CRYSTAL CITY, VIRGINIA
JULY 14 • 3:34 P.M. EDT
Olivia was encouraged by the progress she was making. A contact at the Pentagon had provided her with Dan Dwyer’s unlisted phone number as well as a cell number.
Dwyer was the president and cofounder of DGT, a closely held, sprawling security services firm. Though slightly less than a decade old, it was one of the premier private military contractors in the country. It drew many of its field personnel from special forces and clandestine units—American as well as foreign—and it regularly discharged highly sensitive duties for both public and private sector clients.
Despite the firm’s propensity for secrecy, Olivia was able to glean useful kernels of information from a two-year-old Wall Street Journal profile on Dwyer. The salient points in the article were that he had been a BUD/S instructor at Coronado at the same time Garin was there and that it was unclear to which SEAL team he had been attached. That left open the possibility that Dwyer had been a member of SEAL Team Six and involved in WMD disposal.
Olivia called Dwyer’s home number. There was no answer and the call didn’t go to voice mail or an answering machine. She then dialed his cell and he answered instantly.
“Dwyer.”
Olivia, somewhat surprised to have reached him, decided to be direct. “Hello, Mr. Dwyer, my name is Olivia Perry. I’m an aide to National Security Advisor James Brandt.”
Dwyer was equally direct. “Hello, Ms. Perry. I know exactly who you are. I read at least one essay coauthored by you and Professor Brandt in Foreign Affairs, the one on cyberwarfare strategies.”
Olivia was caught slightly off guard. For some reason she had expected Dwyer to be reticent, if not outright hostile. “Mr. Dwyer, I’ll get right to the point, and admittedly, it may sound somewhat peculiar. In the next day or two we expect the United Nations to vote on a Russian-Iranian resolution condemning Israel’s actions in the latest Middle East crisis. Without going into detail, we have some concerns about what the Russians and Iranians are up to and we think that a friend of yours could help us address those concerns.”
“What friend?” Dwyer’s tone was still friendly, but there was now a hint of guardedness to it.
“I can’t go into it over this call. To be honest, I’m not even certain he is a friend of yours, but I have reason to think you know him.”
“Why not just call this person directly?”
“We can’t locate him.”
There was a pause before Dwyer asked, “Is this urgent? I’m sorry, that’s obviously a very silly question. The Office of the National Security Advisor doesn’t call on a Sunday afternoon unless it’s pretty important. What can I do for you?”
“I’d like to ask you some questions about your friend—acquaintance—in person. I know this is short notice, but I see you live near Mount Vernon. That’s not that far from me. I could be at your house in forty-five minutes. It shouldn’t take much of your time. Jim Brandt would be very grateful.”
“Unfortunately, Ms. Perry . . .”
“Call me Olivia.”
“Deal. You can call me Dan. Unfortunately, I’m spending the rest of the day with my attorneys, who happen to be seated across from me right now. They’re very well dressed, very well groomed, and very well paid. I have no doubt I’m being billed as we speak. I’m appearing before the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence tomorrow morning and my lawyers and I need to go over my testimony so I don’t use an inordinate number of expletives or accidentally perjure myself. By the way, when did the Senate start holding hearings on Mondays? I have no doubt the only reason they’re doing it is to screw with my weekend.”
Olivia couldn’t help being amused. Dan Dwyer sounded like a character. “Is there another time you would be able to meet?”
“How much time do you need again?”
“Whatever you can give me.”
There was a moment of silence, and then Dwyer said, “My testimony is at ten A.M. Why don’t you join me here for breakfast tomorrow at, say, seven thirty A.M.?”
“Excellent. Thank you very much. I’ll see you then.”
“Remember to bring your appetite.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
SPENCER, NEW YORK
JULY 14 • 8:45 P.M. EDT
The scenic drive south along the western shore of Cayuga Lake reminded Garin of his college days, when he would travel from Cleveland to Cornell at the beginning of each semester. On his left, boat and fishing docks appeared sporadically, extending into the smooth waters long rumored to harbor a Loch Ness–like creature. Rising to his immediate right were miles of low hills covered with the vineyards of Finger Lakes wine country.
The sun had just dipped below those hills as he approached Spencer from the north. The eastern sky was already midnight blue and the few passing motorists had turned on their headlights.
According to Joe’s directions, the Burns farm was another four to five miles south down Route 96 and then another half mile east along a narrow undedicated lane named Turnberry Road. The farmhouse was on the right and was the sole residence on Turnberry.
Garin would employ the same maneuver he’d used at Katy’s house and continue south past Turnberry to the next road, approaching the Burns farm from the rear. As he got closer to Turnberry, the road dipped downhill into a shallow valley darkened by the surrounding hills, which absorbed the last remnants of twilight. He slowed as he passed Turnberry but saw nothing. The road disappeared into blackness less than one hundred yards from the intersection.
