by Jason Kasper
He watched his men pull a large yellow cylinder out of the water and examine the black wires extending from it.
“Hey, Cap,” one of his men called over the radio, as another held the object up toward Gary, “what’s this?”
He transmitted back, “Lithium net. Puts out an electric field that keeps the sharks away.”
“Got it. There’s four of them daisy-chained around the load.”
He’d seen those devices used by dive boats but never employed to safeguard a load. It was a smart enough idea, he supposed. These people had to have deep pockets anyway—that much was evident by the fish.
Gary wasn’t sure why the sight of marlin bothered him. He supposed it was their size—a full-grown swordfish was a sight to behold, but nothing compared to an adult female marlin. Their cobalt blue sides were visible even through the opaque plastic sheeting around them, with more than a few thousand-pounders in the lot. These were trophy-sized fish with the storage capacity to match, and given the number of them behind hauled up, Gary estimated he was about to be sitting on tens of millions’ worth of cocaine. Maybe even a hundred million or more.
Jesus, he thought, he’d smuggled drugs before but never anything of this magnitude. As soon as he made it to shore, his employers would be watching his every move from afar, making sure the marlin were loaded on the right truck. He hesitated to think what would become of him if there were any complications in the transfer.
Gary was startled by a man entering the cabin behind him—Jack Bowen, his first mate.
“Cap, I think we got a problem.”
“Oh?”
Jack nodded. “It’s the new kid you hired—Robbie. He’s getting spooked by the size of the load, says this wasn’t what he signed up for.”
“You think he’s a snitch?”
Jack shrugged. “If you have to ask, then he’s a snitch.”
“Goddammit.” Gary sighed. Robbie had seemed like a sharp kid, likeable from the first and a good personality match for the crew.
But sometimes you didn’t see a man’s real character until you saw him at sea.
“All right,” he said after a moment’s hesitation. “We gotta do it, I suppose.”
“Man overboard?”
Gary nodded. “We’ll call it in at sunrise tomorrow. He went out for watch eight hours ago while we were asleep, and we called the Coast Guard as soon as he was unaccounted for.”
“What about the investigation? They’ll have to come out on the ship.”
“If they’re filling out reports for a man overboard, they’re not looking at our fish.” He glanced over at Jack. “You need me to take care of it?”
“No, Cap, I’ll do it.”
“Good man. This kind of thing can be hard on a crew, so make sure everyone knows: Robbie’s share gets divided equally.”
“Sure thing.” Jack turned to leave, and Gary called out to stop him.
“You still got those four shark deterrent cylinders?”
“We do, Cap. We were going to throw them back in once the load is recovered.”
“Throw in Robbie instead. Toss some chum over the side to make sure there’s nothing left. I want it done before we leave—no sense in risking his remains near the search area. We’ll get rid of the shark cylinders later.”
41
I walked down the sidewalk amid light morning foot traffic, mentally reviewing the day ahead. I’d detected some unspoken pushback from Ian—he seemed to be patronizing my attempt to influence the events of tomorrow’s presidential visit, as if there were nothing we could do—but in all honesty, my theory was pretty simple. If local and national assets were able to successfully deal with the threat, then what was the harm in having my team mobilized to respond? None whatsoever. Just a little extra-legal planning for a rainy day that never arrived.
But if the threat went unchecked, if Ian was able to find some detail that everyone else missed—well, then the value of having our team ready to go was immeasurable.
I needed to get the lay of the land myself, to see Charlottesville and the surrounding area not through the lens of a happy hometown but as a tactical objective. I didn’t doubt Ian’s theory of a mobile rocket attack from I-64—but in the meantime, I wanted to put eyes on the main possible launch sites identified by my team. If we did have to raid one of those locations, there may be only minutes to come up with a hasty plan. I needed to see every possible location for myself.
And before that happened, I desperately needed one thing: coffee.
I pulled open the door to the coffeeshop, then entered the back of the line and checked my watch. I only had four minutes before Worthy was supposed to pick me up, serving as driver so I could take notes on the best assault options for each location.
Reaching the counter, I was in the process of ordering a large black coffee when I heard a woman speak behind me.
“Buy you a drink?”
My stomach lurched into my throat before I’d consciously registered why. The voice was polite, a little too firm, and far too familiar.
Turning around, I saw Duchess.
I flashed her a smile. “Why Duchess, I didn’t know you were in town. What a delightful surprise.”
She ordered tea for herself, paying the bill as I shot Worthy a text with the word ABORT. Then I glanced over my shoulder to try and spot him without alerting Duchess. She was far too cunning to buy into the notion of a social call, and there would be severe consequences if she learned what we were up to.
But I didn’t see him among the passersby outside, and so I quickly followed Duchess to a table with two seats. Only one chair faced the glass storefront, and I desperately needed it—if Worthy came strolling up to the door, as he would at any second, I was in a world of hurt.
Duchess made the first move for the chair facing the door.
I tried to cut her off.
“That’s my seat.”
