The President's Man

by Alex Ander

  Natasha and Sergei had been dating for the last two years. Their relationship had been great from the beginning; however, since the death of her father, they had begun arguing more. Usually, the arguments started over small matters before escalating to full-blown fights.

  Last week, Natasha had told Sergei she had wanted to take some time to be alone. She needed to sort things out. The death of her father had been difficult, and she was slipping deeper and deeper into an anger-induced way of life. To make matters worse, her job was demanding more and more of her time.

  Natasha was an FSB Agent, specializing in counter-terrorism, defending Russia from terrorist attacks. Over the past several months, there had been numerous assaults across the country. Citizens were terrified, never knowing when, or where, the next attack would occur. Natasha had been working overtime tracking down a serial bomber, who had exploded bombs at many locations, in and around Moscow, in the last three months. Sergei had called to inform her that a tip had come in, placing the bomber at this house. His team was in position, waiting for the order to storm the house.

  “YA dumayu, chto vy dolzhny sidet' eto odin iz — I think you should sit this one out.” Bracing for the backlash, Sergei’s muscles contracted.

  Natasha glared at him. He was trying to protect her. As far as she was concerned, they were not dating anymore and her personal welfare was no longer his concern. Pointing her finger at him, she opened her mouth to speak, but stopped. Afraid of what she may say, she kept her thoughts to herself. She finished attaching the straps on her protective vest. “Bez shansov — No chance.” Her voice left no doubt she was angry. She picked up her SR-3M Vikhr, pulled back on the bolt and saw a round in the chamber. Releasing the bolt, she removed the magazine and made sure it was full.

  Sergei did not have time to get into an argument with her that would most likely turn into a shouting match. He had a mission to complete and the other members of his team were relying on him to have his head in the game. He ogled Natasha from head to toe. “Vy deystvitel'no dumayete, chto vy odety dlya etogo — Do you really think you’re dressed for this?” He made no effort to hide the sarcasm in his voice.

  With more force than necessary, Natasha slammed the magazine into the rifle and examined her clothing. She was wearing a black bulletproof vest over a tight red knit sweater dress. The hem of the dress fell three inches above her knee. Black knee boots with chunky three-inch heels completed the outfit. She knew her clothing was not appropriate for an assault, but she had taken part in other operations and her heels and dress had been much higher.

  Seeing the look on her face, Sergei made an appeal to her sensibility. “Pust' moi lyudi pnut' v dveryakh. Kogda vse yasno, mesto vse tvoye — Let my men kick in the doors. When everything is clear, the place is all yours.”

  Natasha relented. The last thing she wanted to do was put his men at risk. She nodded her head and held out her hand, flexing her fingers. “Dayte mne naushnika — Give me an earpiece.” She put her rifle inside the SUV, before removing her vest and tossing it alongside the rifle.

  Sergei handed her an earpiece and started jogging toward the house, two team members at his side. He gave commands over the radio. Over his shoulder, he heard Natasha call out to him.

  “Byt' ostorozhen — Be careful.”

  Sergei smiled. Maybe not all is lost between us.

  Standing near the left-rear corner of the SUV, Natasha drew back her hair and tucked the tiny communication device into her ear. She heard Sergei’s commands, while watching him and his team approach the front door. She folded her arms across her chest and rubbed the backs of her upper arms. The heels of her boots rubbed against each other, while she shifted her weight back and forth. She saw Sergei give hand signals to the men near him. The teams were preparing to breach both doors to the house, simultaneously. Natasha felt a chill run down her back. She lowered her head and realized she was standing in the cold, wearing only a dress and boots. Leaning to the right, her left foot came off the ground and the fingertips of her right hand touched the collar of her coat. Before she could close her fingers, a loud blast pierced her eardrums and the ensuing shockwave slammed into her chest like a sledgehammer.

