Independence Day: A Dewey Andreas Novel

by Ben Coes

  98

  NATIONAL ARCHIVES

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Katie Foxx was seated on the floor, against a filing cabinet. Tacoma was several feet away from her, also on the floor. Both were reading through the files.

  Each file in the room detailed CIA agents, case officers, paramilitary, and nonofficial covers who, in the Agency’s mind, merited termination. There was no single cause, but there were recurring themes. Treason was the main one. A close second was nonsanctioned murder.

  Files were stacked up in piles.

  “I have something,” Katie said.

  In her hand was a small stack of paper, yellowed and fraying at the edges.

  * * *

  LOS ALAMOS NATIONAL LABORATORY

  MEMORANDUM

  FROM:

  H. Agnew

  TO:

  N. Bradbury

  SUBJECT:

  IMPLICATIONS OF A. VARGARIN THEORY

  DATE:

  September 10, 1982

  Norb—I was able to meet with Anuslav Vargarin in Vienna, where we were both attending the conference. As you said, he is a most charming man. We spent most of our time talking about wine!

  However, he mentioned something that, if true, would be significant. Dr. Vargarin stated that he and some colleagues have been experimenting with various divalents as adjunct to nuclear moderation and reflection. He would not say which ones, though, as you and I both agree, Z seems to show the most promise. While most of this was chitchat, as we were of course being watched, Dr. Vargarin stated something I should pass on. He said, “We have now succeeded in three successive tests.”

  The implications of this are clear: if the Soviets are able to predictably moderate fast neutrons in a lab setting using Z (or other), it would mean the Soviets could double the scalability of their HEU and thus double the size of their nuclear stockpiles in a matter of months.

  Let me know what, if anything, you want me to do.

  Harry

  * * *

  “What is it?”

  “Cloud’s father was a scientist who developed a formula,” said Katie. “It’s all about his dad’s formula.”

  She stood up and dialed her cell.

  “I must be missing something,” said Tacoma. “So fucking what?”

  Katie listened to Calibrisi’s phone ringing.

  “It’s a formula for how to convert one nuclear device into two.”

  99

  PRESS OFFICE

  THE WHITE HOUSE

  J. P. Dellenbaugh poked his head inside the small, cluttered office of John Schmidt, his communications director, the person charged with managing the unruly group of reporters that constituted the White House press corps.

  Schmidt, at 11:38 P.M., had just taken a large bite of a steak and cheese sub as he watched, eyes scanning left to right, six television screens on the wall of his office, all showing the same images: live video, taken from news choppers, of the chaotic scene in Boston. The harbor was awash in the blue and red lights of police boats, Coast Guard cutters, and a pair of Navy destroyers.

  The voice of Dan Harris from ABC News was turned up.

  “You’re watching live feed from Boston,” said Harris, “which ABC News can now confirm was the site of attempted terror strike. Less than two hours ago, law enforcement—acting on a tip—discovered something near the Boston waterfront. We have been unable to determine who was behind the attempt, or what was found, but we do know that several vessels have departed the harbor in the last hour.”

  “Hey, John,” whispered Dellenbaugh. “You need a shovel for that?”

  Schmidt nearly coughed up the bite of steak and cheese.

  “If you have a coronary before reelection, I’m going to kill you,” added Dellenbaugh.

  Schmidt finished chewing. He took a quick swig of Diet Coke and then turned, slightly embarrassed, to Dellenbaugh.

  “John, I apologize,” added Dellenbaugh, before Schmidt could get in a word, “I didn’t realize you were having a Diet Coke. That should cancel out any unhealthy effects from the steak and cheese.”

  Schmidt burst into laughter, then was joined by the president.

  “I didn’t eat dinner,” said Schmidt.

  Dellenbaugh’s attention was grabbed by one of the plasma screens, which showed a lit-up stretch of coast. It was surrounded by military vehicles, ambulances, police cars, and hundreds of people, most armed and wearing uniforms or tactical gear.

