Target Omega

by Peter Kirsanow

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  MOUNT VERNON, VIRGINIA

  JULY 17 • 1:48 P.M. EDT

  Olivia Perry expected the call from Garin to come through any second. A few minutes earlier, Carl had informed her that Garin would be contacting her. Carl then guided her to a room in the basement of Dwyer’s mansion that appeared to be a replica of Houston Control. She was seated in the captain’s chair in the center of the room, Carl standing a few feet to her left, when there was a buzzing sound. He pointed to the console in the right armrest. She pressed the flashing button and heard Garin’s voice.

  “Carl and the boys taking good care of you?”

  “Couldn’t be better,” Olivia replied. It troubled her to admit that she enjoyed hearing his voice.

  “I’ll get right to it. We have a serious problem. I need you to relay what I’m about to tell you to James Brandt. Immediately.”

  “That may be a problem, Michael. As we speak he’s on his way to the White House. I’m not sure how long he’ll be there. All I know is that he’ll be in the Situation Room and I’m supposed to meet him in the OEOB afterward to debrief. So I’m unlikely to be able to reach him for a while,” Olivia said.

  “What’s going on?”

  Olivia detected the concern in Garin’s voice. “I’m not authorized to reveal the details. Let’s just say that I wouldn’t be surprised if recent activities of the Russians are discussed.”

  “Olivia,” Garin said, urgency now in his voice. “I understand your constraints and don’t want to put you in a tough spot, but we have an extraordinary situation here. This call is secure. The meeting in the Situation Room may have direct bearing on what I need you to relay to Brandt.”

  “Michael, I’m sorry. I very much want to tell you. But you know the drill. I can’t say anything.”

  Garin sensed Olivia’s distress. There was no time to argue the point. Brandt needed to know about the EMP strike right now.

  “Okay. Olivia, you must communicate what I’m about to tell you to Brandt as soon as we get off the call. I don’t care if he’s in the Situation Room, laundry room, or the men’s room. You get a message to him no matter what it takes.”

  “Go ahead. I might be able to reach him before he enters the room.”

  “First, there may be a worm in certain DOD computers that causes them to give false reads. Tell Brandt we should probably focus on satellite feeds, radar, missile trajectories, and missile launches. Bottom line: We should be concerned about our ability to detect incoming missiles.”

  Olivia motioned to Carl to get her some writing materials. He retrieved a pen and pad of paper from a drawer under a bank of monitors and handed them to Olivia, who began taking notes.

  “Second,” Garin continued, “my unit was penetrated by a Russian agent by the name of Taras Bor. He was behind the killings. Remember my theory that the elimination of my team might somehow be related to what I saw on the laptop in that tunnel in Pakistan? The missile defense, EMP guys? Well, that brings me to point three.”

  Olivia was taking notes rapidly, recording Garin’s statements almost verbatim. “Keep going, Michael.”

  “An Israeli agent whom I’ve known for years left me a voice mail a short time ago stating that the US is going to be the target of an EMP strike.”

  Garin heard a quick, pronounced intake of breath on the other end of the call.

  “How reliable is this information, Michael?”

  “As reliable as any intelligence can be. Nothing’s ever concrete. I know you don’t want to go to the national security advisor with this kind of information on a hunch. But the Israeli agent is extremely good—given to understatement, not hyperbole. In fact, tell Brandt that the agent is Ari Singer. Mossad will vouch for how reliable he is—maybe was.”

  “When is this going to happen and who’s behind it?”

  “Don’t know when. We have no choice but to assume it’s imminent. It very well may not be, but we can’t take the chance. As to who’s behind it, that’s the mystery. You know the litany: The Iranians may want to, but can’t, and the Russians—”

  “I know, I know.”

  “Both of their fingerprints are all over this. I guess we can’t rule out anyone who’s got the capability—North Korea, maybe even a terrorist group.”

  Olivia struggled to resist telling Garin that what prompted the meeting in the Situation Room was the detection of a phalanx of Russian nuclear submarines arrayed along the Eastern Seaboard. Garin was right, however, that the Russians wouldn’t strike the United States.