  Already off-balance, Natasha was thrown backwards several feet. She landed on her back in a spread-eagle position. Her ears ringing, she laid on the ground, staring at the sky. Particles of debris floated down around her. A hot ember, the size of a quarter, fell on her left thigh and burned a hole through her nylons. She felt nothing. It took more than a minute, but the ringing in her ears subsided. She sat up. The house was reduced to rubble. Sections of it were on fire. Black smoke rose into the air. Her senses returning, she felt searing pain in her leg. She swiped away the hot ember. There was a large hole in her nylons. The skin—usually milky white in color—was bright red. She gathered a handful of snow and held it on her thigh. She closed her eyes and sighed. A few seconds later, she opened them to the sight of the house in shambles. A teardrop ran down her cheek and her voice cracked when she whispered, “Sergei.”

  Minutes later, her legs began shaking and the muscles in her butt contracted. The coldness of the damp snow had seeped through her dress and nylons. Like an ocean wave, crashing against the shore, the cold ran up her body, until she was shivering from head to toe. Convulsing, she let her body fall backward. Lying on the snowy ground, she saw images of Sergei and her father flash across her mind. Fatigue set in and her eyelids drooped before closing. I’m so tired.

  Chapter 3: Oval Office

  July 8th, 8:43 a.m.; the Oval Office (the White House)

  Aaron Hardy sat on the end of the couch in the Oval Office. The President of the United States, James Conklin, sat across from him in a wooden, straight back chair with leather trim. The men were discussing the details of the job the President had offered Hardy, which he accepted.

  Hardy was wearing a gray suit, white shirt and a red tie. A handkerchief in his left breast pocket matched the color of his tie, which was held in place by a gold clip. A collar bar under the knot of the tie drew the points of his shirt collar closer together. The suit fit his five-feet, eleven-inch, one hundred and eighty-five-pound frame, perfectly. One week ago, he celebrated his thirtieth birthday and was in the best physical shape of his life.

  Hardy had enlisted in the U.S. Marine Corps when he was eighteen years old. He spent the first four years of his career serving overseas, primarily in Iraq, before becoming a member of the Second Marine Special Operations Battalion, headquartered at Camp Lejeune, North Carolina. For the next five years, he was involved in direct-action, special reconnaissance and counter-terrorism missions, until Colonel Franklin Ludlum asked him to take command of a team and conduct top-secret missions all over the world.

  One week ago, at the start of the Fourth of July holiday weekend, Hardy’s teammates had been killed in an explosion at a tavern in Washington D.C. Hardy was the only survivor. During the next twenty-four hours, he tracked down those who were responsible for killing his men. With the help of Special Agent Raychel DelaCruz of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, he was able to bring the perpetrators to justice.

  The President arranged a meeting with Hardy after discovering what he had done. During the meeting, the President offered Hardy a top-secret job, working directly for him. Hardy’s main objective was to go on the offensive against the terrorists. Since the position did not officially exist, he would operate under special rules of engagement—his own. He would do whatever was necessary, and use whatever resources he had, to stop the terrorists before they could carry out further attacks. The President’s exact words were ‘to take the fight to the terrorists.’

  “As I said earlier, you would have all the resources you need to get the job done.” The President checked his wristwatch. “I’m sick and tired of the terrorists tying our hands and forcing us to play defense. When I campaigned for this job, I told the American people I would be tough on terror. Since taking office, I’ve been wrapped up in political battles that
have virtually sidelined my efforts to make real progress in this war.” The President shifted in his chair. “And, make no mistake, this is a war.”

  James Conklin was a man dedicated to serving the American people. He had served two terms as Governor of Massachusetts after he had returned home from serving his country. Conklin was a marine with the First Battalion 8th Marines and stationed in Beirut, Lebanon in 1983. He was among the 128 who were wounded when a suicide bomber detonated a truck bomb near the building serving as the barracks. Two-hundred forty-one American service members were killed. Conklin’s hero status had helped him in his campaign for the governorship. He won in a landslide victory.

