“Doug, do we have any military options other than hitting their facilities with these godforsaken bunker busters?” Marshall asked. “Anything that could avoid innocent Iranian casualties?”
“I’m afraid not, Mr. President. As you’re well aware, our missile-intercept programs were stagnant, if not degraded, during the previous administration. Peace through unilateral disarmament. At this moment we have six Ticonderoga-class Aegis cruisers in and around the Persian Gulf. But their design capability is for midcourse and reentry-phase intercepts, not boost phase. That’s not going to help Israel. So we need to hit the launch sites before any missiles are fired.”
Marshall slapped his desk in frustration. He stared vacantly across the room for an instant before collecting himself.
“All right, gentlemen. Doug, Bob, be ready to go when I give the order. Liaise with IDF. I assume we’ve gamed this with them multiple times.”
Taylor opened his mouth to confirm, but Marshall cut him off. “We’ll wait until we’ve gathered all the intel that’s available before our window of opportunity closes, Bob’s point of no return. I trust you all to alert me when that time approaches. I will then give the order to strike Iran.”
The finality in Marshall’s voice gave the trio sitting across from him their cue to leave. As they rose, Marshall said, “Jim, stick around. No sense in coming and going every ten minutes. I’m certain to need you.” The president turned to Merritt and Taylor. “As you leave, tell Maggie to let Arlo in here. If Bertrand gives you any shit, deck him.”
Merritt, Taylor, and Brandt chuckled. All three men comprehended the magnitude of what was transpiring. Each was aware of the crush of responsibility weighing upon the man behind the desk, a feeling only previous wartime presidents could truly understand. Each was signaling respect, not just for the office but for the man holding the office. And appreciation that the man appeared equal to the moment.
“One last thing,” the president said as Merritt and Taylor were opening the door. “Where in hell are we going to get that intel?”
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
EASTERN SHORE, MARYLAND
JULY 17 • 8:58 P.M. EDT
Julie filed the last of the rental forms and shut down her computer for the day. She had agreed to cover the swing shift at the Terrapin Estates rental office for Lori, one of the other rental agents, so that she could attend a Nationals game with her boyfriend.
It was almost dark out. Julie had been on the job for twelve hours, but she really didn’t mind the long shift. It had been a slow day and she appreciated the overtime. She’d spent good portions of the shift shopping online and e-mailing some of her friends. The manager didn’t mind as long as she got her work done, and most of her work was complete by midafternoon, with only one new arrival checking in after three o’clock. Nonetheless, she was looking forward to going back to her apartment, taking a long shower, and relaxing in front of the television with a glass of wine. A movie she had wanted to see was debuting on pay-per-view, one she’d missed at the theater because Justin, her lying, cheating ex-boyfriend, had taken her ex–best friend, Barb, to the show instead. Julie had stumbled upon this indiscretion when she found the ticket stub in the lout’s jeans while doing the laundry. When Julie confronted him, the idiot unraveled in an instant, incoherently claiming that Barb had come on to him but that the movie had been innocent. The former was probably true. He was an idiot, but he was a really good-looking idiot, and Barb was in perpetual pursuit of pretty boys.
Julie turned off her desk lamp and began making her way out when the rental office door opened and Justin’s opposite in every way walked in. This was no pretty boy, although he was at least as good-looking and far better built than Justin. This, Julie thought, was a man—something women in her age group encountered about as frequently as leprechauns. Maybe the evening still had possibilities.
“Well, look who’s back!” Julie exclaimed, flashing a perfect set of laser-whitened teeth. “I was afraid you’d fallen into the bay or something. I’ve seen some of your friends from time to time, even though you all keep pretty much to yourselves, but you must have been practicing your imitation of the invisible man. I thought I wouldn’t see you before your rental’s up on Thursday.”
Garin smiled charmingly, an act that didn’t come naturally. He wanted to maintain the impression that he was just an average guy spending the week fishing and hanging out with his college buddies.
