by Brad Taylor
“Can you reach them?”
“Oh yeah. This system was designed with the SR-71 in mind, the American spy plane. It can go as high as 70,000 feet. To the edge of space at twice the speed of sound.”
Kirill nodded, seeing the small blips on the screen, realizing each represented a human flying an aircraft that was about to be obliterated. He said, “Can they defeat the missiles?”
“Maybe. Maybe they can defeat one. But they can’t defeat all four. The missiles don’t have to hit. All they have to do is get close. They explode when in proximity, throwing out shrapnel, and those planes don’t have enough defenses to stop all of them if we fire in sequence.”
Kirill said, “And we only need to hit one. Fire.”
“I have to have help. Swiftly, because they’re moving at top speed. Once I painted them, they knew they were being tracked.”
Kirill yelled outside for Misha, and within two minutes, Oleg had instructed him on the sequence required. Both looked at Kirill. He said again, “Fire. Kill those bastards.”
Oleg initiated the warm-up of the missiles, selecting the middle dash and locking the target. He shouted at Misha, and the man began flipping switches and punching buttons, synchronizing the radar with the missiles. Oleg heard a beep, telling him that the missiles had the information, and his hand hovered for one second before stabbing a large red button.
The tractor shook with sound and fury, and a scream pierced the air.
Kirill turned to leap out and Oleg grabbed his arm, saying, “No! Whoever it is was caught in the blast of the missile. Wait.”
Three seconds later, the second missile left. Three more, and another one launched. Twelve seconds after Oleg had pressed the button, the final missile shot into space.
Kirill jumped outside and saw one of his men at the rear of the vehicle, burned beyond recognition, his arms locked in a rictus crucifixion. Another, Alik, was farther away, in the front of the vehicle, crouched down with his hands on his ears.
Kirill looked upward, seeing the contrails of the four missiles stretching out into the bright blue sky, like the most expensive fireworks on earth. He saw a pulse of light, then two more.
He whispered, “For the motherland.”
27
Kurt Hale watched Vice President Hannister go through his document line by line. He glanced at George Wolffe, who only shrugged—too late now.
It was the official roll-up of the Greece investigation, encapsulating the fact that the Taskforce was in the clear and could begin operating again—along with a little bit of information he’d hoped would be overlooked. Back when it was only the national security advisor reading it.
With the flashpoint of Belarus, he’d known that Alexander Palmer would be preoccupied, and that he’d take the report and file it with a hundred others from a thousand different feeds that just weren’t that important right now. Information he had to take in, but that really belonged in yesterday’s news cycle. Because of the classification of Project Prometheus, all reports were delivered on hard copy, so Kurt had delivered the final one himself.
He expected to drop it off, maybe have a word or two, and be on his way. And that would have happened, if Vice President Hannister hadn’t appeared in Palmer’s office, just down the corridor from the Oval Office.
He’d popped in, getting halfway through a question before he’d noticed Kurt, and had paused. He’d asked what they were doing in the White House, as if Kurt and George were supposed to be operational somewhere. Kurt told him, and he’d asked for the report. Palmer had given it to him, and the vice president had asked all in the room to follow him to his office down the hall.
Now Kurt and George waited on him to finish, with Alexander Palmer fidgeting on the opposite couch, wanting to get back to work.
Kurt understood why. Palmer was President Warren’s right-hand man. Every president had a different take on who was influential in their administration, with some leaning on their chief of staff and others looking to their vice president. President Warren listened to Alexander Palmer, and with Russia threatening to upset the current world order, Palmer had little time to waste.
As much as he wanted to tell Hannister he had to leave, he couldn’t. Hannister was, at the end of the day, the vice president. Even if he was completely out of his depth.
Hannister had been put on the ticket for domestic reasons. A former professor of economics at Brown, he was an expert at a plethora of things that mattered little when the guns began to fire. An analytical man who would be happy studying unemployment figures and taxation rates for decades, but when it came to national security, he was lost. And he would be the first to say so. But the man was scary smart, and could digest prodigious amounts of information. Which meant he’d probably find the hidden Easter egg Kurt had hoped Palmer would miss. But then again, maybe he’d get lucky.
Hannister did not.
He looked up from the report and said, “You sent a Taskforce member over to Slovakia?”
Palmer quit fidgeting, looking at Kurt.
Shit. Here we go.
Kurt said, “Well, yes and no. Currently, there is no Taskforce, and Knuckles—the man you’re seeing there—was asked to help out Pike on a Grolier Recovery Services operation. He just asked if he could take some leave and help, because I require the men to get permission for accountability purposes. I put it in the report because, yes, he’s gone, but it’s not Project Prometheus. I was just covering the bases, making sure everyone is informed.”
Palmer said, “Wait, wait, what the hell is Pike doing? That’s never been reported.”
Kurt said, “Pike’s a civilian. When you put the Taskforce on ice, I couldn’t tell him not to make a living. What he’s doing is completely outside the scope of Prometheus. Knuckles is active duty. I felt it prudent to inform you.”
Hannister said, “Does this have anything to do with Belarus?”
