Decoy Zero

by Jack Mars

  He thought about it for a moment, and then said, “Put on a jacket.”

  She retrieved her coat and followed him out onto their small balcony, barely large enough for two chairs and a small glass table between them. But they didn’t sit; her dad shut the glass door behind them and leaned against the railing.

  Maya buttoned up her jacket against the chilly winter air and folded her arms. “Spill it.”

  “I’ve been looking for someone,” he told her, keeping his voice just low enough for her to hear. “An agent, or someone that used to be one about five years ago or so. Named Connor.”

  “First name or last name?” Maya asked.

  He shrugged. “No idea. He might be dead. And if he’s not, he’s been hidden very well.”

  She frowned, wondering why her dad would be looking for a presumably dead agent. “What do you need from him?”

  Her dad took an annoyingly long pull from the bottle and then murmured something under his breath. Maya couldn’t quite make it out, but it almost sounded like he said “paperwork.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” he told her. “I can’t really tell you. It’s a… work thing.”

  “I get it.” But from his demeanor, and the fact that he wasn’t currently out there with CIA resources conducting a full-scale manhunt for this guy, she surmised that it was not at all a work thing. “And you’re telling me this out here on the balcony in the frigid cold because…?”

  He didn’t say anything in response, but instead shot her a flat look. It took her a moment to interpret it, but when she did her stomach turned.

  “Oh my god, you don’t actually think…?” She stopped herself from actually saying it aloud. He thought their apartment might be bugged in some way.

  “I don’t know for sure. Alan did a couple of sweeps, but they tend to get creative.”

  Maya shook her head in disgust at the thought that everything she said, possibly everything she did—not to mention that of her little sister—was being recorded to some CIA database somewhere. She’d once had a tracking chip implanted just under her skin, and the thought that her whereabouts were always known was creepy enough.

  But to actually be watched… it brought back the memory of those three teenage boys at West Point, hiding in a locker room, waiting for her to come out of the shower so they could attack her. Who knew how long they’d been there, what they’d seen…?

  She pushed the thought out of her head forcefully. Her dad knew the bare minimum about what had happened and she was not about to rehash it now. It was her problem to deal with, just like he had his.

  “What do you plan to do next?” she asked.

  He waved a hand dismissively. “There’s a doctor, or there might be, who knows him. Or knew him. Don’t know yet. I’m waiting on some info from Reidigger.” He smiled over his shoulder at her. “Come on, let’s go back in.”

  “Hold up. If you’re not supposed to talk about it, why are you telling me all this?”

  He stared at her for a moment, long enough for her to think that he wasn’t sure of the answer either.

  “Because,” he said at last, “when I’m frustrated, talking to you makes me less frustrated.”

  He gave her shoulder a squeeze and they headed back inside, just in time to find Sara closing the front door behind her. She pulled off her wool cap, her nose and cheeks reddened and chapped from the wintry air.

  Sara took one look at their dad and nodded once. “So pizza for dinner, then?”

  He threw both hands up. “Am I really that predictable?”

  Maya grinned—but then she noticed that there was something about Sara that didn’t feel quite right. She moved stiffly, and it seemed like it was from more than just the cold. Even after pulling off her parka, her younger sister kept her elbows tucked close, almost defensively.

  “You okay?” Maya asked.

  Sara sniffed. “Yeah. Just, you know, my usual bullshit.”

  “Language,” her dad called from the kitchen. And then, “Yes, I’d like two large pies…”

  “I’m good,” Sara assured her as she headed toward their shared bedroom.

  Maya didn’t believe it, but she knew it wasn’t her place to ask. They all had their problems, and they all dealt with them in their own ways. For a family that had promised each other honesty, they seemed to keep a lot of secrets. But it wasn’t a matter of dishonesty; it was a matter of independence, of being responsible for themselves.

  It also, admittedly, got pretty lonely sometimes.