She turned and said, “Really, David? Are you trying to play the rule that the PTSD-ridden veteran always gets the seat with a view of the door?”
“I wrote that rule, and yes. Or you could talk to the back of my head as I sit there and stare at it from the wrong side of the table. Your choice.”
She conceded after a brief pause, moving to the opposite side of the table and not a moment too soon.
As soon as she turned to face me, I saw Worthy appear through the storefront glass. I shot him a momentary head jerk—get out of here—and then pulled my chair back as Duchess turned to look through the window.
To his credit, Worthy’s gunfighter reaction speed must have applied to ducking out of sight as well—he was gone, the flow of pedestrians proceeding without interruption.
“You were saying?” I asked, taking a seat.
Duchess did the same, eyeing me with thinly veiled suspicion.
She said, “The security detail told me you didn’t accompany your family to Alexandria.”
“So?”
“So as concerned as you are for their safety, I’m curious why that would be.”
“Look, Duchess. I’m glad you’re confident in your theory about the hospital being a secondary target. But I’ve got enough skeletons in my closet to fill that hospital to capacity, and until I’m certain there’s no personal vendetta against me, I want to be as far from my family as humanly possible.”
“That’s not true.”
“It’s not?”
“If you wanted to be farther from them, you could head west. You didn’t. You chose to stay right here in Charlottesville. Why?”
I took a sip of scalding coffee. “The weather this time of year suits me. Now, to what do I owe the honor of your presence? I trust that the terrorist attack you identified was the president’s upcoming visit to Monticello.”
“It’s not your concern.”
“Really, Duchess? You’re trying to tell me that I don’t deserve any updates after all the shit my team went through in Syria?”
“No,” Duchess said flatly. “For that,
you deserve a debt of gratitude.”
I relaxed. “Well, thank you.”
“That’s why I take no pleasure in delivering this news, David.”
“What news? Did BK make it into the country?”
“The news that your team is officially disbanded.”
I felt a lump forming in my throat then, a stomach-churning sense of betrayal that robbed me of the ability to speak for five long seconds.
Finally I managed, “You’re honestly telling me you think we’re unfit to continue operating?”
“I think you’re perfectly capable,” she said, “but it wasn’t my decision.”
“Then whose was it?”
She closed her eyes for a moment before opening them and replying, “Someone who outranks us both by several orders of merit.”
“You have to fight this, Duchess. You have to get us reinstated.”
“I can’t,” she said, “because I’ve been given my notice as well. The only reason I’m still heading the project is because no one wants to disrupt continuity of staff leadership until the cargo is located. After that, you can bet the bank I’ll be reassigned to the mailroom and forced into retirement. Not exactly what I’ve been working for all these years.”
“For what, finding the cargo in the first place and then doing everything in your power to stop it?”
“We were both forced by circumstance to color outside the lines to do what we had to do. There are political consequences for that, whether deserved or not.”
“How long have you known about my team being disbanded?”
“Since you snatched the logistician. What happened to him, anyway?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“Try me,” she said firmly.
I rubbed a hand across the back of my neck. “Unbeknownst to me at the time, one of our local guides had his family killed by ISIS. He had a hidden pistol and blew away the logistician when he found out we were trying to take him alive. Okay?”
“Okay,” Duchess said. “I believe you, David.”
“Did you recover any other intel from the command post, or locate the cargo yet? Or find a lead on Bari Khan?”
She said nothing, and I gave her a knowing nod.
“Well there’s my answer,” I said, understanding from her tense silence that they hadn’t made much if any progress. “And since we’re both coming clean, shoot me straight: the target you’re anticipating is Monticello during the president’s visit tomorrow. Right or wrong?”
“You didn’t need to know that when you were under Agency employment. What makes you think that’s changed now that you’re not?”
“Because my wife and daughter were mentioned by name, that’s why. If that weren’t the case, I’d be drinking bourbon with this coffee. But I can’t exactly relax when I still don’t know how their names ended up in Syria.”
“Speaking off the record,” she began, taking a moment to examine her cup, “the last update I provided you on this situation remains the current assessment. Furthermore, I feel compelled to remind you that your team had no authorities to operate in the US, even in the capacity of collecting passive intelligence. Now that you’re disbanded, that holds doubly true.”
“I know that.”
“And the consequences for any infraction will result in imprisonment. I’m not talking about a minimum-security camp, David. Due to the nature of your former employment, you and your men would proceed directly to Supermax or a black site following a closed trial.”
Waving a hand around the room, I asked, “Do you see my team anywhere? Am I running around with a knife between my teeth, looking for BK? Does anything in our past indicate that I’d be eager to leave my family behind? I was getting a cup of coffee. Besides,” I added, “if there’s anything I could possibly contribute to all the federal agencies working to stop this plan, I’m all ears.”
Duchess’s face abruptly went slack, her eyes wide and fixed on mine. I’d seen her pull this move before, and it never got more comfortable to watch.
I took another sip of coffee and set my cup between us. “Look, can you stop doing your human lie detector scan-for-signs-of-deception thing? It’s creepy. Your face looks creepy. Just talk to me like a human being.”