  “You are looking at an aerial view of Revere, Massachusetts,” said Harris. “This is as close as we are allowed to get. As you can see, various law enforcement agencies as well as military are now clearly in control of what was apparently to have been a strike, by terrorists, on Boston. There are still many questions.”

  Dellenbaugh and Schmidt stared at the screen in silence.

  “Thank God, sir,” said Schmidt, looking at Dellenbaugh.

  Dellenbaugh put his hand on Schmidt’s shoulder.

  “I was just thinking the same thing.”

  “Do you want me to write up some quick remarks for the press conference, Mr. President?”

  “No,” said Dellenbaugh. “I know what I’m going to say.”

  Schmidt pressed his phone. The speaker came on.

  “Get them seated and quiet, Joanne,” said Schmidt to Joanne Hildebrand, his deputy.

  In the background, the live news report continued.

  “We’re waiting for a statement by the president of the United States,” said Harris, “who we’re told was very much personally involved in the government’s response to the terror plot. And, I’m told, we’re going there right now. Ladies and gentlemen, we take you to the White House, where President J. P. Dellenbaugh is going to address the nation.”

  100

  EVOLUTION TOWER

  MOSCOW

  Dewey stood—dropping the rifle—and charged, yanking the handgun from his chest holster. He sprinted toward the concrete piling, gun out, then came around it, acquiring Cloud in the muzzle’s fire zone.

  His eyes shot to Malnikov, lying on the ground. The left side of his chest was drenched in blood.

  Cloud was facedown.

  Dewey scanned for his gun. It was on the ground next to his head. With his sidearm trained on the back of Cloud’s head, Dewey stepped forward and kicked it out of reach.

  He put his foot beneath Cloud and flipped him over. His eyes were open. His right leg looked badly damaged. His hip was worse. A small chunk was missing, the slug from the anti-materiél rifle having blown it off.

  Dewey looked back at Malnikov.

  “You gonna make it?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” said Malnikov, as he struggled to climb to his feet.

  Dewey’s eyes moved back to Cloud. Without shifting his gaze, he dialed his cell. A moment later, a female voice came on the line.

  “Name?”

  “Andreas, Dewey.”

  “Flag?”

  “NOC 2294-6.”

  “Go.”

  “I need Calibrisi. Crisis Priority.”

  “Protocol?”

  “Dayton.”

  “Hold.”

  Dewey heard a series of clicks, then Calibrisi came on the line.

  “Where the hell are you?”

  “We have him, Hector. What do you need to know?”

  “We found the bomb,” said Calibrisi. “We stopped it. It’s been disarmed.”

  Dewey was silent for several seconds.

  “You should know, it was Katya who provided the intel.”

  “Where was it?”

  “Boston.”

  Dewey’s eyes moved from Cloud’s eyes to his hip. He’d seen injuries on the battlefield and had long ago been hardened by those horrible sights. But even with that knowledge, the sight of it was gruesome. The dull white of bone was visible within the blood. Tendrils of skin and parts dangled down to the concrete, now awash in blood.

  Cloud stared up at Dewey. He said nothing.

  He was the oppo
site of the sort of person Dewey expected. He didn’t look angry or mean. He looked frail, intelligent, curious, above all innocent. Perhaps, at one time in his life, he had been. But something destroyed it.

  He heard Malnikov’s footsteps to his left.

  Both stared down. To Dewey, he was the one who wanted to kill a million Americans. To Malnikov, the one who took his father away.

  Dewey still held the cell to his ear.

  “So what you’re saying is, Cloud is expendable?” Dewey asked.

  Calibrisi was silent for several seconds.

  Then he spoke: “Affirmative.”

  Dewey hung up and stuck the cell in his vest. He clutched the Desert Eagle, its steel muzzle aimed at Cloud’s head.

  “Boston,” Dewey remarked to Cloud. “Original.”

  Suddenly, the elevator cage rattled and started descending.

  “We need to get out of here,” said Malnikov.