  Now, at age fifty-five, he was two years into his first term. The man was in great shape for his age. His hair was gray, but showed no signs of balding. He wore a black suit with a white dress shirt. His tie was deep blue and he had a handkerchief in his left breast pocket that matched the color of his tie. Lastly, he wore a pair of black casual loafers. “Are there any—” the President started to say, but stopped when someone knocked on the door. The door to the Oval Office opened and the President’s Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, Phillip Jameson, entered.

  The President stood and glimpsed his watch. “Thanks for coming, Phil. I know you’ve got a lot on your plate.”

  “It’s not a problem, sir.” Jameson’s long strides made short order of the distance between the door and the couch. He extended his hand toward the President, who shook it before introducing Jameson to Hardy.

  “Aaron, this is my Director of the FBI, Phillip Jameson.” The President faced Jameson. “Director Jameson, I want you to meet Aaron Hardy, your newest special agent. Aaron has accepted the position you and I discussed earlier, and is eager to start as soon as possible.” After Jameson and Hardy had shaken hands, the President checked his watch. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I have a press conference in fifteen minutes.” He shook Hardy’s hand. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Aaron. I’m glad to have you on our team.” He tipped his head toward Jameson. “You’re in good hands.”

  “Thank you, Mr. President.”

  The President acknowledged Jameson. “I trust you’ll fill him in on the specifics of the position as well as the details of his first mission.”

  “Of course I will, sir.”

  “Splendid,” said the President, who patted Jameson on the back before heading toward the door, straightening his tie.

  Jameson faced Hardy, who was already sizing up his new boss. Hardy knew Jameson had played an active role in the Fourth of July events in which Hardy was involved. He studied Jameson, taking in his demeanor and physical characteristics.

  The fifty-year-old FBI Director was physically fit, regularly lifting weights and jogging. He was five-feet, eleven inches tall and weighed one hundred and ninety pounds. He was bald and wore rounded, rectangular eyeglasses with thick black frames. His work attire was always the same—black suit, white shirt, red tie. He changed the shade and print of the tie, but it was always red. His shoes were black and always polished—no smudges. His clothing was a projection of what you could expect from him. He was a man who brought to bear rock-steady leadership and decision-making skills and always backed his agents. He was also quick to get to the point.

  “Let’s get started.” Jameson tossed a manila file folder onto the coffee table before sitting in the chair the President had vacated. “Before we go over your first mission, we need to discuss the details of your employment.”

  Sitting, Hardy nodded his head and leaned forward.

  “Officially, your position does not exist as the President outlined it.” Jameson reclined and crossed his legs. “You’ll be working for the FBI and have an office in Washington D.C. Your title will reflect your cover story. You’ll be acting as a consultant, advising corporations, foreign nationals, other nations…you name it…on matters pertaining to terrorism.” Jameson spread his hands apart. “Keep it broad and vague when you have to discuss your credentials.” He wagged his finger. “That reminds me. Here’s your badge.” He handed Hardy a leather bi-fold with an FBI badge and documentation with his photo and official title.

  Hardy opened the leather bi-fold and read his title: Special Agent Consultant to the Director. That’s a mouthful.

  “Now, about your first mission,” Jameson pointed toward the manila folder, “The details are in that file. Let’s go over what you need to do.”

  Chapter 4: Mission

  Thousands of feet above the Atlantic Ocean

  Hardy sat back in his seat aboard a Gulfstream V jet, flying high above the Atlantic Ocean. He was the only passenger on the flight. The FBI used the jet to transport agents around the world. The aircraft had taken off from Washington D.C. at 1 p.m.; its destination was Moscow, Russia. After the plane had leveled off and reached its cruising speed, Hardy unbuckled his seatbelt and picked up his new phone.

