Decoy Zero

by Jack Mars

  “León,” Penny answered quietly on the second ring.

  “It’s Zero. Maria’s here with me.”

  “I can’t really speak now,” Penny told them, “unless it’s an emergency. Shaw is watching the lab pretty closely…”

  “Penny, this is urgent,” Zero told her. “Listen, do you know the ILDN?”

  “The International Lightning Detection Network, based in New Mexico. Sure, I know it. They have hundreds of sensing stations around the world that send signals to satellites so they can determine the location of a lightning strike within seconds… son of a bitch.”

  “That’s what I said,” Zero agreed.

  “I don’t follow,” Maria admitted.

  “The plasma railgun emits a powerful electromagnetic burst.” Penny was speaking excitedly now. “More powerful than an average lightning strike, but not all that dissimilar of an energy signature. If the railgun’s emission was powerful enough to register on the ILDN’s network when it fired on the Navy ships, then their meteorological equipment could pick up on it.”

  “And we may have a way of tracking the weapon,” Zero concluded.

  “But wouldn’t that require them to use it again?” Maria asked.

  “Well… yes,” he admitted. “But even if it’s only once, we could pinpoint a precise location within seconds.”

  “And we, or someone, would have to be there,” Maria added.

  “Also yes,” Zero conceded, growing frustrated with the holes she was punching in his plan. “Look, I’ve got nothing better. Do you?”

  “Not really.”

  “Penny, do you think you can get ILDN on the phone? See if they picked up on the railgun’s signature in Oman and convince them to keep tabs on it?”

  “Sure,” the doctor said. “And if they deny me, I’ll just hack their system. That’s the easy part. The difficulty will be doing so while staying off of Shaw’s radar.”

  Zero shook his head. “To hell with Shaw. The worst he’ll discover is where we’re headed. The only thing that matters is finding the railgun.”

  “On it.” Penny ended the call.

  “Think this will work?” Maria asked.

  “Not sure.” First they had to get a plane. Then they had to get a hit. Which meant they actually needed the railgun to be fired again—and then to somehow stop it before it could lock onto its next target.

  CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

  Reidigger meandered through the camp at H-6, intentionally giving Zero and Maria some space. He felt terrible about telling her what had happened back at the pirate port, but he knew at the same time that Zero wasn’t going to. His friend had always been the first to rush into a fight, to lead the charge, to take the leap, but when it came to facing his own problems, his internal demons, he often seemed to find a way to put on blinders.

  He spotted a group of four soldiers sitting in lawn chairs under a canvas tarp, dealing cards on a shabby folding table. They were playing blackjack, it looked like, betting with miniature candy bars and cigarettes.

  This site wasn’t just a prison for those that needed to be forgotten. This was the kind of place that people went when they wanted to forget about the world around them.

  He wondered if he could ever settle in a place like this. Forget everyone else and all their problems. Just sit in the shade in the desert and play some cards.

  As bad as he felt about telling Maria the truth, there was a bigger looming concern weighing on his mind—more so even than Zero’s admission that he was losing memories.

  New things pop up from time to time.

  That’s what Zero had told him, and that’s what had Alan worried the most. Back when Zero’s memories had returned and he’d finally recognized the burly mechanic Mitch as his supposedly dead friend, Alan had had a minor moment of panic that Zero had in fact remembered everything.

  But no. Somehow one small detail had eluded Zero, even to this day; a detail of which Alan was painfully aware but hadn’t divulged to save his friend from the unnecessary pain that had inspired him to have the memory suppressor installed in his skull in the first place.

  Zero knew, or had known, that the CIA put the hit out on Katherine Lawson.

  He knew, back then, that the lethal dose of TTX that took her life had been administered by a CIA dark agent, a glorified assassin, just like Zero had been when he’d started his career.

  He did not know that the hitman was Oliver Brown, the man who went by the alias Agent John Watson, but neither did Alan at the time.