  But maybe it doesn’t have to be. She thought about this missing Connor person. There had to be a way to find the guy… maybe even a way that someone as smart as her could figure out. Maybe something that she could do for her dad to show him, instead of just telling him, that he didn’t always have to be alone with his problems.

  If only she could learn to take her own advice.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  President Jonathan Rutledge eased back on a striped sofa in the Oval Office, slipped his feet from his loafers, and propped both heels up on the polished coffee table before him. He was fairly certain that the sofa, one of two that were perpendicular to the executive desk, had not been there yesterday, but he couldn’t be sure. Usually the room was so abuzz with activity, advisors and joint chiefs and administrators scurrying here and there, that the furniture became more of a backdrop than décor. Compounded by that was his wife, Deidre, who had tasked herself with “helping” the White House design team to redecorate every room once a week, or so it felt to him.

  It was a nice sofa. He hoped it stuck around the office for a while.

  Rutledge had nearly gone the way of the furniture last November. Just a few short months ago he’d been seriously considering resigning from the office of the presidency, deeming himself unfit for the job. He’d been promoted from Speaker of the House straight up to the top of the ladder by virtue of his predecessors’ immense scandal with Russia, and it had taken some time for him to become accustomed to the position, the powers it granted, and the responsibility it required.

  But that was behind him. He’d made the decision to remain in office, and then he’d named California Senator Joanna Barkley as his vice president. She was doing a stellar job so far. Their approval rating was sky-high; Rutledge was even polling well among conservatives. There had been a very minor setback for a couple of days in mid-December when he’d made the grievous error of dyeing his hair to its original chestnut brown. He’d only done it because the gray streaks had been bothering him, not for vanity or to look youthful but to preserve his own self-confidence. Yet for a solid two and a half days the media pundits couldn’t help but gabble over what Rutledge was trying to prove. Apparently dyeing one’s hair had not found its way into the big book of unwritten presidential laws. Like those before him, he was expected to age either in a distinguished way or terribly.

  This was one of those very rare moments in which he was alone, and he was enjoying it with his jacket hanging and his black-socked feet up on the table. Of course he was never truly alone; there were cameras on him and at least two Secret Service members posted just outside the office doors. But it was enough, and he’d take the little moments when he could—because they were so few and far between, barely filling the cracks between the much bigger moments like mortar between bricks.

  The US’s relationship with Russia had been on a tightrope for a couple of years now, even before Rutledge’s time as POTUS. And now China too was on the wrong side of things. The trade war had ended and the Chinese government was playing nice, but only because Rutledge himself had threatened to leak the entire ordeal of the ultrasonic weapon and the identities of the commandos sent with it. There was a truce currently, but one that was fragile as glass and could shatter the moment the Chinese saw an opportunity.

  Yet something had to give. Rutledge knew it, and even had an idea, but it was Barkley who made him believe it could be done. She had a way about her of taking immense, seemingly impossible
problems and turning them into several-step solutions. She would have been a great mathematician, he mused; to her every problem broke down into the simplest components.

  The goal, simply put, was peace in the Middle East. And not just between the United States and each member country, but between all countries as well. It was farfetched, to be sure, but any step that could be taken would be one in the right direction.

  And after two months of meetings, of planning, of hoping and of hearing out naysayers, of strategizing and ingratiating, of speech-writing and nightmare-having, it was happening.

  “Tomorrow, the Ayatollah of Iran is coming to Washington.”

  He said it aloud, just to himself in the otherwise empty Oval Office, as if daring someone to burst in and contradict him. But it was true; the supreme leader of Iran, a man who once publicly vowed that he would never capitulate to the United States, a man who had demonized the entire country, was due to arrive the following day—first to visit the UN building in New York, where a treaty was currently undergoing a last-minute review. And then the Ayatollah would travel to Washington, DC, to meet with Rutledge to sign the mutually beneficial treaty that would ensure not only peace between them but promised aid to the Ayatollah’s people, and (in a perfect world) help to alleviate Islamic xenophobia stateside.