Kurt said, “Of course not. Jesus, come on, sir, I wouldn’t do something like that.”
Palmer said, “Why Slovakia? What’s going on?”
“They were hired to recover an ancient Torah taken by the Nazis in World War Two. It’s right up the GRS playbook. They’ve got a handle on it, but needed some extra eyes. That’s all. Knuckles was sitting around here waiting on you guys to make a decision. He asked if he could go help, and I said yes.”
Hannister said, “Because you feel so strongly about recovering this Torah?”
Kurt said nothing, looking at George. Trying to find an answer that made sense in the room. George provided it.
“No, sir. Because Kurt feels strongly about the problems occurring overseas.”
George turned from the vice president to Palmer and said, “You’ve frozen the Taskforce out of everything, and yet the world continues turning. Kurt just wanted to place some eyes in the region. In case.”
“In case of what?”
“In case they can be useful.”
“You can’t do that without Oversight Council approval! Jesus, you’re freelancing Taskforce assets.”
Kurt said, “Freelancing ‘assets’? Listen to what you’re saying. Knuckles is a man. Pike is a man. They aren’t ‘assets,’ and they aren’t doing anything on behalf of the Taskforce. They’re doing their own thing, but they may be useful over there.”
Palmer started to say something else, but was cut off by Hannister raising a hand. He said, “You sent them, and I trust that. That’s not why I asked you to come in here. Can I ask you a question, away from my position as vice president? Man to man?”
Nobody said a word. Kurt wondered where the line of questioning was going. He nodded.
Hannister said, “President Warren bounces things off you from time to time, doesn’t he? Outside the Oversight Council? I’ve seen you and him alone.”
The statement was true, but it had never been formally articulated by anyone. Kurt had a uniq
ue relationship with President Warren, having come up with the idea of the Taskforce to begin with, and convincing the then presidential candidate that it was a necessary thing. Outside the political system, even outside the politics of the military, President Warren had taken to asking Kurt for his unvarnished views. In truth, Kurt had never been comfortable with the relationship.
Not sure what to say, Kurt simply responded, “He’s asked my opinion once or twice, yes. Just as I’m sure you ask others who aren’t officially part of your staff.”
“President Warren is flying to Moscow as we speak. Is something going on that I need to be aware of?”
“No. Absolutely not. Please. We live in a world of secrets, but let’s not make this into something it’s not. I’m not running any operations off the books, away from the Oversight Council.”
Hannister took that in, then said, “Okay. Can I ask your opinion? Get your unbiased view, away from the politics?”
Kurt looked at George, now in unfamiliar territory and not liking the terrain. He said, “Sure. Of course, sir.”
Before the question could be asked, the vice president’s phone rang. He looked at the digital display and Kurt saw his eyes widen slightly. He picked it up.
After saying hello, Kurt heard two sentences: “What? Are you sure?” The vice president listened for close to a minute, then said, “Who did it?”
He hung up the phone, staring at the wall in disbelief. After a few moments of uncomfortable silence, Alexander Palmer said, “Sir?”
The word snapped Hannister out of his daze. He looked at the men on the couches and said, “Air Force One was just blown out of the sky.”
He took a breath and said, “President Warren is dead.”
28
I heard Knuckles break squelch and stopped talking, hoping we were now in play. We were not.
“No change. I say again, no change.”
I clicked the little microreceiver of my radio, courtesy of the Mossad, and said, “Roger all.”
It was a dinky thing that looked to me like it had been made by a division of Kenner Toys using Easy-Bake Oven parts, but it seemed to work. I would have preferred a Taskforce kit, but beggars can’t be choosers, and I certainly wasn’t going to complain with Shoshana in my car. When she’d given the equipment to my team, she seemed to think it was the equivalent of a Maxwell Smart shoe phone.
Knuckles said, “Are we sure this information is accurate? I mean, I’ve been out here all morning. Maybe I should be getting back home.”
Shoshana scowled at the words, a little bit of the dark angel coming out. She didn’t take criticism very well. She started to click onto the net and I held up a finger, saying, “Mossad says it’s accurate, and you heard Kurt. We stay.”
Between the time Knuckles had taken off from the United States and the time he landed in Europe, the world had become a different place. While he was in the air, the leader of the most powerful country on earth had been killed, and the fragile status quo between East and West was on the verge of crumbling completely, leaving crushed bones and scorched earth in its wake.
As Archduke Ferdinand could tell you, war has a logic all its own, and it was rarely sane.
Jennifer and I, naturally, had been rocked by the news story, spending three hours in front of the television, but very little was publicly known other than the fact that Air Force One had crashed while flying to Moscow. Conspiracy theories abounded, with leaked stories supposedly from F-16 pilots saying missiles had been fired. Ukrainian nationalists blamed Russia, and Russia itself spewed forth a spasm of propaganda denouncing such statements.
The crash site was near Luhansk, Ukraine, close to the Russian border and firmly in rebel-held territory. For its part, the rebel command had immediately cordoned off the area but were refusing admittance to anyone—Russia, Ukraine, United States, or NATO. The decision seemed to stem out of confusion more than anything else, but it wasn’t being perceived that way by the media.