It was nearly another mile before Garin reached an undedicated gravel road that branched to the left. Turning onto the road, he drove another half mile, searching for an opening in the woods that lined both sides. He found a gap between two large oaks on the left and drove between them and over bumpy ground until coming to rest fifty feet from the road. Garin turned off the lights and ignition, got out, and satisfied himself that the car was invisible from the road. He opened the trunk and took out his M4 rifle, flashlight, and a gym bag containing clothes, toiletries, and nutritional bars.
As he walked north toward the rear of the Burns farm, he contemplated using the flashlight, but his eyes quickly grew accustomed to the darkness, allowing him to navigate safely through the woods, provided he moved slowly.
He walked for approximately a quarter mile before coming to a clearing. Standing at the edge of the tree line, he could see the rear of the Burns farmhouse another quarter mile or so beyond a grassy field that looked like it might have sustained livestock at one time. On the left, or west, side of the house was a fairly sizable barn. On the east side was a large field of corn that ran north from the tree line toward Turnberry half a mile away.
The farmhouse was completely dark. Garin saw no vehicles or any signs of human activity. He put the gym bag and flashlight down, raised the M4, and scanned the surroundings through its scope. The place was vacant.
As he continued to peer through the scope, Garin’s ears picked up a familiar rhythmic sound over the horizon. He trained the scope above the farmhouse’s roof and quickly identified the source of the sound. Sweeping swiftly toward the farm from the north were four aircraft, the configuration of which Garin immediately recognized as that of an MH-6 Little Bird helicopter.
Garin retreated into the woods and sank to the ground as the Little Birds skimmed the tops of the trees north of the house and banked over the cornfield before descending to within a few feet of the grassy field. Each of the four helos carried four passengers—two riding pods on each side—besides the pilot. The four carried rifles with collapsible stocks. They were outfitted in all-black tactical gear, Nomex balaclavas covering their faces and night-vision goggles over their eyes.
The figures leapt to the ground almost in unison. Six fanned out with impressive precision and rushed the farmhouse, weapons raised. The remaining ten formed a perimeter approximately fifty feet
from the house and barn and then fell to the ground, weapons trained on the building. The overall scene, even to an experienced operator like Garin, was nothing short of mesmerizing.
Garin watched with a mixture of fascination and foreboding as the raiders methodically checked the buildings. From a distance, their highly coordinated movements appeared choreographed, almost balletic. There was no hesitation, no wasted effort. Garin knew he wasn’t watching a local SWAT team, not even a crack one. Before him, he saw the uncompromising proficiency of a world-class special operations unit.
This was both a bewildering and an ominous development. There were only five in the world who knew Garin was here, and those five people were in an undetectable bunker that only he knew about. How did the team presently going through the Burns farmhouse know to look here?
A faint feeling of dread came over Garin as he analyzed the possibilities. The most straightforward answer to his question was that the team got the information from Joe or Katy, but Garin thought the odds of anyone having located the bunker in the seven hours since he’d left it were practically zero. Even less when combined with the odds of prying loose the information from the sergeant major, or the even lower odds of extracting it from Katy. But that, of course, was before the kids were factored in. Using them as leverage increased the likelihood of disclosure to a near certainty. But again, only if the bunker had been detected. The problem was that Garin wouldn’t be able to reach Joe for another eight hours—possibly the longest eight hours of Garin’s life.
The other option was nearly as remote. To be plausible, it required his pursuer to have not just vast resources, but exceptional luck. Of the millions of possible locations for Garin to go to, someone had to conclude that Garin would choose an all but abandoned central New York farmhouse belonging to the family of his sister’s husband.
Either way, Garin thought, he was facing a formidable adversary.
The team searched the premises for twenty minutes before boarding the Little Birds and departing in the direction from which they’d come. Garin remained prone and checked his watch. A little more than seven hours before he could contact Joe. Until then, there was nothing he could do. He wasn’t going into the house; he couldn’t take the risk. He laid his rifle at his side and continued to watch the area. Twenty minutes later he drifted off to sleep.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
NORTHERN IRAN
JULY 15 • 7:12 A.M. IRDT
Chernin scanned a series of reports prepared by the various task managers on the project as he ran an electric razor over the stubble on his chin. He paused to sip some coffee from a large mug and rub the sleep from his eyes. He had slept barely three hours.
Chernin felt no ill effects from the previous evening’s cigars and vodka. In fact, despite having consumed nearly twice as much vodka as Mansur, Chernin was still going strong, hinting at the importance of his work without revealing any details, when the latter had begun drifting off to sleep.
Chernin had spent most of the morning reviewing weekly reports. He took satisfaction in the knowledge that this could very well be the last series of weekly performance reports he would need to review. The time was approaching for him to go home. After a series of tests, the project would be certified at the local level. The Iranians were so anxious to get under way that they would likely certify anything, but Chernin’s superiors in Moscow would make the final assessment and their standards were far more exacting.
Chernin’s standards were just as high and he was confident that all systems would pass inspection. Then, if all was in order, the project would be prepared for execution in a little more than three days. It would be, as the Americans liked to say, a game changer.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
SPENCER, NEW YORK
JULY 15 • 5:35 A.M. EDT
Garin scratched himself awake sometime after five A.M. He was covered with fewer insect bites than he had expected, but the one on the back of his neck itched worse than any he had gotten during a miserable month he’d once spent in the Colombian jungle.