  Zero knew, that night on the Hohenzollern Bridge when he faked his own death, that there was no other way out than to let Alan Reidigger kill him. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t stop. Zero would have torn the CIA apart in search of his wife’s murderer, and very likely would have died in the process, leaving his girls orphaned.

  It was only through Alan’s discovery of the memory suppressor, stealing it from R&D, seeking out Dr. Guyer, and convincing Zero it was a better path than death that he was still alive. That either of them were still alive, if he was being honest, because Alan would have followed Zero to hell.

  He didn’t want to think that his motivations were out of cowardice or self-preservation, but they sure felt that way sometimes. It was a huge part of the reason that Alan had such ire for the agency, the bureaucracy of it all, the callousness of diluting someone’s life down to a rubber stamp on a classified file.

  Regardless, Zero hadn’t recovered that particular memory. It was as if his brain had filled in the blanks, had taken the pieces and created a patchwork memory, one that led him to believe a version of the story that was mostly the truth but falling just short enough to be a horrible lie.

  The fact that Reidigger knew it and had said nothing was an enormous betrayal of their friendship, and he felt it daily. That was why he would do whatever Zero needed of him, whatever was asked of him, and ask for nothing in return.

  But new things pop up from time to time.

  “Hey, man, you want to join us?”

  Reidigger snapped out of it to see one of the soldiers at the card table waving him over. His cheeks reddened as he realized that while deep in thought, it must have looked like he was staring idly at them.

  “Uh… no. No thanks. I’m good.” He waved to the soldiers and turned to head back toward Zero and Maria, but found Sergeant Flagg striding toward him.

  “You’re the pilot, right?” Flagg asked.

  “Uh… yeah. Mitch.”

  “Mitch.” Flagg grinned as he shook Alan’s hand. “Is that Agent Mitch?”

  “Just Mitch.”

  “Okay, Just Mitch. Some buddies of mine at an outpost in Algeria happen to have a decommissioned EA-6B they can lend. You know it?”

  Alan nodded. “A Northrop Grumman Prowler. Four-seat cabin. Max speed of six hundred and fifty miles an hour. That should do.” The Prowler was a twin-engine aircraft built for electronic warfare, jamming radar systems and gathering radio intelligence. But all they needed was for it to be flight-worthy.

  “You know your stuff,” Flagg said, impressed. “Can you fly it?”

  Alan shrugged a shoulder. “Probably. What’s the ETA?”

  “About forty minutes.”

  “All right, thanks.” Over Flagg’s shoulder, Reidigger saw Zero and Maria striding quickly in their direction. It was time, he supposed, to own up to squealing to Maria. “Excuse me, Sergeant.”

  Alan stepped past Flagg and met his teammates halfway, expecting to be hit by a diatribe of betrayal and hurt feelings.

  “We may have a lead,” Zero said excitedly.

  “Huh?”

  “We may have a way to get a lead,” Maria corrected.

  “The railgun’s discharge registered on a lightning detection network,” Zero told him quickly. “Penny’s working on trying to use it to track the energy signature the next time the weapon is used.”

  Alan frowned. “But that means it needs to be used again to pinpoint a location.”

  “That’s what I sa
id,” Maria muttered.

  “I know it sucks, but it’s all we’ve got,” Zero said firmly.

  “I think we should tell someone,” said Maria. “I know we’re disavowed, but we still have a responsibility.”

  “Tell who?” Alan asked. “The CIA?”

  “No way.” Zero shook his head. “They’ll get the military involved and throw everything they have at it. Boats, planes, missiles, and too many personnel. This thing already destroyed three of the most advanced ships the US Navy has to offer. It could sink an aircraft carrier and shoot planes out of the sky. If we want to avoid loss of life, we need to keep this small and tight.”

  “And we need to keep someone that’s not us in the loop,” Maria insisted. “Because this thing has to fire at least once. What if it fires twice before we can get to it? Or three times? There has to be a contingency.”

  “Maria’s right,” Alan conceded. But so was Zero; it couldn’t be the agency.