It had taken some effort, and a million redials, until I eventually got Kurt on the line and asked if I needed to come home. I was spoiling for a fight, asking for what wasn’t being said in the open press. What was the Taskforce seeing? He had very little time to give me any inside skinny. All he did was tell me to stay. I argued with him, but the Taskforce was still on stand-down. He had no way to get any forces into the European continent, and I was conveniently located right near the epicenter. It would do him no good to fly me home only to fly me back. He wanted me as a hedge, so much so that he’d ordered Knuckles to remain with me as well. Against orders, he’d established a Taskforce duty desk manned 24/7, and had directed me to check in with them daily, in his words, “Just in case.” I’d asked him if creating the cell was smart, given the stand-down, and he’d cryptically replied, “I have the ear of those who matter. It’ll be okay.”
Knuckles had landed, and in between taxiing to the gate and exiting the aircraft, he’d learned what had happened. He had immediately set about buying a ticket back home, convinced he was going to miss out on a deployment somewhere, until I’d relayed Kurt’s orders. He obeyed, but sure didn’t like it.
He came over the radio again, saying, “How do we know these pictures are accurate? Who’s vetting this stuff?”
Shoshana scowled again, saying off the radio, “I need to finish showing you how to use the camera. Tell him to shut up.”
I chuckled and clicked the microphone. “Shoshana says shut up and continue the mission. I have to learn to work some tech kit.”
“Tell that devil she can get her own ass out here. Oh, wait, she’s worthless for this mission. I forgot.”
That was enough. She clicked on and said, “The information is straight from Mossad. It is more accurate than anything you would get from your government, and much better than the stick-figure pictures you had me use in Jordan.”
I waited on a response, but didn’t hear one. Knuckles wouldn’t admit it, but he was afraid of her. And honestly, she was right. While Jennifer and I had been glued to the television in Poland, Aaron had met a contact somewhere secret and had been given the location of the safe house, blueprints, and very clear photos of Mikhail Jolson and Simon Migunov. Both were Israeli citizens—with Simon having dual citizenship in Russia—and one had worked with the Mossad, so it had been an easy task to get biometric data.
Knuckles’s comment about the photos was a little harsh, because they were exponentially better than the ones we usually had for positive ID: some grainy picture of a terrorist with a beard, half-turned away from the camera, and the photo looking like it had been taken in 1960.
When Aaron returned with the information, he’d seemed surprised we were still in Wroclaw. I’d told him we were his for the time being, but we might be called away at any moment. He’d known that was the best assurance he’d get, and we’d set out for Bratislava, passing through the Czech Republic, then swinging through Vienna, Austria, to pick up Knuckles. The total trip took a little over six hours, once again mildly surprising me that we could travel through so many different countries in less time than it took to drive across the state of Texas.
We’d arrived in the early evening and immediately conducted a reconnaissance of the safe house Simon was supposedly using, formulating a surveillance plan for the following day. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but while the opulence of the place wasn’t a surprise, the location sure was.
A three-story building made of modern steel and glass set on the side of a hill overlooking the city, it fit the profile for a man who supposedly ran one of the largest organized crime syndicates in the world, but the neighbors next door were not who I would have expected from a master criminal. He had plopped himself right in the middle of some of the tightest security in Slovakia.
The house was situated in rich-man’s land, so to speak, and sprinkled in among the neighborhood were the mansions of diplomats and elites of other
countries, all bristling with cameras. About a half mile away was the home of the US chief of mission, right where I wanted to set up. Located just around a bend on the winding road that led past the target, it would have been the perfect spot for me to wait, but the surveillance cameras on the building bulged out like warts on a frog and forced me to edge closer than I wanted.
Jennifer and Aaron were parked on the same road, but on the other side of the target house, effectively preventing anyone from leaving without getting picked up by one of us. We had two cars each, depending on who left first. If it was Simon, then Aaron and Shoshana would take the follow. If it was Mikhail, it would be Jennifer and me. Knuckles was in the center, acting as the trigger for any activity.
In our haste to complete the reconnaissance and get established, we hadn’t had time to learn the special tech kit the Mossad had provided, so Aaron was in the car with Jennifer showing her the ropes, and I had the little demon with me. Shoshana was getting antsy to get back to her car, and wanted to finish my instructions before someone began stirring in the house.
When Knuckles didn’t come back on with a witty retort to her comment about the photo, she said, “Okay, look here, Nephilim. The key thing is to make sure the autofocus is on the face. It’s got to be clear. If the lens focuses on bricks or trees behind or in front, we get nothing.”
In truth, while we had a box built on the target, we weren’t sure if we were going to penetrate the house or some other establishment, so we’d opted to develop the situation by following either Mikhail or Simon. To help, the Mossad had provided something I’d never seen before, and I had to admit it was pretty ingenious: a remote lipreader. Something that really was straight out of Get Smart.
Basically, it was nothing more than a very small, very powerful lens that could be hidden in clothing. A cable from the lens went to a small tablet with a seven-inch screen, where the camera software resided. You manipulated the zoom of the lens through the tablet, focusing on the faces of whoever was having a conversation, and then hit record.
