“Another fine toss, J.D.,” Thomas Colton said. The CEO of Colton Industries, the country’s premier weapons manufacturer, cracked open a beer and leaned back in his seat.
“That’s not the only bait he likes to set,” General Van Fortner quipped.
Fortner, who’d just been reassigned to the Pentagon by acting President Noah Young, flung his line out onto the water as well, outdistancing Blunt by several meters.
“Now you’re just showing off,” Blunt said.
“You two are both impressive when it comes to slinging line into the water, but neither of you have been able to catch anything,” Colton said.
“It’s because of all this damn noise on the boat,” Blunt said with a growl. “If you’d sit your ass down for a minute instead of stomping all over and yelling at us like we’re trying to have a conversation at a rock concert, maybe the fish would hang around for a few minutes and nibble on these spinners.”
“Someone didn’t take his laxative this morning,” Colton said.
“I swear, I’m gonna drive this boat offshore and feed you to some sharks if you don’t shut up,” Blunt said.
“Well, we aren’t just here to fish,” Fortner said. “There are some more pressing matters that we all need to discuss sooner rather than later.”
Blunt didn’t say a word, keeping his eyes fixated on his line still hanging limp from the end of his rod. Patiently, he reeled in his spinner, waiting for his line to tighten so he could set the hook. Once he finished, he stood and stared out over the water. He watched with a mixture of disgust and anger as a large bass swam beneath the boat.
“Did you see that?” Blunt asked as he pointed at the water.
“I thought we were supposed to be quiet,” Colton said. “I never can keep up with these whimsical rules.”
“That sucker was huge,” Blunt said.
Fortner leaned over the railing to look and shrugged. “Guess it’s gone now.”
A buzzing noise in the distance grew louder. Blunt scanned the horizon and noticed an inflatable raft powered by an outboard motor chugging straight toward them.
“I can promise it’s gone for good now,” Blunt said. “Doesn’t anyone know about the importance of remaining as quiet as possible while you’re on the water fishing? Doesn’t anyone know how well sound travels through water?”
“We came here to talk,” Colton said. “At least, I did. I would’ve never agreed to come out here just to fish, that much is certain.”
The raft eased up next to their boat. A man stood and waved before tossing a rope to Fortner.
“Mind giving us a hand?” the boat’s apparent captain asked.
Recognizing the U.S. Coast Guard markings on the small watercraft, Fortner tied off the rope to Blunt’s ship and held out his hand. Instead of the captain climbing aboard, his two passengers stepped forward: Alex Duncan and Brady Hawk.
The captain gestured for Fortner to disentangle the two vessels. He complied and used an oar to shove away the small boat to a safe distance.
“Hawk, I can’t decide who likes to torture me more—you or Mr. Colton here?” Blunt said.
“The fish aren’t biting, are they?” Alex asked as a wry grin spread across her face.
“Is it that obvious?” Blunt said as he hung his head.
“Usually, I get a greeting somewhat warmer than that,” she said.
Blunt narrowed his eyes and stared out across the water. “Just be glad that today I didn’t shoot at you.”
“That bad, huh?” Hawk asked.
“Not even a nibble,” Blunt said, shaking his head.
“Bad day fishing beats a good working, eh?” Colton said.
Blunt huffed a soft laugh through his nose. “If only this day was just about fishing. Since that’s obviously not going to happen, we might as well discuss what we’re all here to talk about.”
Blunt ushered everyone below deck and into the modest cabin. It had seating for eight, which was plenty of room for the group assembled.
Once they were all seated, Fortner opened the conversation.
“There’s quite a concern in the intelligence community, especially at the Pentagon, about what Karif Fazil might do with the weapons system he stole from Colton Industries. There have been numerous theories floated around, but I wanted us all to discuss this collectively and see if we can reach a conclusion on what he might be planning.”
Hawk raised his hand. “Before we get into that, can I make a polite suggestion that all Colton Industries weapons include a more undetectable tracker in the event of another heist? I was just sent on a wild goose chase that almost got me killed.”
“I know it might be of little consolation to you now,” Colton began, “but our engineers are already working on it.”
“That’s a start,” Hawk said.
“Well, regarding the matter at hand,” Blunt said, “I’m not sure I’ve got any better ideas on where Al Hasib might be planning to target. Quite frankly, there isn’t a spot that’s better than another.”
“J.D., have you spoken with Justin Frazier at the NSA?” Fortner asked.
“I gave him a call, and we discussed what was happening,” Blunt said of the NSA chief. “But if he knows anything more than what’s out there in the intelligence community, he wasn’t saying. I’ve known Frazier a long time, and based on his demeanor, I’d say he’s in the dark like the rest of us.”
“Does anyone think Fazil is planning on targeting any U.S. harbors?” Colton asked.
“I wouldn’t rule anything out,” Fortner said. “That would be a risky proposition, but Al Hasib has never operated under any type of conventional strategy. Their end game appears to be terror, in and of itself.”
“Based on some of the chatter I’ve been monitoring, I think I know Al Hasib’s target with this weapon,” Alex said.
