“So, what can I do for you?”
“Meet me in Oman,” Hawk said. “I need you on site with me if we’re going to disable the weapon. This is one mission I can’t do on my own. I need your savvy tech skills to snuff out this threat.”
“And you’re sure that’s where the weapon is going?”
“I’d bet my life on it,” Hawk said.
“How exactly are we going to disarm it? Do you have a plan?”
“I’m still working on that, but I’ll have it all figured out by the time you get here.”
“Are you sure we’ll have enough time before Al Hasib starts using it?”
“I don’t know. But I do know we don’t have much time, so do whatever you can to get to Oman. I’ll send you the exact location for where we can meet up.”
“Be careful, Hawk.”
“You know me.”
Hawk hung up and continued on his route toward Um Qasr, a port city a stone’s throw from Kuwait. After stopping for gas in Basrah, Hawk purchased a first aid kit to clean up his face as well as a cell phone. He bandaged himself up before he called Thomas Colton to learn more about the best way to disarm the underwater weapon.
“Hello, Son—I mean, Brady,” Colton said as he answered the phone.
“It’s been long enough since you found out the truth. You need to stop calling me that.”
“Old habits die hard.”
“So does your habit of letting terrorists get their hands on your weapons.”
“And I’m hoping that you’ll be able to stop them. Is that what this call is about?”
Hawk sighed. “Sort of. I need to talk with one of your top technical experts to learn about the weapon’s vulnerabilities and what the best is way to shut it down.”
“Then you’d want to speak with Dr. Carl Morton, the head of our research and development team,” Colton said. “Carl conceived the design for the mine weapons system and will know if there are any easy ways to disarm it. Let me patch you through to him—and good luck.”
“Thanks,” Hawk said.
He waited as the line started ringing again.
“This is Dr. Morton.”
“Hello, Dr. Morton, this is Brady Hawk, and I’m the one who’s trying to retrieve your mining system that was stolen recently from Colton Industries by Al Hasib agents.”
“Nice to make your acquaintance on the phone, Mr. Hawk. I’ve heard plenty of stories about you.”
“Don’t believe everything you hear, Doc. But I didn’t call to chat about the exaggerated stories people tell about me. More to the point, I was wondering if you could walk me through how I could disable the device, especially if it’s something I can do from a fair distance.”
Morton sighed. “Unfortunately, if you want to disable the weapon, you’ll need to be on site to do it.”
“In other words, if it’s already underwater, I’m going to have to dive down to shut it off?”
“Precisely. I thought placing the kill switch on the torpedo launcher would be a good way to avoid the enemy being able to render it useless if they didn’t know where it was located.”
“You didn’t even consider what might happen if they decided to use it themselves?”
“I know, I know,” Morton said. “It was a huge error in judgment, but there’s nothing I can do about it in this particular situation.”
“You’re probably not aware of this, but Al Hasib intends to deploy the weapon in the Strait of Hormuz if they haven’t already, the shipping lane for more than seventeen million barrels of oil each day.”
“Oh, my. What have I done?”
“Listen, Doc. Anything useful you can tell me that would help me locate the device quickly would be helpful. The Strait of Hormuz is quite vast in size.”
“Well, there is one fail safe I included in the event that the currents moved the weapon and made it more difficult to find.”
“Go on.”
“On the operating console, there’s a button that will set off a homing beacon that will go off underwater. You should be able to hear it if you dive beneath the surface with any type of listening device.”
“What if I can’t get access to the console?” Hawk asked. “Trying to get access to the console is going to add another degree of difficulty to my mission that I’m just not sure I have time for.”
“It operates on a wireless signal,” Morton said. “If you’re savvy enough with a computer, you could potentially hack into the console and set off the homing beacon.”
“I know a person who can do that for me.”
“Good. Just tell me where to send the instructions for gaining access to the back end.”
Hawk gave Morton an email address.
“Now for the big question,” Hawk said. “How do I shut down the weapon once I locate it.”
Morton laughed nervously. “Believe it or not, that’s the easiest part. There’s a chip you can remove that would render the device inoperable. You certainly won’t be able to raise it to the surface without some heavy equipment.”
“Right now, we just want to stifle any threats. We’ll worry about salvaging anything later.”
“Fair enough. I’ll include a diagram of the launching mechanism and instructions on how to remove the chip in my email.”
“Thanks, Doc.”
“No, thank you, Hawk. I’m praying you’re successful in your endeavor.”
“Pray hard,” Hawk said. “This isn’t going to be easy.”
Hawk hung up and groaned softly. The mission had seemed challenging before, but the degree of difficulty just increased significantly upon learning the only way to shut down the weapon. The only thing that gave him a little bit of confidence was the fact that he had his Navy Seal training to rely on now.
If anyone could do this, Hawk could. And he knew it—but that was little solace given the consequences should he fail.
CHAPTER 21
Washington, D.C.