“My office called and I had to go back to the District to take care of some business,” Garin explained.
“So you took care of business and now here you are,” Julie said cheerfully as she came from behind the rental counter, making sure Garin got a good look at her plyometrics-toned body. “Oh, I almost forgot.” She stopped abruptly and began walking back to the desk. “Your friends asked me to make sure I called them whenever one of you guys arrived. I think maybe they wanted a head count for a beer run or something later on.”
“No need to do that,” Garin said with feigned casualness. “They called me earlier and asked me to pick up the beer and some wings on my way back.” Garin leaned against the counter. “Anybody else show up after I left?”
Julie looked conflicted. “You know,” she said reaching for the phone, “I’d better call. The one guy—built kinda like you, actually—gave me a fifty just to make sure I’d call.”
Garin glided around the counter and placed his left hand gently over Julie’s as she began to pick up the receiver. “Had to be Gates,” Garin said with a knowing grin. “That SOB. He’s setting me up again, I know it. He’ll probably have some booby trap waiting for me when I come in the door. He’s got me three times in a row now. You probably wouldn’t believe it, but he had a bag full of dog crap over the transom last time. Just missed me.” Garin reached into his hip pocket with his right hand and pulled out a roll of bills. “I’ll give you a hundred dollars not to make the call.”
“Whoa,” Julie laughed, enjoying the feel of Garin’s hand on hers. “Keep the cash, cowboy. You guys throw money around like it’s free.” She raised an eyebrow. “But I do like your style. I’ll just have to think of some other way you can repay me.” She placed the receiver back in the cradle.
“Well, Julie, maybe you and I can figure something out.”
“At least you remembered my name. That’s a start.”
“Wrote it in my diary,” Garin declared with mock earnestness.
“Not ‘hot blonde with the great ass’?”
“Well, that, too.”
Julie remained standing within inches of Garin. Most guys she knew would’ve taken that as a signal to make a move, which typically consisted of some clumsy pawing of her body. It was, after all, a killer body, so who could blame them? This man did no such thing. He just gazed steadily and smiled. Not arrogantly. Confidently. But with a hint of danger.
Under different circumstances, Garin might have had similar thoughts. But he was tightly focused on his objective. His hunch had proved correct. The Quds Force operatives were, indeed, using the same cabin. And it sounded like Bor might be with them. Garin needed to get whatever relevant information he could from Julie before embarking on a course of action.
“So, Julie, how much beer and wings should I get?”
Julie, who had eased even closer to Garin, blinked, snapping back to reality.
“Oh. Well, let’s see,” she said as she returned to her desk and restarted her computer. “You know,” she said absently as she typed in her password, “your friend—Gates, I think you called him? He sure doesn’t seem like much of a prankster to me. Real serious. A little scary, actually.”
“That’s vintage Gates.” Garin smiled. “Part of the act. Always putting people on. He’s harmless, though. Even a little bit of a wimp.”
“And the other guys I’ve seen aren’t exactly rays of sunshine either,” Julie said, scrolling down the tenant register. “No off
ense. I know you guys go back. They just all look like they could use a good laxative.”
“Well, I guess we all grew up and got responsibilities. Got serious.” Garin shrugged. “That’s why we wanted to come out here and unwind a little.”
“And some of them looked kinda, I don’t know, foreign, you know? Just saying.”
“Probably been in the sun, out on the bay.”
Julie stopped scrolling. “Here we go. There are”—Julie counted under her breath—“fourteen.”
Fourteen. Garin had expected three or four, max. Clearly, he needed support for this operation. He didn’t know how to reach Brandt without Olivia, and he couldn’t call the FBI. Even if he could, they would take a while. Same with Dwyer. And his friend had lost several men in the last few hours. He could hardly ask him to sacrifice more men and place his organization in legal jeopardy. But Garin had no other options. He couldn’t take on fourteen Tangos by himself.