The eastern sky was a light yellow and the house and barn were readily visible. They appeared freshly painted and well maintained. A rear door was open—having been kicked in during last night’s raid. It was the lone sign of what had occurred hours before.
Clearly, Garin needed to find somewhere else from which to operate. He had plenty of cash and at least one false ID that no one in the government knew about, so theoretically, he could rent a hotel room and work from there.
But the events of the last forty-eight hours, especially those of last night, had spooked him. It seemed wherever he went, with the exception of the bunker, his adversaries followed. Or, as in the case of both his apartment and his sister’s house, they preceded him. They seemed to be everywhere. Pop was right: If someone can see you, your enemies can, and will, find you.
Garin decided it was best to return to the Washington, D.C., area. After all, he had gone to Ohio only to secure his sister’s family, and he had come here only to operate freely, with minimal chance of detection. He would find out in a few minutes whether he had accomplished the first goal. Last night proved that he wouldn’t accomplish the second. At least in Washington, he had a potential resource that might produce some answers. So far, he had none.
Garin grabbed his rifle and was about to get up when, on the grassy field approximately one hundred yards in front of him, the ground began to move. He remained still as the ground took the shape of a man slightly taller than Garin, with a stocky, muscular build, holding an M110 sniper rifle. The sniper wore a ghillie suit that had allowed him to blend in with the foliage. Had the sniper not moved first, Garin would have never detected his presence. Had Garin moved first, he would most certainly be dead right now. The raiders had left the sniper behind as a fail-safe. Garin had missed him completely last night, and that made the sniper very good.
The sniper was facing north, his back to Garin. It appeared as if he was speaking into a communication device. After placing the device in an unseen pocket, he stretched, arched his back, and removed his balaclava. He appeared to be adjusting something on his rifle. Garin, a paranoid about scope glare, flipped the antireflective cover on the scope of his rifle to prevent any reflected light from giving away his position. Only a few moments later, he could hear the distinctive sound of an approaching Little Bird over the horizon. The craft appeared, hugging the treetops of the woods north of the farmhouse. Garin calculated it must have been stationed only a few miles away. It banked east and then swept over the cornfield before coming to rest midway between Garin and the sniper.
As the sniper turned to board the craft, Garin’s stomach tightened. Although he was nearly the length of a football field away, Garin was fairly certain that he was looking at the face of one of the deadliest snipers in the world.
His name was Congo Knox. He was unforgiving. And he was Delta Force.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
NORTHEAST OHIO
JULY 15 • 5:59 A.M. EDT
Joe Burns sat at the table next to the stairs leading from the bunker to the cabin, the Benelli Nova Pump next to him. He had turned on the cell phone a few minutes early in anticipation of Garin’s call. Joe wanted to be sure not to miss it.
Katy and the kids were asleep in the bedroom, Nicholas in a sleeping bag on the floor and the rest sprawled in various directions across the mattress. Joe had gotten little sleep during the night. His family had already gone to bed when he thought he heard muted noises coming from aboveground. He had remained absolutely still for a long period of time, hoping to be able to discern the source of the sound, but was unable to do so. There seemed to be a couple of faint thumps and a barely noticeable vibration. He had heard no voices, but the noise definitely didn’t originate from anywhere within the bunker. He had been sitting next to the stairs ever since.
The cell began to vibrate. He picked it up immediately and simply said,
“Mike.”
“Sergeant Major, you have no idea how good it is to hear your voice.” The evident relief in Garin’s voice telegraphed that something had happened.
“Mike, what’s the problem? You sound on edge. Not like you.”
“A little matter like having the entire law enforcement apparatus of the United States gunning for you can have that effect.” Garin caught himself. “Joe, sorry, I don’t mean to be sarcastic. I was worried someone might’ve found you.”
The reception in the bunker was poor, but Garin had Joe’s complete attention. “What happened?”
“I won’t go into details. We have to keep the call short. But I have reason to think the military may be somehow involved in looking for me.”
“They can’t, Mike,” Joe said unequivocally. “Posse comitatus.”
“I know. But some people arrived at the farm last night and they sure didn’t look or move like local law enforcement.” Garin paused. “No matter. I’ll handle it. I was just concerned that they found me by getting to you.”
A pause. “I heard noises coming from outside last night.”
The edge returned to Garin’s voice. “What time, where did it come from, and what did it sound like?”
“Around midnight from somewhere outside. I can’t be certain where. I don’t think it was from inside the cabin. It’s hard to describe the sound—not voices. Barely audible.”
“Did you go outside at any time last night?”
“Yeah, but we followed your instructions and waited until dusk. We were only out for ten or fifteen minutes and stayed within one hundred feet of the cabin.”
“Don’t go outside again. I seriously doubt anyone was looking for you,” Garin said unconvincingly. “But let’s not risk it. You’re safe in the bunker. It’s made out of steel and concrete. Nobody can get in. Remember to keep the hatch locked. If you hear voices or noises again, close the air vent until it goes away.”
Target Omega Page 11