  “What else should I tell Jim?” Olivia asked.

  “Make sure someone gets security around Manchester, Bauer, and Dellinger. If the US is going to be hit by an EMP attack, the top experts on it may be subject to an assassination attempt. The president needs to know this. Get in touch with Brandt.”

  “Michael, I just heard Dellinger’s dead. Heart attack. FBI suspects it was induced somehow.”

  “Go.” Garin terminated the call.

  Olivia disconnected and punched in the number for the White House.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  NORTHERN VIRGINIA

  JULY 17 • 2:05 P.M. EDT

  The house was more modest than the assassin had expected. Well maintained, elegant, but relatively small. Much like the man inside.

  Bor parked his SUV several doors down, next to a small playground featuring the kind of recreational equipment favored by conscientious, graduate-degreed parents. Padded, rubberized, and, consequently, rarely used by children.

  He glided toward the rear of the house and to the side of the back door. Looking through the door’s small, dual-paned window, he saw the back of Julian Day’s perfectly coiffed head as he sat drinking coffee at a small wooden table.

  Bor tested the doorknob. Unlocked. He turned it, quietly pushed the door inward, and stood behind the counsel to the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence.

  “Get up, Mr. Day.”

  To Bor’s mild surprise, Day wasn’t at all startled. He casually slid his chair back from the table, rose, and turned toward the assassin.

  “Hello, Bor. Where are you taking me? A rendezvous with Quds Force, perhaps?”

  The look on Bor’s face was a mixture of amusement and curiosity. “You were expecting me?”

  “Your ilk rarely disappoints. Insufferably predictable.”

  “My ilk?”

  “I’ve spent nearly two decades dealing with men like you, Bor. The American version, but the same. Regimented. Programmed. You get an order, you execute. No hesitation. No thinking.”

  “And you know I’ve received an order?”

  Day looked closely at Bor’s eyes. Wolf’s eyes. “I knew I’d become a liability once all of the preconditions were met, obstacles removed. We’re only hours away. I’m of no further use. So you must’ve received an order.”

  Bor nodded. “Very good, Mr. Day. A taut analysis. Now it’s time for us to go. Time for me to ‘execute.’”

  “Yes. Time to execute, all right.” Day turned his head over his left shoulder. “Gentlemen?”

  Three men, each with suppressed handguns trained on Bor, emerged from the adjacent dining room. Bor’s surprise was more than mild. He’d never been outmaneuvered before.

  Bor raised his arms away from his sides and opened his hands to show he had no weapon.

  “He will be carrying a gun, of course,” Day said. “Get it.”

  One of the three men approached and began patting Bor from under his arms down to his waist. The man retrieved a SIG Sauer P226 from Bor’s waistband and continued patting him down to his ankles. The man then rose, stepped back a few paces, and shook his head to Day, signaling the Russian carried nothing more.

  “Say hello to Al, Tom, and Rick, Bor. Detectives, D.C. Metro,” Day said.

  Bor looked at each in turn. “Al. Tom. Ric
k.”

  Day said, “Al, Tom, Rick, meet John Gates, a.k.a. Taras Bor, the Terror of Tbilisi, the Butcher of Grozny. A one-man blitzkrieg. He’s killed more people than . . . well, we don’t know how many. But rest assured, it’s a lot. Got an early start—what were you—seventeen, eighteen? Somehow aces every qualification test, mental and physical, known to man—or at least the Russians. Became a Spetsnaz podpolkovnik, that’s lieutenant colonel in Russian special forces. Manages to embed himself in probably the most elite unit in the US armed forces. And kills them all. Beg your pardon. I think he may have let Quds Force kill one or two. No, wait. What am I saying? You don’t trust the Iranians’ competency, do you, Bor? You probably ended up doing all the killing yourself. Am I right?

  “Take a moment to consider that, gentlemen. One man—one—wipes out a unit of not just special operators, but super operators.” Day stared tauntingly at Bor. “Except Michael Garin. I assume Garin’s assassination, along with Clint Laws’s, was subcontracted to the Iranians? Big mistake, Bor. Big. That’s going to be a problem.”