  Rutledge was nervous, but cautiously optimistic. If the Ayatollah agreed to the terms of the treaty, it not only would make history but would also become the pace car for other Islamic nations to follow suit.

  Or most of them, he thought bitterly. Barkley had spared no detail briefing him on her recent trip to Saudi Arabia for the late king’s funeral and the ensuing demands of the prince—or rather, new king. Already US troops were leaving command posts and pulling back to neighboring nations. The embassies were being emptied. Rutledge had boots on the ground over there that were trying to keep it under wraps from the American public as much as possible, but that was an insurmountable task; rumors swirled and reports came out of Saudi Arabia through other outlets.

  Eventually they would fully address the currently fragile state of things between Iran, Saudi Arabia, and the US. Sooner than later there would be action plans and press conferences.

  Eventually. But it would have to wait until after the Iranian leader’s visit. He’d spent too long making this single visit possible.

  A brisk knock on the door not only shook him from his thoughts but startled him enough that he yanked his feet from the coffee table and sat up straight, as if his own mother was about to catch him with his feet on the furniture.

  “Mr. President?”

  He cleared his throat. “Yes, come in, Tabby.”

  The left door of the cream-colored pair opened just enough for Tabitha Halpern to stick her bob-length head of auburn hair in. “I’m sorry sir, but you’re needed right away in—”

  “Let me guess.” Rutledge rubbed his forehead. “The Situation Room.”

  The White House Chief of Staff frowned. “Did someone call?”

  “No, Tabby. Just an educated guess.” He reached for his shoes. “One week. Just one week I’d like to go without a crisis. Wouldn’t that be something?”

  *

  The John F. Kennedy Conference Room was located in the basement of the West Wing, a five-thousand-square-foot center most commonly called the Situation Room—and fittingly, since the only reason President Rutledge ever had to step foot in it was when there was a situation.

  And there’s always a situation, it seems.

  Two Secret Service agents led the way with another pair behind him, while Tabby Halpern strode double-time on her five-foot-four frame to keep pace while reading from a single-sheet briefing she’d received just moments ago. It was something about South Korea and a stolen ship; Rutledge was still fairly lost in his own thoughts.

  Please don’t be a catastrophe. Not on the eve of such a historic visit.

  Already present around the polished conference table were the usual suspects and familiar faces—most of them, anyway. Secretary of Defense Colin Kressley stood before his chair beside the Director of National Intelligence, David Barren. Across from them was CIA Director Edward Shaw, a man who moved as if his spine was made of steel and his mouth existed only to grimace. The two men on either side of Shaw were unknowns.

  Vice President Barkley was not in attendance, he noted, though protocol generally dictated that her presence was optional for meetings such as this one, depending on the nature of the situation and whatever she had her hands in at the time.

  “Gentlemen,” Rutledge greeted as he and Tabby swept into the room. “Please, have a seat. I don’t think I need to remind any of you what tomorrow is or how important this visit could be. Someone please tell me this is either a security briefing or a surprise party.”

  No one so much as cracked a smile; if anything, Director Shaw’s frown deepened. Rutledge reminded himself to stifle his generally cavalier demeanor while in a room designed to deal with disasters.

  “Mr. President,” said General Kressley’s gruff baritone. “Two days ago, at approximately seventeen hundred hours Eastern Standard Time, a satellite over the North Pacific Ocean detected a very brief, very powerful energy spike a little more than three hundred miles southeast of Japan.”

  The president furrowed his brow. He had only been half-listening to Tabby en route to the Situation Room, but she had mentioned a missing ship.

  “At the time, the energy spike was written off as a powerful surge of lightning or potentially an explosion from a geothermal pocket,” Kressley continued. “But we now have reason to believe that it was something else entirely…”

  “Excuse me, General,” Rutledge interrupted with a raised hand. “The briefing said that South Korea was missing a boat. If there’s a point to this energy spike thing, can we get to it faster?”

