by Mike Maden
Ali shrugged. “Hernán wants to be president. He is already making plans for another attempt.”
“What proof do I have that you aren’t just making all of this up to get your dick out of the wood chipper?”
“It is normal in a business transaction to secure a contract with a deposit in good faith, particularly when one is doing business with a new partner.”
Ali reached into his pocket and pulled out a slip of paper and set it on the bar. Pearce read it.
“I don’t believe it. The navy would have picked this thing up a long time ago.”
“Believe it. There are several Russian subs that operate with impunity in the Gulf of Mexico. You Americans are not as clever as you think you are. This submarine has been assigned exclusively to my unit for supply and transport.”
“Then why not use it to get back to Tehran?”
“I made that request. The Russians refused to allow me to ‘abandon my post,’ as they put it.” Ali was lying.
The Iranian pointed at the paper. “GPS coordinates and radio codes are valid for the next seventy-two hours, then they change again. I will not provide new ones.” He picked up his windbreaker and pulled it on as he headed for the door.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Pearce asked.
“I’m leaving.” He pointed at the stadium. “Baseball bores me. I prefer American football. You are welcome to stay, of course. There is excellent room service that has already been paid for.”
“You aren’t going anywhere.” Pearce’s hand drifted toward his pistol.
“Of course I am. I told you, if I don’t leave here under my own terms, a thousand people will die. Maybe more. If you don’t find what I promise on that paper, then you have no need to fulfill your agreement with me. But if you do find that submarine, then you contact me with the cell number also on that paper and we will agree to a meeting place and time.”
And with that, Ali left.
The Quds Force officer had him by the short hairs and they both knew it.
Pearce’s face darkened.
The Iranian was still running the show.
56
Mexico City, Mexico
U.S. Ambassador Romero sat in the office of his Mexican counterpart, the secretary of foreign affairs, along with the Mexican secretary of defense, a retired general. Heated accusations on both sides finally simmered down to a low boil.
After the meeting, Romero reported back to Myers that he was convinced that the Mexican government had, in fact, not ordered the attack on the Star Louisiana and that he accepted the Mexican theory that a rogue naval officer had foolishly taken matters into his own hands. Romero further suggested that the matter now be handled by lawyers, insurance companies, and high-level bureaucrats, rather than generals and admirals if war was to be avoided. Myers thanked him.
An emergency cabinet meeting affirmed Romero’s recommendation despite Early’s concern that it was a Bravo operation. The chief of naval operations, a four-star admiral, assured Myers that operating a modern combat vessel was beyond the skill sets of street thugs. “So is hijacking a Reaper,” Early protested. It would be weeks before salvage operations could recover any bodies for identification—if any bodies were still intact. For Myers, the question of identity was academic. All that mattered to her at the moment was that the United States and Mexico had just avoided a shooting war.
But she wasn’t out of the woods yet. Myers knew that the House Armed Services Committee hearings would find a way to forge the tragedy into a weapon against her administration.
Gulf of Mexico
The Russian nuclear attack submarine Vepr was cruising at a leisurely five knots nearly three hundred meters below the surface of the gulf on a mapping exercise. No American warships were in the area. The nearest vessel was a small civilian pleasure boat on the surface four hundred meters away, according to its radar signature.
The young but professional crew was performing its duties with affable efficiency when a heavy metallic clang sounded against the Vepr’s outer hull. Everybody suddenly shut up, as if a switch had been thrown. The captain ordered all stop, fearing they’d struck something. According to their charts, an abandoned explosives and ordnance dumping ground the Americans had used for decades was several kilometers north of their position, but radar and sonar both indicated nothing of the kind close by.
Moments later, a puzzled radioman called the captain to his station and handed him the headphones.
“Hello, Captain!” Yamada’s voice blasted in the Russian’s ears.
“What’s going on? Who are you?” the captain demanded.
“Doesn’t matter who I am, moke. What matters is that I know who you are.”
The captain frowned in confusion. “What do you want?”
Yamada explained to the sub captain that an underwater drone had just successfully attached an explosive device to the Akula-class submarine’s outer hull and—clang—was attaching yet others. There was no reason to worry, Yamada assured the captain, at least not yet.
The Russian captain at first expressed doubts, but a visual confirmation by an external video camera confirmed Yamada’s claims. Both the stealth UUV and the magnetic limpet mines attached to the Vepr’s hull were visually confirmed.
Clang.
The captain resorted to vile threats, but within moments he succumbed to his worst fears as Yamada explained the captain’s dire situation.
“The Vepr must immediately withdraw from the gulf at full speed and return to the fleet base in Severomorsk or face certain destruction.” The Vepr was part of the great Northern Fleet that operated out of Murmansk Oblast near the Finnish and Norwegian borders.
“This is an act of war,” the captain declared.
“I am a private citizen representing no government. Private citizens cannot wage war,” Yamada countered. Pearce had instructed him to use this precise legal language.
“You are a liar. You are an American.”
“Actually, I’m your worst nightmare. I’m a Japanese with a long memory.”
The captain shuddered. “A terrorist, then?”
