  Henry walked back in and said, “My contacts tell me they can go in twelve hours.”

  “Twelve is good.”

  Ravenswood walked back in and said, “Stone has missed two reporting windows. Weathers is on the move. Everyone needs to stay inside for their own safety.”

  Brookes nodded and said, “Okay. We stay, for now.”

  “Roger. I’m heading downstairs to check on our guest.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Harwood carefully circled down to the Chesapeake Bay, found the fortress that Brookes called home, and took a knee.

  The water lapped harmlessly at the sandy shore. Facing the bluff he had just descended, he knelt and studied his surroundings. To his right was an estuary that emptied into the bay, which was to his rear, vast and seemingly endless. To his left was a pier and boathouse. He backed into a crevice in the bluff and removed his phone, punched up the image that Monisha had forwarded, studied it, and shut the phone down.

  Carefully, he walked south toward the boathouse and pier. The house seemed built into the bluff and extended a considerable amount of distance onto the pier. It was made of the same rustic wood as the pier, had a steep roof with black shingles, and a small weather vane on the top. Harwood reached the boathouse, aware there were most likely cameras and sensors everywhere.

  Monisha had sent him a map that showed an underground anomaly that appeared to be a tunnel connecting the house to the bay and, more specifically, to the boathouse. He studied the structure, built with wide wood planks that dove vertically into the beach from the base of the pier and ran horizontally above the pier. Reaching the vertical slats, he pressed against the wood and determined they were not budging. He walked chest deep into the water and found an opening for the boats on the bay side. Submerging himself until the only thing above water was his night-vision goggle, he slipped into the boathouse listening to the echoing sounds of dripping water.

  He walked in slow motion bouncing off the bottom of the bay, treading water with his arms as he held the SR-25. He presumed that Weathers had scouted the entire area and was familiar with all of the points of entry and egress. If there was a tunnel, though, Harwood was banking on the notion that Brookes may want to have an escape route for herself.

  He used his hands to pull himself around the side of a large white-hulled boat. Reaching the swim platform and engines, he flipped up his NVG and sighted down the sniper rifle through his thermal sight. He instantly saw what he thought he was looking for. The naked eye would most likely not have been able to see it, but the thermal optics showed an oval that was warmer than the rest of the terrain. He moved to the oval, keeping his weapon at the ready. Emerging from the water, he walked up the sandy bank, rolled across the pier, and approached the oval. He felt around the sand and grass on the side of the bluff, found a small rope handle and tugged.

  The door gave way and he inspected the immediate environment before stepping into the tunnel. Once in, he closed the door behind him and didn’t move for five minutes. There was no time to waste, but if he were dead, then time wouldn’t matter. He used the thermal scope to study the tunnel, but it provided little feedback other than differing hues of gray and black that descended into darkness. More useful was his night-vision goggle with infrared flashlight switched on in the lock position. He also flipped the AN/PAQ-4C aiming light that gave him some infrared light penetration deeper into the tunnel. It was a pinpoint beam but could reflect possible danger back at him.

  Keeping his pace count, he walked nearly a hundred meters before reaching a wall. There was a door with a levered handle, not a regular doorknob. He inspected the entire doorframe for wires or sensors, almost like doing a jumpmaster door check. Finding a drop bar lock on the outside of the door surprised him. Someone had at one time locked people inside the rooms beyond. He lifted the heavy two-by-four from the U-shaped brackets, which appeared to be heavy-duty metal and as big as his hand. The wood bar fit snugly in the two brackets. No one would get out, ever, unless there was some way to lift the bar from the inside. He considered the possibility and felt around the door, finding a small protrusion, something like the latch on a car hood. He visualized someone on the other side being able to push down on a mechanism and lift the two-by-four out of the brackets.

  Interesting.