  Kressley stiffened a moment, but nodded to Director Shaw.

  “Sir.” Shaw folded his hands upon the table, a strange habit that Rutledge noticed whenever the former NSA director spoke. “Less than thirty minutes ago, the South Korean government shared a classified internal dossier with the Central Intelligence Agency. If what they are saying is true, they have developed a very powerful weapon and mounted it upon a small stealth ship. During the weapon’s initial test on the Pacific Ocean—the energy surge that the Secretary of Defense was just describing—the ship was attacked. The crew was entirely killed. The ship and the weapon were stolen.”

  A hiss of breath escaped Rutledge’s throat, matching the feeling of deflation he was suddenly feeling. There was a lot of information to digest in a very short amount of time.

  “This weapon.” Rutledge’s voice was low but still carried in the otherwise silent room. “This weapon was developed in secrecy?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “And tested in secrecy.”

  “That is correct, sir.”

  “And the South Koreans waited two full days to tell us that it was stolen.” Rutledge just needed to confirm that all he had heard about his so-called allies on the Korean peninsula was accurate.

  “Affirmative, Mr. President.” Shaw paused for a moment before adding, “It seems they were initially optimistic about their chances of recovering it. But now they’re asking for our aid in the matter.”

  Rutledge gritted his teeth. This was worse than he could have imagined. Not only did someone out there have their hands on whatever this weapon was, but it was not a good look for alliances to break down while trying to create a new one.

  “What’s the weapon?” he asked.

  “For that,” Shaw said, “I will defer to Dr. Michael Rodrigo.” He gestured to the man on his left, easily the youngest in the room at not a day over forty. “Our top advanced weapons technology expert, and head of R&D for the US Navy.”

  “Thank you, Mr. President,” Dr. Rodrigo said hastily. “It is an honor to be here and to consult on this matter for you—”

  “What’s the weapon?” Rutledge asked again.

  The d
octor adjusted his tie. “Well, sir, if the dossier from South Korea is legitimate, then they have created a plasma railgun.”

  Rutledge blinked. He’d heard the term “railgun” before, and knew that the Navy had some working model of one somewhere, but still it sounded like something out of a science fiction movie. “A what?”

  “A plasma railgun,” the doctor repeated. “To be frank, up until now this type of weapon has been purely theoretical. In fact, it would be difficult to fully believe its existence until the missing ship is found—”

  “Or until the weapon is used,” Kressley grunted.

  “Well… yes,” the doctor agreed. “Suffice it to say that the railgun is a projectile weapon with the capacity to destroy any single target from a few hundred miles away.”

  “A projectile? Like a missile?” Rutledge asked.

  “No, sir. Missiles can be scrambled, shot down. Missiles can be seen coming. I’ve already examined the Korean schematic; this weapon would fire a plasma projectile at several times the speed of sound. There is no defense for this, other than something getting in its way.”

  President Rutledge squeezed his eyes shut, feeling a headache coming on. “You say that South Korea has been searching for two days. Do they have any leads on the ship’s whereabouts?”

  Shaw shook his head. “None, sir.”

  “None. Perfect.” Rutledge scoffed. “With all of our satellites, how difficult could it be to find one boat in the ocean?”

  “With all due respect,” said Dr. Rodrigo, “very difficult. This ship has some of the most advanced stealth capabilities I’ve ever seen. We can’t forget that our own military shares information and resources with the South Koreans, and that they have the tenth-largest military budget in the world—”

  Rutledge abruptly held up a hand and the doctor fell silent. “Do they at least know who took it?”

  No one spoke. Director Shaw stared at his folded hands. DNI Barren adjusted a cufflink. At last it was Tabby Halpern who said it, hesitant as she was.

  “They do, sir. A Navy vessel in the South China Sea spotted a boat passing by several hours before the energy surge. No one thought anything of it at the time, but they snapped a few photos. Imaging has traced the boat’s origin to a home port in Mogadishu.”