“Plus,” Julie added, “I think one or two guys brought their wives or girlfriends. They’re not on the register, but when they drove in earlier this evening, I did see a woman. Tons of really long black hair. Pretty. I’ll just register and charge them tomorrow morning.”
Olivia . . .
Any remaining chance Garin had to wait for the cavalry to arrive evaporated. Bor was going to interrogate Olivia about what Garin had told her and what she, in turn, had told Brandt. Then he’d kill her. Garin had no choice but to call Dwyer and hope he and his men could get here fast. But he needed to move now.
Garin thought quickly. “Thanks. Is there a place close by where I can pick up some cold beer, maybe some wings?”
Julie shut down her computer and came around the counter again. “There’s a 7-Eleven about two miles down on Choptank,” Julie said, waving in an easterly direction. “Just hang a left onto Waverly as you come out of the access road, go a half mile, and take a right onto Choptank. It’ll be on your right, next to Dumser’s Bait and Tackle. I don’t know about wings, but they’ve got frozen pizza, cold cuts, stuff like that. The 7-Eleven, that is.”
“Great. You’ve been a real help.” Garin smiled again, trying to keep up the charade of normalcy. “Is there any possibility . . .”
“There might be,” Julie said with a playful look. She quickly wrote her cell phone number on the back of one of the manager’s business cards lying on the counter and handed it to Garin.
“I know you probably want to catch up with your friends tonight and all. But give me a call whenever you have some time. I’m just twenty minutes away; maybe we can grab a beer.”
Garin palmed the card, smiled appreciatively, and headed for the door before turning.
“By the way, did you happen to see my buddy Julian arrive? Skinny, glasses, thin light brown hair?”
“Oh yeah, I think so,” Julie replied. “Real worried-looking? Like he’s marching to the electric chair or something? Now, that guy really could use a vacation.”
—
Bor had allotted six hours to interrogate Perry and Day, but he was confident he wouldn’t need the entire time. Taking Day’s measure, Bor concluded that the Senate counsel would probably be an easier subject than the woman.
Bor stood in the living room area in the center of the cabin’s main level and scrutinized Day and Perry, seated together on a small couch. Whereas the frail lawyer was looking downward, pulling nervously at his fingernails, and appeared on the verge of evacuating his bladder, the aide to James Brandt gazed directly at Bor with a look of defiance. That look, Bor knew, was not uncommon for strangers to cruelty. They had little conception of the horrors that their fellow man had the capacity to inflict. That would change shortly.
Bor’s primary concern at the moment was the Iranians. While there was no doubt that Bor was in charge, they seemed perpetually perched on the brink of violence. Without Bor’s knowledge, a few of them had roughed up Day in the back of the van on the drive to the Terrapin Estates. Upon discovering this, Bor sent a message to the other Iranians by unceremoniously snapping the principal culprit’s right arm at the elbow. The other Iranians instantly fell into line. Bor was the undisputed alpha dog of this operation. Nonetheless, they continued to hover about Day and Perry like jackals circling carrion.
Bor much preferred working alone or with a small cadre of his own handpicked professionals. He was most comfortable with a team of Spetsnaz comrades, but he’d been impressed with the Omega operators. They were as good as anyone he’d ever worked with. He’d even grown to like and respect them, particularly their leader, Michael Garin, one of the few men Bor considered a peer.
In contrast, these Quds Force men seemed little more than highly trained thugs, with an inflated sense of their own competence. Not that they couldn’t be effective. They were a creditable special operations unit. Provided the mission was relatively straightforward, and their adversary ordinary, they were able to acquit themselves very well. But their limitations became glaringly obvious when tasked to kill Garin.
They’d been thrust on Bor by Moscow, who thought Bor needed help. In the end, Bor ended up killing most of the Omega team by himself anyway. But the Iranians at least provided logistical support.
Bor turned to Atosh Larijani, the senior Iranian. “Take Mr. Day to one of the upstairs bedrooms. We will start with him.” Larijani nodded at two Quds Force operatives, who grabbed Day roughly by each arm and pulled him off the couch. The attorney appeared almost catatonic. Although he offered no resistance, his face was tense and his body was rigid.