  “Here,” said Dewey, extending the gun to him.

  “You take it,” said Malnikov. “You saved my life.”

  “Do you want to do it, Alexei?” asked Dewey. “It’s all the same to me as long as he ends up dead.”

  Malnikov shrugged.

  “Well, I will tell you, I have had this desire ever since he fucked me to put a bullet in that big brain of his.”

  Dewey handed Malnikov the gun.

  “All yours.”

  101

  OFFICE OF THE CHIEF OF STAFF

  THE WHITE HOUSE

  Adrian King was seated in his office, along with Calibrisi, Josh Brubaker, and George Kratovil, head of the FBI.

  Two plasma screens showed live coverage from Boston. A third screen streamed live video feed from the scene, taken by the FBI. Three individuals in bright yellow hazmat suits were preparing the nuclear device for transport out of the area. A fourth screen displayed the White House Briefing Room. The dais was empty, though the room was crowded.

  A knock came at the door, then Arden Mason entered. He had a concerned look on his face.

  “What is it?” asked King.

  Mason handed out manila folders.

  “I think you should all see this. It was sent in a few minutes ago.”

  The folders contained copies of a police report, filed by the Gloucester, Massachusetts, police department, detailing the purchase of a boat that day by someone whom the owner of the marina found to be “suspicious-looking.”

  According to the marina owner, the customer was young and looked Middle Eastern. Perhaps most important, he bought a used Hinckley Talaria, which cost $450,000.

  “He paid cash,” said Mason.

  “So this is the boat?” asked King, looking at Mason, then Kratovil. “Let’s put out an APB for a green Hinckley Talaria. That would be a pretty good start to the weekend, first we stop the bomb, then we catch the terrorists.”

  “President Dellenbaugh is about to go live,” said Brubaker. “I think we should hand him a note before he goes on. If he can mention the precise boat we’re looking for, my guess is we’ll find it pretty quickly.”

  Calibrisi’s cell phone vibrated.

  “Calibrisi.”

  “It’s Katie.”

  “I need to call you back.”

  “No. I need to talk to you. It’s about Vargarin. We found something.”

  “We found the bomb, Katie. Why don’t you grab whatever you got and we’ll meet over at the Willard. I could use a drink.”

  “Wait, you said you found the bomb?” asked Katie.

  “Yes. It was in Boston.”

  “How many were there?”

  “How many what were there?”

  “Bombs.”

  “One.”

  “And was it the original device?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Was it repurposed? Was it altered in any way? Smaller than the one they took from Kiev?”

  Calibrisi looked at the screen showing the FBI feed. The bomb was being lifted by two men. It looked brand-new, like a long stainless steel canister, very different from what the original bomb looked like.

  “It’s different,” said Calibrisi. “Looks like a big soup can.”

  Brubaker was trying to get Calibrisi’s attention.

  “Hold on, Katie,” he said, covering the phone.

  “Do you want to read this before Schmidt takes it out to the president?” whispered Brubaker. “We need to get this on the news right now.”

  “Katie,” said Calibrisi, “I have to call you—”

  “There are two bombs, Hector!” yelled Katie. “That was his father’s big idea. How to take one bomb and convert it into two. We killed him for the formula.”

  Calibrisi stared at Brubaker. He hung up the phone, then hit another number.

  “Control.”

  “I need an immediate patch to that last overseas caller.”

  “Hold.”

  Everyone in the room stared at Calibrisi as he sat, eyes closed, waiting for the phone to ring.

  “What’s going on?” demanded King.

  “There’s another bomb,” said Calibrisi.

  Silence took over the room.

  “The president of the United States is about to take a victory lap,” said King. “I’m canceling this press conference.”

  “Don’t,” said Calibrisi, still holding the cell to his ear. “The American people need to know what’s going on. The best thing right now is if the terrorists think we’re done. Let J. P. Dellenbaugh lull them into a sense of complacency. It’ll buy us time. And do not let him mention the boat.”