Fortner’s eyebrows shot upward. “You’ve heard something we haven’t?”
She nodded. “The Strait of Hormuz.”
“Oh my God,” Colton said. “That’s the nightmare scenario.”
Fortner nodded. “Yeah, you’re not kidding. Seventeen million barrels of oil pass through there everyday, roughly thirty-five percent of all seaborne oil. It’d be an epic crisis without an end in sight.”
Blunt looked at Alex. “Do you really think Iran is going to be okay with this? They’ve been threatening to do this for years but have never made good on it.”
“From what I’ve gathered from my sources, Al Hasib is working in conjunction with Iran,” Alex said. “The Iranians are permitting this under the table so they can be the heroes and amass some leverage on the international community when they shut it down.”
“Everyone will see right through it,” Fortner said.
Alex shrugged. “Maybe, but will anyone really care once gas prices sky rocket? Those leading nations will just want to reestablish stability in the region. They won’t care what it cost.”
“Well, that’s one theory,” Colton said. “Got any—”
“This isn’t just a theory,” Alex said. “My sources are solid on this one. And from what I understand, they could have the weapons system in place and operational in less than a week.”
“We’re going to need something actionable before we start an international incident,” Fortner said. “Iran isn’t going to take too kindly to any kind of intervention by Americans, even if it is off the book.”
“What else do you need to know?” Hawk asked. “If Alex says it’s solid, you can bank on that.”
“We need to verify that’s where the weapon is, preferably by some high-ranking officer in Al Hasib.”
“What about the highest ranking officer?” Blunt asked.
“Karif Fazil?” Fortner asked. “If we can kill two birds with one stone here, I’d tell you to do just about anything. Fazil’s head would be a nice trophy, not to mention it’d help Noah Young’s chances at winning the presidency.”
“That seems rather ambitious,” Hawk said. “I’m not
sure we’d be able to pull that off so quickly, especially given the time crunch we’re facing. Supposing Alex is right, as soon as this weapon goes live in the Strait of Hormuz, things are going to get ugly. And our degree of difficulty increases significantly.”
“Look, I get what you’re saying, Hawk,” Fortner began, “but as troubling as an incident as this could become, venturing into Iran’s domain to eliminate a threat that they might be welcoming for various political reasons will put our country in a difficult predicament. Besides, this potential threat by Al Hasib is wreaking havoc with the financial market, not about killing people.”
“That shouldn’t detract from the urgency in this case,” Hawk said. “We don’t know what Al Hasib could be planning next. This could just be the first domino to fall in their plans.”
“Plans we can only speculate about,” Colton chimed in.
“Enough, Tom,” Blunt said. “We know you’re just hoping this whole thing blows over because you’re going to get raked over the coals if it comes out that your faulty security measures allowed this to happen.”
“So, what? The general is still right. We need to verify before we storm in there and ruffle a bunch of feathers in the Middle East. Isn’t that the whole reason this team exists?”
“It is,” Hawk said. “We’re supposed to be doing things behind the scenes to avoid any big international incidents. It’s why time is of the essence if we’re going to keep this situation from ever escalating to that point.”
“I think we can do both,” Alex said.
“Get verification and prevent this from happening?” Hawk asked. “You know something I don’t?”
Alex winked at Hawk. “Of course I do. How do you feel about a trip to Cuba?”
“Guantanamo Bay?” Fortner asked. “Do you know what kind of hoops I’d have to jump through to grant you access there?”
“I’m sure you can handle it,” she said.
“And what exactly is the type of information you expect to get out of a bunch of incarcerated terrorists who’ve been there for months, if not years?” Hawk asked.
“This won’t be about the kind of information we can get,” she said. “It’s going to be about the kind of information we can give.”
Hawk studied her closely but remained quiet.
“Let’s get out of here,” Alex said to Blunt. “Hawk and I have a plane to catch.”
CHAPTER 3
NOAH YOUNG CRACKED HIS KNUCKLES as he hovered over a report strewn across his desk. He could feel the sweat begin to bead on his forehead. Ever since President Michaels’s shocking death at Camp David a week ago, Young’s life had been a blur. He took center stage in the nation just two days ago, speaking at Michaels’s funeral. Young had struggled to find meaningful and honest words about his predecessor, but he cobbled together a eulogy that was sufficiently comforting and heart warming while remaining truthful. Yet the fourty-eight hours that separated the funeral and the present felt like a lifetime ago.
While Michaels’s funeral arrangements were being organized, there was a more pressing matter to the country: How to handle the election. The opposing party vehemently opposed a lengthy delay. Their candidate, James Peterson, had ginned up their voter base and was leading by a substantial margin in the polls. Michaels’s popularity had waned, but there was still strong public support for Young.
As a former war hero, Young possessed credentials that would force Peterson to answer questions which would’ve remained buried had Michaels been the opponent. Young flew fighter jets and served in the first Gulf War, while Peterson—Young’s elder by a couple decades—used his father’s senate connections to earn a draft deferment, not once but three times. Young passed bills that empowered the middle class, while Peterson amassed a fortune through his tech company. Nevertheless, Peterson utilized slick messaging and a prolific speaking schedule to hammer home his simple slogan: A New Era is Dawning.