  “Rutledge.” Zero rubbed his chin and the thin stubble that had sprouted there. “We tell Rutledge. Have Penny deliver him a message securely, and only to him. I’m sure she can pull it off. Tell him we’re alive, well, and have the means to find this thing. But none of this will work if there are too many hands on deck, and we don’t need to give the railgun any more targets like they did in Oman.”

  Reidigger nodded. “If you think that’s the right play, and that he’ll listen, then let’s do it. Flagg’s got a plane for us inbound. As soon as it’s hear, we’ll take off and head north, toward the Mediterranean and the most likely targets as far as we can discern.” It wasn’t much, but it was a plan.

  “So I guess you’re not staying behind then,” Maria noted.

  “Not a chance,” Zero replied. And then to Alan, under his breath, he muttered, “Tattletale.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

  President Rutledge felt like a zombie, shuffling down the hall of the West Wing toward the White House master suite, the aptly named President’s Bedroom, capital P and capital B for all the pomp it was worth. It had always been funny to him how many people believed that the president slept in the Lincoln Bedroom, a guest suite on the second floor, made all the more amusing by the fact that not even Lincoln had slept in the Lincoln Bedroom.

  He chuckled to himself and then thought, I’m going delirious with exhaustion.

  As if the sleepless nights in the wake of the Ayatollah’s impending visit weren’t enough, it was now six in the morning EST and he still hadn’t caught a moment’s rest. The sun would be rising in another hour, and in three more, after the Ayatollah’s stopover at the UN, Rutledge would be expected to be greeting Iran’s leader fresh-faced and bushy-tailed—though by the looks of things it was going to be more like blotchy-faced and bedheaded.

  It was Tabby who had finally ushered him out of the Situation Room and off to catch a couple hours’ sleep. No one was any closer to finding the railgun. Fifty trillion dollars this country had out on the water and they couldn’t find one tiny boat. Despite being the President of the United States, alleged by many to be the most powerful man in the developed world, he felt utterly impotent. Even if someone found it, a ship or a drone or a plane or even Zero, his presence would be entirely unnecessary to do what needed to be done. He’d issued all the orders he could issue. Short of going out there himself to look for the damned thing, it was now little more than a fraught waiting game, one that he could only pray would end in finding the boat and the railgun and not another target being destroyed.

  Bed was the only place he was needed at the moment. Or so he told himself.

  He glanced over his shoulder at the pair of Secret Service agents trailing about ten paces behind him and casually waved them off. “G’night, Terrence. Phil.”

  “Good night, sir.” They took the hint and positioned themselves further down the corridor, though not out of sight. Rutledge had trouble sleeping knowing that anyone was right outside his door, regardless of their purpose.

  Once inside the bedroom, he tugged off his tie and kicked off his shoes. After peeling off his socks he decided that was as far as he was getting and collapsed onto the bed in his shirt and trousers. The First Lady was out of town, and for a moment he even forgot where Deidre had jetted off to this time, a fundraiser for one of the eight hundred or so charities she supported. He admired her work ethic. It was certainly better than his.

  “Dammit,” he muttered, his face pressed into a downy pillow. He’d forgotten to turn the lamp off, but the thought of getting up again was downright horrible.

  Screw it. It’s dark if I close my eyes.

  But before he could, the light flickered off on its own.

  “What the hell?” Rutledge sat bolt upright and looked out the window. The room was eerily dark—not because just his lamp had gone out. The electricity in the entire White House had gone out, throwing the grounds of the estate into shadow.

  Urgent voices shouted outside his room, growing distant. Rutledge froze. Was this an attack? Where were they going?

  Rutledge shimmied to the edge of the bed to stand.

  “Please stay seated, Mr. President.”

  The hairs on the back of his neck stood to attention. The voice was soft, female, and if he didn’t know any better, accented in proper British. It was strange how non-confrontational it sounded while still instilling abject fear in him that someone had managed to slip into the President’s Bedroom.