NOAH YOUNG ADJUSTED HIS TIE and took a sip of water before preparing to look over the speech handed to him by one of his writers. With the rumor mill run amok, Young felt the need to use what little power afforded to him as the fill-in president to get his message out, bypassing all the news filters. He wanted the voters to hear for themselves what was really important about the election. James Peterson was not going to direct the national conversation if Young had any say in it.
Blake Mayfield approached Young’s desk several minutes before the speech was set to air.
“You don’t have to do this,” Mayfield said. “We can come up with a reason why you had to postpone.”
Young looked up at Mayfield. “Do you still think this is a bad idea?”
“It’s not the worst idea I’ve ever heard of, but I don’t think you stand to gain much by going on television right now and trying to deflect. The people are going to want answers to the questions Peterson raised. And if you don’t answer them, they are going to draw their own conclusions. Letting people decide for themselves what actually happened is not the best move right now.”
“Peterson can raise all the questions he wants, but what voters really want are answers to the issues that affect their everyday lives. If they feel safe and secure, they’re going to have little to complain about. People with extra change in their pocket rarely raise an uproar.”
“And is that what you think the people care about?”
“That’s what every person from the beginning of time has cared about,” Young said. “It’s a universal truth.”
“In more recent times, people have also cared about whether or not their politician is honest. That’s why Peterson’s questions have to be addressed or else people are going to assume he’s right.”
“Sorry, Blake. You’re my campaign adviser, not my campaign nanny. And right now, I’m going to head off in a different direction on this issue. I usually agree with you, but not in this instance.”
“I’m pleading with you to do this. I don’t want to see your whole campaign
torpedoed over some insinuation that is patently false.”
Young shook his head. “I won’t do it.”
“Won’t? Or can’t?”
Young cleared his throat and glared at Mayfield. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to finish prepping for this speech.”
For the next ten minutes, Young read and re-read each line on the page. He wanted to keep his remarks brief in order to ensure that the entire clip was able to be shown on the news. He’d thought through everything, even as his campaign manager begged him to cancel the talk.
Young received a signal from one of the White House techs that they were ready to go live in thirty seconds. At ten seconds, a countdown began, and before Young could blink, he gazed at the camera and began.
“My fellow Americans, I come to you today not in an effort to defend myself from the reckless and baseless accusations hurled at me by another candidate, but instead to reassure your faith in the government and the plan in place that has been working for the last four years. President Michaels was beloved far and wide for his winsome personality, even if his policies weren’t always embraced by politicians on both sides of the aisle. Nevertheless, his vision for America was one that I share—and one that I think you share, too.
“Just like the late president, I have a dream to see America become safe and prosperous, a place where freedom in every sense of the word reigns supreme. And while some candidates might choose to use terrorism as a political football and attempt to score points with voters, I refuse to do that. Instead, I want to issue a challenge to our entire nation today, one that we must all embrace if we’re ever going to see the end of terrorism and end more senseless tragedy: Republicans, Democrats, Libertarians, and every other political stripe in between, let’s work together to create policies that deter terrorists and systems that help us catch those still emboldened enough to commit such an act against innocent Americans.
“In closing, I want to remind us all that as citizens of the greatest country in the world, we all have a duty to be the best we can be for the betterment of those around us. It is with that heart that I accepted the emergency nomination to allow the process of democracy to smoothly move forward in this nation. I do not chase power for power’s sake, but only for the chance to be a leader in healing the long-standing divisions we’ve endured and to encourage us all to find joint solutions. Thank you for your time.”
Young nodded at the camera and held his gaze until the camera man gave him the signal that the feed had been cut. With a long sigh, Young threw his head back against his chair and slumped. He closed his eyes and went over every word in his mind. All he could do was hope his intuition was right and that Mayfield’s suggestion was wrong.
“Good job, Mr. President,” Mayfield said.
Young opened his eyes and looked to his right at a scowling Mayfield.
“You’re saying one thing, but your face says something entirely different.”
Mayfield looked down at his feet. “I’ve got some bad news, quite damning actually, especially in light of what you just said about Peterson’s reckless and baseless accusations.”
“Out with it, Baker. You’re not writing a click-bait headline here.”
“I just received a call that The New York Times is running a story tomorrow about two men who supposedly conspired to remove President Michaels from office and that his death wasn’t really an accident as previously reported.”
“Who on earth is feeding them such garbage?” Young asked.
“The only silver lining in all of this is that you aren’t named or implicated in the article,” Mayfield said. “But I think it’s fair to say many people will draw their on conclusions about who those two men are and what role you played in it. After all, you were at Camp David when Michaels died.”
“What do you want, Baker? Would you like for me to take a polygraph test and prove to everyone that I’m not lying?”
“That’d be a start.”
Young glowered at Mayfield. “It’s a damn shame when your own campaign manager doesn’t trust you.”
“That’s my point, sir. If I don’t believe you, who will?”