  He kept the two-by-four on the path next to him and took five minutes to disassemble his weapon and store it in his rucksack. He checked his pistol and knife, knowing that he would be better off with these weapons in the tight confines of the Brookes mansion. He found a small alcove and hid his rucksack in the tunnel near the door to the basement. He was going in light on this mission, despite his credo to never allow more than five feet between him and his gear. After a new thought occurred to him, he used a white light flashlight to manipulate his weapons and make some modifications that could be useful to him. Finally, he removed his helmet and placed it atop his ruck. He wanted no sensory deprivation going into the room. In fact, he wanted to be able to feel a slight breeze across his scalp. Every moment counted in close-quarters combat.

  He pressed down on the door latch and it gave. He slowly pulled the door open, light sneaking into the small crack of tunnel darkness. He transitioned from his goggle to the naked eye, let his retinas adjust, and focused on the room.

  The far wall was old brick, some of the mortar having receded over the years, leaving the impression that this was an older, unrestored basement of some type. A dim fluorescent bulb hung from the ceiling casting a pale glow in what appeared to be a dungeon. The floor was brick, as well. Harwood eased the door open a bit more, its hinges squeaking in high-pitched musical octaves.

  A moan came from somewhere to his left.

  Pistol at the ready, he spun into the room, clearing left, center, and then right. Back to the left was an open doorway. Leaving the door open, he walked slowly into the room and passed through the door into a similar room he had just left.

  Shackled to the wall was Hinojosa. Her head hung limp. She was stripped to her underwear. Had been beaten, possibly worse. Definitely not working for the other side. Probably Samuelson’s sister.

  He cleared to the far side of the room, found a series of steps that assuredly led to the main living quarters. Harwood saw other black shackles along the wall and realized that this was a slave holding area for a plantation owner. There were a brick chimney and some old firewood logs at the far end of the room.

  Hearing noises upstairs, Harwood searched for the keys to the shackles. Like an old-time jail, the key was hanging on the far wall, an impossible reach for someone secured to the opposite wall. He immediately secured the key and started with the one shackle around both ankles, then the left arm and lastly the right. He kept her blindfolded and gagged, though he removed the noise-canceling earphones. She struggled against him, probably unsure of whether he was friend or foe. He didn’t have time to waste, though, if the information Monisha had sent him was correct.

  A nuclear Iran with a missile that could range Israel.

  He slung Hinojosa over his shoulder, her weakened body struggling against Harwood’s powerful frame. He sat her next to the door to the tunne
l and turned at a noise behind him. Pistol at the ready, he came up firing when a man in tactical gear turned the corner into the room. He remembered the picture that Bronson had shown him.

  Ravenswood.

  “Fucking Reaper,” Ravenswood said. He raised a pistol, but Harwood’s first bullet caught his shooting hand, causing him to drop his pistol onto the brick floor. Ravenswood was relentless, though, coming up with a knife and flinging it as fast as Harwood could pull the trigger of the pistol. The muffled shots were still loud in the cavernous basement. Ravenswood spun and was possibly hit but kept coming at him. The knife had grazed Harwood’s left arm, drawing blood. Ravenswood tackled Harwood with a quick leap. The bear hug prevented Harwood from getting his weapon angled correctly, negating his advantage.

  He reached up and managed to extract his knife from his outer tactical vest, sliding his hand between the pressure of the bear hug. Harwood flicked open the knife as Ravenswood reared back in preparation for a head butt. He used that moment to slide the knife beneath Ravenswood’s body armor. The sharpened blade punctured his abdomen and slid up until he reached the vest. Ravenswood’s head came forward and glanced off Harwood’s forehead. Not a crushing blow, but not a total miss, either.

  Ravenswood’s forward momentum carried him behind Harwood, who raked the knife laterally beneath the lip of the body armor. Blood was spilling over Harwood’s hands as he retrieved the knife and plunged it into Ravenswood’s neck. The knife made a wet sucking sound as he removed it from Ravenswood’s neck. He pushed the body to the brick floor and wiped his blade on the man’s pants.

  Hinojosa had removed her gag and blindfold. She stared at Harwood with an expression of confusion and fright. She had grabbed Ravenswood’s Glock and was aiming it at Harwood.