She relaxed a bit then, and I continued, “Why doesn’t the president just cancel the visit? Just cancel the stupid visit.”
“Well unfortunately I wasn’t consulted, and someone significantly higher in the food chain hasn’t had any better luck despite his best efforts. But honestly, it may be a good thing this visit is still on.”
“Yeah? How’s that?”
“If they cancel the president’s trip, BK could turn those rockets on any densely populated civilian area in the country. None of them except DC and Charlottesville have the advantage of Secret Service oversight. Where the president goes, his security follows...so an attempted attack here is the best chance of stopping BK and his rockets.”
“That’s one kind of logic, I suppose.” Then I assumed a thoughtful expression. “You know, I was thinking about how BK would pull this off.”
“Oh? And what did you conclude?”
I shrugged nonchalantly, eager to claim Ian’s theory as my own. He wouldn’t mind, I thought, and precious rare were the opportunities to outfox Duchess. “I’m no intel guy or anything. But it seems to me that the smart play would be to set up a mobile launch system in the back of a semi-trailer. Drive to a pre-planned spot on I-64, drop the side of the trailer, and launch it all in one volley.”
“That’s a good theory.”
“What can I say, every once in a while even a knuckle-dragger comes up with something smart.”
“Well, in this case the ‘something smart’ occurred to the Secret Service long ago. Precautions are being taken.”
“Precautions as in special sensors, air defense capability, or an interstate shut-down?”
“Precautions,” she said, “as in, you don’t need to know.”
Her comment should have upset me, but it didn’t—instead, I was met with a long-overdue realization.
For some reason, it took until that exact moment in the conversation for me to register the obvious: my team had our Agency-issued weapons and equipment on hand, and the second Duchess discovered they were missing from the ISOFAC, we may as well drive ourselves to the nearest police station and wait for the proverbial black helicopters to come and take us away.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“Yeah,” I said, “I guess this whole being fired thing is just starting to sink in.”
Her expression fell from stern to sympathetic, and I added, “Wife will be happy about it, at least.” Waiting a beat for good measure, I continued, “I suppose I’ll just head down to collect my team’s personal effects from the ISOFAC.”
“The codes were changed the second your team left,” she swiftly replied. “I’ll have the cleanout team inventory all personal effects and forward them to your men.”
A balloon of panic rose from my stomach.
But I nodded amicably, knowing full well that to do otherwise would be to cause that cleanout team to arrive sooner rather than later. Duchess had her hands full at present; she’d outright admitted that she was only in command of Project Longwing because the rockets hadn’t yet been located, and I expected her administrative duties—with transitioning the ISOFAC to its next occupants chief among them—would proceed immediately after July third came and went, with or without a terrorist attack to show for it.
Now we were fugitives whether the Agency realized it or not, and I’d placed my team yet again in danger, albeit of a very different sort.
So I merely thanked her, adding for good measure, “I appreciate you coming down to tell me in person, Duchess. That means a lot.”
She smiled at that—or was it a sneer?
“You don’t have to thank me, David.” Her face went slack again as she continued with an edge in her tone, “It was the least I could do.”
Ross Sidor accelerated his Subaru WRX up the fast lane of I-95, scanning for speed traps in the trees to his left.
Looking forward, he saw a minivan abruptly change lanes in front of him, and slammed on his brakes to avoid hitting it.
From the passenger seat, Stephanie said, “Jesus, babe, watch out.”
Ross said nothing, directing his energies instead to trying not to explode into a screaming fit of profanity at the minivan driver who trundled along, completely oblivious to the outside world.
That driver had suddenly changed lanes in an attempt to overtake a semi; but upon blocking the fast lane to all progress by sentient drivers with an eye for punctuality, he or she had since forgotten to accelerate.
Now both lanes were blocked, and Ross was in ever-increasing danger of failing to deliver Stephanie to her wedding rehearsal on time.
Of course, it was technically his rehearsal, too. But the entire wedding process, he’d learned, really had nothing to do with the groom. Aside from offering a few trite opinions on the decorations, attire, and reception menu options, his role was largely relegated to showing up.
And, of course, getting them both to the church in time for the rehearsal.
That minor detail was currently his chief concern. Having been unable to knock off work completely, he’d been relegated to packing the car in advance, then squeezing out as soon as he could to set out northward to Stephanie’s hometown.
Now he was barreling up I-95, fighting his way through traffic to reach Northside Church in time for their latest possible rehearsal slot at five.
With the obstinate minivan driver refusing to apply a few pounds of pressure to the gas pedal, Ross whipped into the slow lane and tailgated the truck instead. He hoped the semi driver would take mercy on him, accelerate by just a few miles an hour to create a gap big enough for him to exploit, but the big truck ambled along on cruise control that, by Ross’s estimation, appeared to be set exactly at the speed limit.
He tailed the minivan again, then the semi, mentally pleading with either or both of them to hurry the hell up and let him pass.