  Bor shrugged. “It wasn’t my call. But it’s not a problem. I’ve made certain preparations in case Garin surfaces. But you, my friend, have a very big problem: What do you do with me?”

  “You’re not a problem. You’re a solution.”

  “A rather optimistic assessment of the situation, to put it mildly.”

  “I’m turning you over to the FBI. Telling them everything.”

  “If you do that, at best you’re going to prison for life,” Bor said. “Possibly be executed for treason.”

  “Wrong. I’ll be a hero. Celebrated, rewarded. There’s no paper trail whatsoever. No e-mails. Nothing. Nothing connecting me to you, or those madcap Iranians of yours.”

  “There’s me, Mr. Day. I know everything.”

  Day laughed loudly. “For someone who kills for a living, you’re spectacularly naïve. I’m counsel to Senate Intelligence. Everyone knows me—senators, intelligence officials, FBI. Vetted a million times over. Trusted with the nation’s most sensitive information. Respected. You, on the other hand, are a slimy Russian thug who slaughtered several of America’s finest patriots. You’re plotting to do grievous harm to US interests, just like you sneaky Russkies have been trying to do for more than half a century. And as the intrepid counsel to Senate Intelligence, I’ve been able to piece together your plan, having doggedly investigated all of the compromised JSOC operations over the last two years.” Day snorted. “You think I haven’t been preparing for this?” Day shook his head. “You’re fried, Bor. Done.”

  “Very good. But you still have a big problem. The FBI will be very interested to know how you came to establish a seven-figure bank account in Saint Lucia. Most difficult on a public servant’s salary.”

  “Wrong again. The FBI will never find out.”

  Bor shook his head. “I say, again, you have a very big problem. Three, actually. The FBI will never find out only if your three friends here don’t tell them. And now that they’ve just learned of your seven-figure account, I’m sure they’ll want what’s in it. Otherwise, they’ll go to the FBI. And then, once they’ve got your money, who’s to say they still won’t go to the FBI? Now it’s not just a slimy Russian thug’s word against that of the counsel to Senate Intelligence, but the word of three of D.C. Metro’s finest. Very bad, Mr. Day.”

  “Did you happen to notice that Al, Tom, and Rick are out of their jurisdiction? That’s because they’re working for me. I’ve had them with me for days in anticipation of your making a move on me. They already know about the seven-figure account, Bor. They’re getting paid—fairly generously—from that very account.”

  Day turned to Al, Tom, and Rick and grinned. “But they’ve got an extra incentive to be loyal, right, gentlemen? You see, Bor, I know their secrets. All of them. Hid them where only I can find them. You’d be amazed at the kind of information Senate Intelligence can get access to. Surveillance footage. Electronic intercepts. All kinds of communications. Communications cops shouldn’t be having. Not unless they want to finish their days behind bars. Hell, you didn’t think I just picked these guys randomly, did you?”

  Day gave a satisfied shrug. “So you see, Al, Tom, Rick, and I are the best of friends. They’ll each cash in as heroes, just like me. Everyone retires fat, rich, and happy. Except you, Bor. As I said, you’re done.”

  Bor nodded slowly. “We thought you were committed, Mr. Day. What you would call a ‘true believer.’ Not driven by the money. Or, at least not just the money. We miscalculated.”

  “I am a true believer, Bor. It’s not just the money. But apparently, with your being busy killing people and making the world safe for Russian imperialism, you haven’t had time to keep up with current events. The world’s been changing. Much more rapidly than we’d ever expected. Without the need for war. Without Russian influence.”

  Day paused, then waved Al toward Bor. “In the end, a pathetic display, Bor. I don’t know how in hell you got your reputation. But now, time for you to go.”

  “Hands behind your head, jackass,” Al said as he moved behind Bor. “Slow.”

  With a look of resignation, Bor complied. Tom stepped next to Day and in front of Bor as Al pulled out a set of handcuffs.