  He stared at the satellite phone. Even though it appeared to be exactly like any other smartphone on the market, it was a state-of-the-art piece of technology, capable of getting a communication signal where normal smartphones could not. Plus, it contained a Global Positioning System tracker that was accurate within one square block. He was not staring at the sat phone in awe of its technological advances, however. Before the Gulfstream V had taken off, Hardy made a call to Special Agent Raychel DelaCruz of the FBI. The conversation had not gone well.

  Special Agent DelaCruz, her colleagues shortened her name to Cruz, had been the lead agent investigating the explosion at the tavern that killed everyone, except Hardy. His first encounter with her was at the hospital after the explosion. He had been captivated by her from the moment he opened his eyes and saw her standing over his hospital bed. Twenty-nine years old, she was both beautiful and professional. She was tall, standing five-feet, eight inches. She had dark brown hair that fell below her shoulders. Her hair was paired with an equally beautiful set of dark brown eyes. She had a long face with high cheekbones and a flawless complexion.

  During the past week, Hardy and Cruz had been seeing each other, taking walks during her lunch hour and going out for drinks. Two days ago, they went out for dinner for the first time. They had a great time and made plans to go out again tonight, which made the call to her more difficult.

  Hardy had told her he was going out of town, which had prompted her to ask the usual questions—where are you going?, why are you going?, how long will you be gone? Since the President had made it clear his new job was top-secret, Hardy had to tiptoe around the inquiry, unable to get into specifics. Even though she sounded like she was okay, he had sensed she was not happy with his vague responses.

  Hardy closed his eyes and rested his head on the seat. He did not want to ruin what he had with her. In his line of work, it was difficult to have a serious relationship with a woman. He would be gone for long periods and he could not discuss where he had been. Since Cruz had spent long hours at her job, he had hoped she would be better able to understand his unconventional schedule. Still, no woman wanted to be separated from her man for long stretches.

  He put the sat phone in his pocket and reached for the manila file folder on an adjacent seat. I’ll take her somewhere nice when I get back. Shifting his thoughts to the mission, he opened the file and studied its contents.

  Director Jameson had spent the rest of the morning briefing Hardy on the mission. It was simple in nature. He was to locate Anton Rudin, a Russian bomb maker, and kill him. Rudin was a bomb maker for hire. He made sophisticated and powerful explosive devices and sold them to anyone, or any organization, for the right price. He may not have been a terrorist, but he supplied them. The theory behind the mission was stop the bomb maker from making bombs, and the terrorists have one less resource at their disposal.

  For the past five months, Russia had been experiencing a wave of domestic terrorist attacks, including several bombings in, and around, the city of Moscow. The Russian authorities suspected Rudin had supplied the bombs, bu
t had not been able to find him. In a spirit of cooperation, Russia had contacted the White House and agreed to share the information they had on Rudin in the hopes of stopping further terrorist attacks. It was a real ‘olive branch’ of a gesture, since the two nations were not on the best of speaking terms.

  Hardy peeled back a sheet of paper, skimmed the page beneath it and let go of the paper. The dossier of Natasha Volkov, the Russian FSB agent he was scheduled to meet in Moscow, was lengthy.

  Volkov was twenty-seven years old. She had been working for the FSB for the last four years, serving in various positions. Her most recent appointment, which began shortly after the terrorist attacks had started, specialized in counter-terrorism. She was fluent in three languages, one of which was English. She graduated from Moscow State University before completing her training at the FSB Academy, where she was recognized for numerous talents, including marksmanship and criminal investigation. Hardy rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. Even though he had not met her, he could see she was an accomplished woman, at least on paper. Reading the file, he began the task of committing to memory everything the dossier contained.

  Three hours later, Hardy tossed the file onto the seat. He retrieved his sat phone and checked the time before reclining in his seat. He was tired and his eyes burned. The flight to Moscow was going to take nine hours, and there was an eight-hour time difference between Washington, D.C. and the Russian capitol. He would be landing at 6 a.m., local time. He closed his eyes and relaxed. He needed to get some sleep before his 8 a.m. meeting with the FSB agent.