Critics and foes alike mocked Peterson for his catchphrase, but it didn’t seem to matter to the masses. In a country where the word restless could describe the constant state of most voters, Peterson seized on this and further agitated citizens who considered themselves most likely to go to the polls. Peterson ditched conventional thinking in attempting to appeal to undecided voters as the election drew nigh, instead opting for a closing campaign that spoke to the concerns of the people who would be casting ballots. And Peterson was winning big.
Young agreed on the spot when his party’s leadership asked that he run. Despite Young not being the strongest possible candidate, every political expert acknowledged he would be the only person strong enough to halt Peterson’s momentum before the election. But it wouldn’t be an easy task in such a short amount of time.
The term “constitutional crisis” was used ad nauseam as news analysts discussed how Congress would handle the impending election. Would the election be rescheduled? If so, for how long? Or were there no provisions for a case such as a major party’s nominee sudden death in the short weeks before the first Tuesday in November? The questions bandied about were answered quickly amidst a bitter partisan debate in Congress. The compromise came in the form of a law allowing for a one-month delay in order to maintain the dates for the electoral college voting and the subsequent inauguration in January.
But flipping through the preliminary polling reports, Young couldn’t deny he needed help. Peterson’s massive head start meant Young needed a November surprise to prevent his opponent from surging ahead any further. And even that didn’t guarantee Young a fighting chance. Young despised wading into the dirty mire of politics, but he felt it couldn’t be helped. Peterson presented a dangerous change in direction for the country, one Young surmised would make the country more vulnerable in many areas—foreign influence and terrorism both perched at the top of that list. Young felt desperate. He hesitated to dial the number and make the call.
It’s for the good of the country.
The phone rang twice, and Young contemplated hanging up and claiming that he dialed by mistake. But as much as he hated what he was doing, his sense of duty held fast.
“I can’t believe you don’t have more important things to do,” J.D. Blunt said as he answered. “Aren’t there rallies for you to attend?”
“Michaels is barely in the ground,” Young said. “My advisors at least wanted to wait a week before I hit the campaign trail in earnest. Something about the optics of it all.”
“I guess they don’t realize the future of the republic is at stake,” Blunt said.
“You sound like a partisan hack.”
Blunt chuckled. “If the shoe fits . . . No, seriously, I just think Peterson could make us vulnerable to these terrorist pukes popping off bombs like they’re fireworks on the Fourth of July. I guaran-damn-tee you that he’ll eliminate Firestorm.”
“That’s why I called.”
“You’re not going to eliminate it, are you?”
“Of course not. But I need your help to make sure none of what we talked about happens. Firestorm needs to survive. And the only way that’s going to happen is if I become President.”
“Well, how can I be of service to you?”
Young sighed. “If things continue to hum along as they have, Peterson is going to win without attending another rally if he doesn’t want to. So I need some help, if you know what I mean.”
“I catch your drift. Big Peterson scandal in November would go a long way to squelching his momentum and casting you as the candidate the people should see you as—the champion for the every day American and a staunch warrior against terror. What more could any red-blooded citizen of this country ask for?”
“I’m hoping that’s enough because I don’t have the luxury of crafting some savvy slogan to woo voters. My message will be simple and straightforward: Peace and Prosperity for Generations to Come.”
“The country will rally behind that kind of campaign.”
“That’s what I’m hoping for, but I’m also not naïve enough
to think that Peterson is planning a takedown of me. He’s going to cast me as another extension of Michaels and trot out all the tired attacks.”
“At least Peterson doesn’t have time to dig too deep on you.”
“You know he won’t find anything.”
“I’ll make sure he won’t find this either. I’ve got some trusted contacts over at the NSA who feel likewise regarding Peterson. I’ll give them a call and find out what they can unearth on him.”
“Make it happen,” Young said. “And don’t contact me with any news about what you find. I want to at least have some plausible deniability.”
“I’ll keep you insulated from the whole ordeal. In fact, we were just speaking today about the election in general, and I was giving you advice as your friend, right?”
“Absolutely. Good luck, J.D.”
Young hung up the phone and shuddered about what he just put into motion. He buzzed his secretary to bring him a cup of coffee then wondered if he’d ever be able to put what he’d just done behind him.
CHAPTER 4
Guantanamo Bay, Cuba
THE JEEP SKIDDED TO A HALT just outside the infamous Camp Delta. Home to some of the most vile terrorists in the world, the detention facility appeared intimidating. Given the backdrop of the exquisite blue water rolling ashore from the Caribbean Sea, the prison sat in stark contrast to its surroundings.
Alex pressed her hand on top of her hat, which the wind threatened to rip away. Hawk offered to take one of the bags she’d lugged to the facility for their interview with Tabari Sharaf.
“For all the flack this place catches, it sure is beautiful,” Alex said as she scanned the area.
“I’d vacation here,” Hawk said. “Of course, this beach would be more scenic if this eye sore wasn’t here.”
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