“More like a contractor, terrorizing you at the moment. I am tracking your position by satellite. Failure to set course for Severomorsk and follow it immediately will result in detonation of the limpet mines attached to your hull. Once I see that the Vepr has returned to Severomorsk, I will contact your base commander, he will arrange to have a great deal of money transferred to an account of my designation, and then I will deactivate the mines.”
“I don’t trust you.”
“Good!” Yamada laughed. “That would be a mistake. My ancestors have been killing Russians since the Battle of Tsushima. So, yes, I want you to worry about the fact that I might change my mind and blow your pig boat to pieces just for the fun of it, and I want you to sweat as you think about my finger on the button for every minute of every kilometer it takes you to get back to Severomorsk.”
Yamada laughed again and cut the link.
Sixty seconds later, the Vepr powered up to full speed and set a direct course for home.
But Yamada had lied. The robotic arm on his stealthy research UUV had only attached large magnets to the submarine’s hull. Pearce promised Yamada that his UUV would never be deployed in a military operation, so it took a while to convince his friend that scaring the Russians with magnets was not the same as blowing them out of the water with mines. Yamada finally yielded the point on the promise of lavish funding for his next round of whale research. Yamada was actually glad to screw with the Russians. He knew that the Soviets had killed whales illegally for over forty years, slaughtering nearly two hundred thousand of them globally and causing several population crashes. Making a Russian sub captain piss his pants seemed like a good start on payback to the idealistic pacifist.
Pearce was just as glad they were only magnets att
ached to the Vepr’s hull. If World War III was about to begin, he preferred it was someone else who started it. But he made sure that one of the magnets featured a GPS tracker with a signal that he would pass on to the U.S. Navy.
Ali had kept his side of the bargain. Galling as it was, now it was Pearce’s turn to ante up.
San Diego, California
Two days later, Ali appeared at the Pearce Systems hangar at the San Diego airport, as per Pearce’s instructions. One of Pearce’s private jets, a Bombardier Global 8000, sat in the cavernous space. Ali could see the two pilots in the cockpit window prepping for takeoff.
Pearce escorted the Iranian up the stairs into the luxurious cabin. On the back end of the passenger compartment was a sliding cantilevered door for privacy. The door was locked open. A rolling medical/surgical bed was in the separate space, along with a heart monitor and IV pump.
“What is that?” Ali asked.
A clean-shaven thirty-year-old Pakistani man in a sport coat and tie stepped into the cabin, carrying a doctor’s satchel and a small roll-on travel case. He was out of breath. “Sorry I’m late.”
Pearce shook the Pakistani’s hand with a smile. “You’re fine, Doctor. Take a seat, please.”
“Who is that?” Ali asked.
“I promised you safe delivery to Tehran. I didn’t promise to reveal my underground network to you so we’re going to have to knock you out with drugs.”
Ali’s eyes narrowed with suspicion.
“Dr. Khan is a professor of anesthesiology at the USC Medical Center. He’s also a Muslim.”
“Sunni Muslim,” Khan corrected.
Ali bristled. “A heretic.” The Iranian was a devout Shia.
“That’s the best I could do on short notice,” Pearce said.
“This was not part of our deal,” Ali said.
“If I was going to kill you, you little shit, I promise you I wouldn’t do it with tranquilizers.”
“And if I leave right now?”
“It means our deal is off. Then I’ll put a bullet in your stomach before you reach the exit door, and then the fun times can really begin.”
Ali was trapped. Without the threat of the explosives at Petco Park, he didn’t have any more leverage.
“I am trusting your honor to deliver me safely,” Ali reminded Pearce, mustering as much ferocity as he could.
“You’re lucky I value my honor.”
“I am surprised you do. Infidel mercenaries have no loyalty to anyone but themselves, and there is no honor in that. Perhaps Allah will indeed be merciful to you on the Day of Judgment.”
“I’m curious. Why did you reveal the location of the Petco Park explosives to us? I thought you people enjoyed slaughtering helpless civilians.”
Bravos had posed as installers two weeks before and replaced the foam bumper guards that wrapped around the support poles throughout the stadium, but instead of using styrofoam in the replacement job, they had used tubes packed with C4 and steel fléchettes, then reattached the advertising sleeves that covered the bumpers. After Pearce had confirmed the Russian submarine with Ali, the Iranian revealed the location of the bombs. An FBI demolition squad took care of the rest.
“New American civilian deaths would have served no purpose, but they would have incurred the wrath of the United States upon my government. And for the record, I did not install those devices. It was Bravo’s men who did it. So, technically, I and my government have assisted the United States in defeating a terrorist attack by the Bravos upon your nation.”
“And we’re supposed to be grateful?”
“No. That would be presumptuous.”
Pearce marveled. Like most Eastern cultures, Iranians had no sense of irony.
Ali continued. “I just want the record to be clear. There must be no false pretext for hostilities between your government and mine.”
“We don’t need a false pretext to wipe your maniac government off the face of the earth. You’ve given us plenty of real ones.” Pearce checked his watch. “Time to get rolling. Dr. Khan is going to put you to sleep, and when you wake up, you will be in Tehran, alive and safe. The rest is up to you.”