  Suddenly the lights came back on, his lamp and through the window, and Rutledge found himself blinking at a young woman. He’d never met her before, or at least didn’t believe he had. Her hair was a curly chestnut around her shoulders, framing her brown face. She wore jeans and a red Hard Rock Café T-shirt, looking not only completely casual but utterly out of place.

  “Who are you?” he managed, baffled by this random stranger appearing in his room.

  “Please keep your voice down,” she said. “My name is Dr. Penelope León. I’m with the CIA. I’m visiting you on behalf of Agent Zero, with whom I am still in contact.”

  “Zero! He’s alive?”

  “Very much so. Now please tell your people that you’re fine.”

  An instant later there was a brisk knock at the door. “Mr. President?”

  Rutledge hesitated, determining whether to hear her out or call for help. But if she was here and had spoken to Zero, perhaps she had news. “I’m fine, Terrence. What’s going on out there?”

  “Just a power outage, sir. Appears all of DC went out for about eight seconds. We’re back up now.”

  “Thank you, Terrence.” Rutledge waited until the footfalls retreated from the closed door. “All of DC?”

  The young woman, this Dr. León, shrugged one shoulder. “I have been accused in the past of having a flair for the dramatic.”

  “I’ll say. A phone call would have sufficed.”

  “No, sir, it wouldn’t. I was asked to personally and securely deliver a message to you, so that’s what I’m doing.”

  The president frowned. “Okay. What’s the message?”

  “Agent Zero and his team believe they have identified a way to track the railgun.”

  Rutledge leapt up from the bed, his heart surging in unison. “That’s incredible! How?”

  “I’m not going to tell you that.”

  “What? Why not?”

  “Because we believe it will risk more lives than it might save,” Dr. León said simply.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “The method of tracking requires that the railgun is fired at least once more…”

  “That’s preposterous!” Rutledge couldn’t help his outburst. “How is that saving lives?”

  “Because we believe that if you know how to locate it, you’ll throw everything you have in its path.” She explained it slowly, as if to a child, only adding to Rutledge’s frustration at being kept in the dark. “The weapon has already demonstrated immense destructive potential. We don’t need to give it more targets.”

&n
bsp; Rutledge’s chest swelled as he opted to pull rank. “I am the President of the United States, and I have more right to know than anyone—”

  “I’m aware,” the young woman told him, seeming bored with the trajectory of the conversation. “That doesn’t mean I’m going to tell you anything.”

  His cheeks reddened, his irritation at this alleged doctor who was allegedly with the CIA growing rapidly. With one shout he could have this room filled with Secret Service, have her arrested, detained, forced to tell them…

  “Do you trust him?”

  Rutledge blinked. “What?”

  “Agent Zero. Do you trust him? Do you believe that he can stop the perpetrators and the railgun, if given the opportunity to track it, even if that means that it must be used again?”

  “I…” Rutledge forced himself to calm. “Yes. I suppose I do.”

  “Then let him try.” Dr. Penelope León lifted her right hand and opened it, showing a small black remote control or fob of some sort. “And Mr. President? I hope we can keep this between us.”

  She pressed a button on the fob, and the lights instantly went out again. He saw a shadow flutter through the room. A few seconds later, the lamp turned on again, and again he heard harried shouts from outside the bedroom.

  “Sir?” Terrence called through the door.

  “Another outage, Terrence?” Rutledge tried to sound convincing. “Try to find out what’s going on, would you?”

  “Yes sir, I will.”

  What a strange young woman, he thought as he sat again on the edge of the bed. It made perfect sense, in a strange way, that she’d be an ally of Zero’s.

  But what she had asked of him was monumentally troubling—to stand by and do nothing even if the railgun’s location was discovered. Could he do that? It would be a flagrant neglect of his office, regardless if was Americans endangered or not.

  He made a resolution to himself. If Zero found the weapon first, Rutledge would not intervene. But if someone else did, he would have to act, regardless of what it might mean for Zero or anyone else.