  For Julian Day, what happened next occurred, almost literally, in the blink of an eye.

  As the lawyer’s eyelids began to close, Bor, his hands behind his head in compliance with Al’s command, reached into a nylon sheath sewn inside the back collar of his shirt, pulled out a serrated dagger, and, shifting his wrist, swung it forward over his head as if he were chopping wood with an ax. As Day’s upper and lower eyelids met, the Russian jammed the dagger savagely into Tom’s left eye socket, splitting the orb as the tip penetrated past the nasal cavity into the auditory canal.

  A jet of Tom’s warm blood spurted into Day’s eyes just as his eyelids bounced open again and Bor was pulling the dagger from Tom’s eye socket. A piercing shriek fired from Tom’s lungs as he fell backward. At the same time, Bor collapsed to his knees, spun left to his rear, and plunged the dagger into Al’s left inner thigh, slicing a deep gash upward from his knee to his groin, ripping the femoral artery.

  A tick before Bor’s blade severed Al’s left testicle, a stunned Rick’s right index finger reflexively squeezed the trigger of the Beretta M9 trained at the spot where Bor had been standing milliseconds earlier. The bullet discharged a full foot over the kneeling assassin’s head and slammed harmlessly into the wall over the stove.

  Day’s vocal cords involuntarily generated a primal, anguished noise, his brain only now beginning to register the blur of mayhem before him. His eyelids snapped wide as Bor catapulted violently from the floor, hurling his 215 pounds of bone and muscle, dagger extended, at Rick. The blade drove into the detective’s throat just below the Adam’s apple, penetrating upward under the chin, through the floor of his mouth, and impaling his tongue against his palate—all of which were shredded by the blade’s serrated edges when Bor pulled the dagger out. Rick crashed to the floor next to Tom and Al.

  Elapsed time since Day began to blink: a shade over four seconds.

  The horrified lawyer stood frozen, watching torrents of blood gush from the D.C. Metro detectives lying on the tiled floor.

  Immediate threats now neutralized, Bor paused, expelled a long breath of air, and collected himself before moving from Al to Tom to Rick, filleting each with a series of strategically placed incisions to ensure each was dead.

  Day vomited effusively. Ten more seconds had elapsed. Maybe fifteen.

  Finished, the assassin rose, shoulders back, thick cords of vein pulsing in his neck. He took a sharp gulp of air before speaking.

  “That, I suppose, is how I got my reputation, Mr. Day.”

  Day began hyperventilating.

  Bor drew closer. Wolf’s eyes riveted on the counsel for the Senate Select Commit
tee on Intelligence of the United States of America.

  “You’re fried, Mr. Day. Done.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  THE WHITE HOUSE

  JULY 17 • 2:20 P.M. EDT

  President John Allen Marshall had known James Brandt for more than twenty-five years and not once during that time had Brandt engaged in hyperbole or dramatics when it came to his work. He was deliberate, precise and sober. He had once described the Japanese tsunami of 2011, which resulted in more than sixteen thousand deaths and two hundred billion dollars in damage, as a “noteworthy event.” So when the national security advisor made reference to “the immediate end of the United States as currently constituted,” he commanded the undivided attention of everyone in the Situation Room.

  Those present—Defense Secretary Douglas Merritt, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs Robert Taylor, CIA Deputy Director John Kessler, Director of National Intelligence Joseph Antonetti, Secretary of Homeland Security Susan Cruz, Secretary of State Ted Lawrence, and Chief of Staff Iris Cho—were already on heightened alert. Not only were things unraveling in the Middle East, but less than an hour earlier the USS Texas, a Virginia-class nuclear submarine, had detected up to a dozen Russian subs approximately three hundred miles east of the northernmost tip of Maine. Hearing the coldly analytical national security advisor refer to the end of America did little to alleviate the anxiety in the room.

  The president was terse. “Jim, explain. What does that mean?”

  “Mr. President,” Brandt began. “It’s our assessment that we’re going to be hit with an EMP attack.”