“I must warn you that the anesthesia I will be using is quite potent. You will probably have a slight headache when you wake up, but it’s nothing to worry about,” Khan added.
“And it goes without saying, once you arrive in Tehran, all bets are off. My promise is to deliver you alive and well today. My one goal in life is to make sure you have very few tomorrows. Understood?”
“Understood.”
Pearce stepped closer to the smiling Iranian.
“When this mess finally gets cleaned up, don’t be surprised if you find me knocking on your door.”
Ali didn’t flinch. “I shall be waiting with a cup of hot tea.”
“Dr. Khan will take care of you from here. And the two pilots up front? Both are armed, and both know who you are.”
Dr. Khan slipped back his sport coat, revealing a pistol on his hip. “Don’t worry, Mr. Pearce. There won’t be any trouble.” He glared at Ali.
“One more thing.” Pearce held out his smartphone for Ali to read. It had a text message on it for Ali from President Myers to Mehdi Sadr, the volatile president of the Iranian regime.
“Have you memorized her message?”
Ali nodded.
“It’s for President Sadr’s ears only. If he doesn’t contact her within twenty-four hours after your arrival, her offer is withdrawn. Understood?”
Ali nodded again. “I will deliver it as soon as I arrive.”
“Roll up your sleeve,” Khan ordered.
Pearce remained in the cabin until Ali was safely knocked out and tucked into bed with an IV drip in his arm.
“Thanks, Doc. I owe you one.”
“I’m just paying it forward, Mr. Pearce. My family owes you everything.”
Pearce stepped off the jet stairs just as a van rolled up to the hangar. Three men and two women swiftly exited the vehicle and began unloading the crates of high-tech gear they’d brought with them for the long flight to Tehran.
Washington, D.C.
After several days of testimony by experts hostile to the president’s agenda, the House Armed Services Committee hearing finally invited a Myers ally: Mike Early. As the president’s special assistant on security affairs, he was both appropriate and relevant to the hearing’s subject matter.
“Invited” was a term of art; the administration intended to fight any sort of summons on the grounds of separation of powers. But Early eagerly agreed to answer any questions put to him. He wasn’t even sworn in.
The first questions from the committee Republicans were personal, detailing Early’s extensive and heroic national service, and the next questions they asked were pure softballs that allowed him the chance to crow about the great successes of the national security structure in the past few weeks rounding up drug kingpins and wiping out the Bravo terrorists.
Representative Gormer let them ask all of the questions they needed to. Early’s smile got wider and wider as the morning went on, Gormer noted. Early relaxed, dropping his guard. He even cracked a few jokes.
Until Gormer dropped the bomb.
Gormer pulled his microphone closer. “Tell us, Mr. Early, exactly who is Troy Pearce?”
Early was caught short. In a million years, he wouldn’t have guessed that Gormer had any clue about Troy, let alone the balls to ask about him in the middle of an ongoing classified operation. The more he thought about the question, the angrier he became, but also the more confused. He hadn’t been briefed for this possibility.
“Troy Pearce is a friend of mine, and the CEO of Pearce Systems, a registered federal defense contractor.”
“And is it true that President Myers hired Mr. Pearce and Pearce Systems to conduct the targeted assassin
ation of Mr. Aquiles Castillo, a private citizen of Mexico?”
Early couldn’t hear himself think as dozens of digital cameras whirred and flashed in front of him. A crowd of news photographers was squatting directly in front of his table, blasting away with their cameras like frenzied paparazzi.
“No comment, Mr. Chairman,” Early finally blurted out.
“Is it true this administration hired Mr. Pearce to murder other foreign nationals and to carry out its other clandestine foreign-policy objectives?”
“No comment.”
“Is it true that this administration has engaged the services of Pearce Systems to perform espionage operations against foreign governments, including Mexico, a respected ally?”
“No comment.”
And so it went.
The shit storm had begun and Early had forgotten to bring his umbrella.
—
The chairman of the House Judiciary Committee, Sandra Quinn (D-GA), watched the live hearings seated on a couch in Senator Diele’s office. In the chair next to her was Vice President Greyhill.
“Just like I promised,” Diele said. He wanted to see her reaction when Gormer dropped the bomb.
“Too bad Early’s not under oath,” Quinn said.
“The next time he’s on camera, he will be,” Greyhill assured her. “Just let him try and hide behind ‘executive privilege.’”
“I trust this means you’ll be moving forward with the impeachment resolution?” Diele asked.
“He delivered the goods, didn’t he?” Quinn was referring to the fact that Diele had spilled the beans to Gormer about Pearce and his operation.
“He sure did. And wrapped it all up in a pink bow.”
Quinn hoped that the Pearce revelation would be enough to throw Myers out of office and, with any luck, straight into a federal prison. During her election campaign, Myers ran a humiliating campaign ad featuring a Quinn quote that “Guam would capsize if too many U.S. Marines were stationed there” as proof of the idiocy of Congress. Quinn had barely won reelection and privately vowed revenge at the first possible opportunity.