  Finally, he heard a pair of beeps, then Dewey’s voice.

  “How can I miss you if you won’t go away?” he asked.

  “Whatever you do, don’t kill him.”

  102

  BRIEFING ROOM

  THE WHITE HOUSE

  Dellenbaugh entered the White House Briefing Room. He stepped to the dais, the front of which showed the seal of the president of the United States.

  Dellenbaugh paused. Except for the rat-a-tat-tat of cameras clicking, there was absolute silence. His look was confident, calm, with just the slightest hint of anger on his ruddy face.

  “Late this evening,” said Dellenbaugh, “an attempt by terrorists to attack the United States was stopped. The location of the failed attack was Boston, a place that holds an extremely important place in the history of our country, especially this time of year. We will have much more to tell you in the coming hours, days, and weeks. For now, it’s important that we complete our investigation before getting into too many details. But I can tell you that we do not believe this is part of a broader plot. This was a small group of individuals, acting alone.”

  Dellenbaugh’s eyes swept across the crowd of reporters.

  “I’m outraged that anyone would attempt to use the July Fourth holiday—a time families and friends gather together to celebrate the day our country was born—to hurt innocent people. Some people, I know, are scared. You’re asking yourself, what if there’s another threat out there? The worst thing we could do would be to quit, to cancel the parade, to not put the red, white, and blue icing on that cake Mom made. Because then they will have won.

  “Tomorrow, with my family by my side, I’m going to barbecue. Then I’ll go to the parade in town. If you’re there, I hope you’ll come up and introduce yourself. I won’t march, I’ll watch, because on July Fourth, I like to think I’m just a plain old United States citizen. Oh, yeah, I’m going to get revenge on my brother-in-law for his victory over me in Ping-Pong last year, a match that, in case he’s listening, we both know was rigged.”

  Dellenbaugh smiled as laughter burst out from the gathered White House press corps.

  “This Independence Day weekend is already shaping up to be the best in my lifetime. Because today I saw what brave Americans are capable of. The fact that it happened in Boston, well, I have to tell you, there’s something mighty poetic about that. The place our country was born was tonight the place where freedom was
preserved.

  “May God bless you, and God bless the United States of America. Have a happy Fourth of July.”

  “Mr. President, can you tell us anything more?” yelled a reporter.

  But Dellenbaugh was already off the stage and stepping quickly down the hallway. As he rounded the corner, he came face-to-face with King and Brubaker, both standing outside the Oval Office, arms crossed.

  Dellenbaugh had a big smile on his face. He ripped off his tie as he walked past them.

  “There’s nothing you can say that would upset me,” said Dellenbaugh, entering the Oval Office, tossing his tie on a chair, then opening a closet and grabbing his fly rod.

  “There’s a second bomb, Mr. President.”

  103

  EVOLUTION TOWER

  MOSCOW

  Dewey looked at Malnikov, making a gesture across his neck and shaking his head, telling him not to shoot.

  “Why?” asked Malnikov, anger in his voice. “Fuck that.”

  “There’s another bomb,” said Dewey, making eye contact with Cloud.

  Dewey spoke to Calibrisi: “He’s going to die soon, Hector,” he whispered.

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s bleeding out.”

  “What happened?”

  “He got in the way of a bullet.”

  “How long do we have?”

  “Maybe an hour. Two if I can stop the bleeding for a little while.”

  Just then, voices echoed up from the elevator shaft. Both turned their heads.

  “You need to get that chopper back here,” said Dewey.

  Malnikov pulled out his cell and dialed Stihl.

  Dewey returned to Calibrisi: “What do you want me to do?” he asked.

  “Can you get him to the airport?” asked Calibrisi.

  “He’s not going to survive a flight out of Russia, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “No, that’s not what I’m thinking. Just get him to Ostafyevo Airport.”

  * * *

  Calibrisi, escorted by Secret Service agents, stepped through the Oval Office and out onto a stone terrace, then walked through the Rose Garden.