“Gently, please,” Bor admonished. “Mr. Day is a friend. We need not force information from him. He will cooperate. We’re just going to have a little chat.”
Day, his eyes wide with fear, hoped it was true. Why shouldn’t it be? He’d already demonstrated his willingness to provide Bor with any information he needed. He’d proven his loyalty and reliability for nearly three years. Why were they treating him like this? He hadn’t betrayed them in any way. Not really. He’d only acted defensively. This had to be a show for Perry to frighten her. That was it. Of course, that had to be it.
The two Iranians disappeared with Day down the hall and up the stairs. Bor looked at his watch. Ten fifteen. Less than six hours until exfiltration. His exfil. A speedboat manned by three heavily armed naval Spetsnaz operators was hidden in a cove less than half a mile away. A fast trip four miles down the eastern Chesapeake shoreline to a waiting helicopter. Then a short hop to a plane located at a small rural airfield in central North Carolina. He had been given explicit instructions to leave the Iranians behind. After all, their presence would be more evidence for the Americans of Iran’s culpability in the EMP attack. An attack that would occur sometime in the next eight hours.
Bor walked over to the couch and sat next to Olivia, an almost imperceptible flinch betraying her show of defiance. Bor looked at her a moment, his face inscrutable, then patted her knee reassuringly.
“We will have our little talk shortly, Ms. Perry,” Bor said in a calm, eerily detached voice. “As you no doubt have guessed, I’m interested in your conversations with my friend Mike Garin. That’s all. Nothing earth-shattering. But first I need to have a talk with Mr. Day. It shouldn’t take long. In the meantime, gather your thoughts, and if you need anything at all, just ask Atosh.”
Bor rose and smiled down at Olivia.
“Be back in a bit . . .”
Olivia was sure she’d never heard anything more menacing in her entire life.
—
Garin crept carefully downhill and through the brush toward the cabin housing Bor and the Iranians. The sky was moonless and the densely wooded forest with its thick canopy reduced visibility to barely five feet in every direction but one. Less than one hundred fifty feet ahead, the lights of the cabin illuminated its immediate perimeter and acted as a beacon for Garin, who would otherwise have no indication he was headed in the right direction
.
Improvisation. Garin carried a six-pack of beer in his left hand. In his right he carried a cheap fishing rod he’d purchased at Dumser’s Bait and Tackle Shop next to the 7-Eleven on Choptank. Wedged between his right hand and the shaft of the rod was his SIG Sauer P226, suppressor affixed. In the dark, from a distance of more than a few feet, the SIG and the fishing rod were indistinguishable.
While driving to and from the 7-Eleven, Garin had made several unanswered calls to Dwyer. The lack of response was unusual, but Garin surmised Dwyer must still be at Carl’s bedside, cell phone off in compliance with hospital rules. Garin had left a message for Dwyer, as well as for Matt on DGT’s main line, although he knew any operation of this magnitude and sensitivity could be green-lighted only by Dwyer himself. Garin couldn’t take down the occupants of the cabin alone, not if he had any hope of Olivia’s making it out alive. He desperately needed support from Dwyer’s men.
On his way back from the 7-Eleven, Garin had placed his phone on vibrate and every minute or so he’d hit redial. That was fifteen minutes ago, with no response. He had no choice but to begin moving in on his own.
The darkness provided excellent cover as he approached the rear of the cabin. Although the curtains weren’t drawn, the main- and second-floor windows were too high for anyone at ground level to see everyone inside with certainty. From Garin’s vantage point slightly up the hill, he was even with the main-floor windows but still too far away to see the occupants clearly without a scope. Through the picture window in the living room he could see several individuals standing about, as well as others seated on a couch and chairs. But he couldn’t tell whether they were male or female, American or Iranian.
Target Omega Page 35