“I have half a mind to fire you right now,” Young bellowed. “Now get out of here before I change my mind and actually go through with it.”
Young watched Mayfield scamper away. If there was one thing Young appreciated in his staff, it was people who weren’t afraid to challenge him. But Mayfield was pushing the limit on what was acceptable. His actions didn’t quite fit the definition of insubordination, but he was questioning the integrity of his candidate, which was something Young didn’t appreciate or have much patience for.
Mayfield stopped at the door and turned around. “One more thing, sir.”
“What is it?” Young said.
“I placed the latest poll numbers on your desk. With just over three weeks to go before Election Day, you’re now trailing by ten points nationally in the latest conglomerate poll.”
Young picked up the report and scanned it. His real crime was attempting to expose Peterson to the American people before it was too late. But nothing was working. He needed a political victory to stop the bleeding and possibly boost his support.
And he needed that win yesterday.
CHAPTER 22
BLUNT WATCHED A REPLAY of Noah Young’s comments to the nation on one of the cable news stations and shook his head. Despite Young’s attempt to squelch the scandal before it blew up, Blunt recognized the truth for what it was: a failed attempt to redirect the election toward issues. With a past full of successful campaigns, Blunt recognized long ago that nobody really cared about the issues. Winning an election was all about how people felt about you when they went to the polls. An apathetic feeling would doom a candidate just as much as a negative one would. And with less than a month before the election, independent and undecided voters had a good feeling about James Peterson and were anywhere from negative to on the fence when it came to Noah Young.
“I think I’m going to call it a night, maybe read some before I go to bed,” Blunt announced to the FBI agent charged with guarding him in the safe house.
But Blunt had other plans.
He went into his room and came out about fifteen minutes later.
“Is it me or is it hot in here?” Blunt asked as he trudged down the hall. “Can we turn the heat off?”
The agent turned around and glared at Blunt. “It’s only thirty-six degrees outside. Are you insane?”
“Maybe I’m just having hot flashes.”
“Are you going through menopause, too?”
“Watch it,” Blunt said. “Forget it. I’ll just crack my window.”
“You do that, Senator,” the agent said as he turned back around and refocused on the television.
Idiot.
Blunt strung together a couple of the bed sheets and tied one end off at the headboard post. He flung the rest of the sheets outside. With his cane in his mouth, he eased his way onto the ground. After shoving the sheets back inside, Blunt started for the road. He considered calling a car with Uber but decided that would be a fast way to get recaptured. If he could reach Young somehow, Blunt figured the president could help him at least wait out the pending legal matter until it was resolved. Anything but being holed up in an FBI safe house.
Blunt had almost reached the road when he heard one of the agents call after him.
“You’re not going to get very far, Senator,” the agent said.
“Then you’re going to have shoot me,” Blunt said as he continued walking toward the road.
The agent hustled across the yard toward Blunt, who picked up his pace. Just as the agent reached Blunt, he spun around and delivered a vicious blow with his cane that knocked the man off his feet. Blunt didn’t stop to revel in his direct hit, instead turning forward and continuing on.
The agent scrambled to his feet as another agent rushed outside to help his partner.
“This isn’t going to end well,” the agent sai
d.
Blunt threw his hand up in the air dismissively and kept walking.
“Okay, it’s your choice,” the agent said.
As he neared Blunt, the statesman whirled around with his cane only to have it met by a firm hand.
“I wasn’t born that long ago, but it wasn’t yesterday,” the agent said as he tightened his grip on Blunt’s cane and snatched it from his hand. “Now, come with us.”
The two agents led Blunt back into the house and ushered him onto the couch.
“Stay there while I call my supervisor,” one of the agents said as he slipped into the hallway.
After a conversation conducted in hushed tone, the agent returned to the room.
“I have good news for you, Senator. Justin Frazier is on his way over here and is going to speak with you about everything that’s going on.”
Blunt glared at the men. “Can I go to my room?”
The agents both looked at each other and chuckled. “I think you’ve lost that privilege for now. I’ll also be setting the alarm just in case you become hot again and get any ideas about opening your window.”
* * *
BLUNT WAS STILL SEATED on the couch with arms crossed when Justin Frazier entered the safe house. He lugged a small briefcase with him, hoisting it onto the kitchen table before saying a word. Flipping the latches with his thumbs, Frazier opened the case and pulled out a host of file folders, stacking them with precision.
“Well, J.D., you certainly know how to get what you want,” Frazier said.
Blunt grunted. “If that were the case, we wouldn’t be here talking right now.”
“I mean, you want to know what’s going on and the real reason behind why you’re here, so I’m going to tell you—sort of.”
“Sort of? What the hell kind of explanation is that going to be?”
“Come over here, and I’ll tell you.”
Blunt stood and lumbered over to the kitchen seat, pulling out a chair directly across from Frazier. The two men sat down, and Frazier took the first portfolio off the top and sifted through several papers.
“How long is this going to take?” Blunt asked.
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