O’Malley chimed in. “We have zero intel. I can do some research on where Manaslu did construction, but what it looks like happened is Gorham used Manaslu as an entrée into these countries so that he could subversively take over their command and control systems.”
The room was silent for a moment, then Mahegan spoke. “Idaho is the only state not programmed for retaliation in a two thousand missile scenario.”
“Two thousand missiles?” Owens asked.
“There are maps. WikiLeaks. Other sources,” Mahegan said. “It’s all out there and in here.” He pointed at the classified JWICS terminal he was using to communicate with the Pentagon.
“Iran and North Korea are on countdown. Less than twenty-four hours there. We know this much from what Sean’s shown us. Maybe because Russia is bigger, harder to coordinate, we’ve got a little more time there. But the bottom line is that we need the biometric keys to get in, confirm their identity, and then open access to the networks in the RINK countries.”
“You get me into the system, I can shut them down,” O’Malley said.
“Okay. Sean, you’ve got nukes. Spartak, Langevin, or whatever her real name is, I’m not sure I trust her, but she’s out there in that container and can help. If she can shut down those conventional capabilities like she did those MiGs, she’ll be useful. We don’t have a lot of time to debate whether or not she’s a spy or whatever. If she is, she could be just as useful being right here with us.”
“How so?” Savage asked.
“Gorham has sensors everywhere. She seems to be at odds with him. Even if she’s working for, say, the Russians, which is a possibility, she’ll still try to keep tabs on Gorham. Keep him off our ass.”
“It’s a risk,” O’Malley said.
“But not a gamble,” Mahegan replied.
“I don’t know. Could be a gamble,” Savage said.
Mahegan and his team had always talked in terms of a risk being something from which they could recover and continue to mission success while a gamble was an action that could lead to catastrophic failure. Unrecoverable.
“You’re in charge, General. I say we use her. We’d all be dead at the bottom of the Pacific if it weren’t for her.”
“Execute. You’re killing time,” Savage said.
Mahegan noted that the general never technically gave his approval for using Spartak/Langevin specifically. Regardless, he continued. “Okay, Patch, we go with what we know. You will take Hobart and Van Dreeves and secure the North Korean Key, breach the Manaslu factory there, and find the biometric key reader. Walk this person through it and open the portal so that Sean can disable whatever nuclear capability North Korea has.”
“Easy,” Owens said.
Mahegan squinted at him, essentially saying Quit being a smartass, which was impossible for Owens.
Mahegan continued. “And to reiterate, Sean, we need you to stay here and be in a three-point stance ready to launch into those systems and disrupt their launch commands once we get the biometric key through the portal. This is a cyber war. And it’s a race. The whole idea was to catch us flatfooted, which worked.”
“But what about Russia?” O’Malley said.
“Shayne and Langevin both hinted that Gorham could be a Master Key. I think Langevin may even be a biometric override, but I wouldn’t bank on it. Something is off about that woman. But Gorham, I can believe he would be able to override everything. We will put our money on him for use as the Russian Key. Unless we get more information in the next few hours, I’m going after Gorham. So we need intel collection to find Gorham,” Mahegan said.
Savage nodded. His hair glistened in the bright fluorescent lights like bristles of cut steel. “We know you want revenge for Cassie being captured, Jake. Keep this on the level.”
“Cassie’s fine. She’s a survivor and ends up getting herself into the right place at the right time. Because of her, we’ve got eyes on the Iranian Key operation right now, which Sean will be ready to shut down once the Jordanians get the Iranian Key into Yazd. I can promise you that. One less thing to worry about. We get on North Korea and Iran, shut them down, and then figure out Russia.”
Without warning, computer screens began showing spinning rainbows and the lights in the command post were off. O’Malley yanked a flash drive from the MacBook.
“This is ComWar coming at us. EMP followed by digital bomb. Iranian tanks can’t be far behind.” Electromagnetic pulse. Not good. Turning to the army special forces commander in charge of the base at Farah, Mahegan asked, “What kind of Apache gunship support do we have?”
“Six Apaches,” the colonel replied as he picked up his radio and directed his teams. “Launch the Apaches now. Get eyes on whatever is moving out there.”
“Doubtful they’ll be much use, but we can try,” Mahegan said, remembering the F-35s that lost the dogfight with the North Korean MiGs. “If nothing else, they have guns.”
“That are digitally controlled by the pilot’s helmet,” Owens said.
“Patch, we’ve got to get you ready for your mission. Sean, were you able to print out or store anything we got from Cassie?” Mahegan asked.
The bone-chilling sound of tank main gun rounds whistled overhead. A dozen soldiers were manning the operations center.
In the darkness, Mahegan ordered, “Everyone out! Now!” He swept Ranger the wolfhound into his arms and raced outside. He took a left toward the containers—and the enemy fire. Machinegun rounds punched through the thin container walls. He ran through the door, tracers zipping past him at supersonic speeds with high pitched whining noises that ended with sickening thuds into metal, wood, and bodies. Two soldiers dropped to the ground, wounded, but Mahegan’s focus was on his two prisoners. He kicked open the container door and saw Spartak/Langevin huddled in the corner.
“What the hell is going on?!”
“We’re taking fire from the Iranians. Need to keep you alive.”
“No shit.”
He led Spartak/Langevin behind her ersatz prison cell, as the enemy fire intensified. “If you want to live, stay here until I return.” He laid Ranger next to her, and she immediately pulled the animal close to her. “Lay down behind this container. Hold Ranger. Protect her. I’m grabbing Shayne.”
Running into the hail of fire, he reached Shayne’s container, which was riddled with bullet holes. Shrapnel flew into his face, cutting his chin. It was as if they were targeting these two containers. Did Shayne alert Gorham somehow? He didn’t seem the type to die for any cause, though he did seem allegiant to the CEO. Had Gorham placed micro-chips on his people?
Mahegan lost that thought as a tank high explosive round plowed into the far end of the container, ripping it open. Iranian infantry was on the ground maybe a quarter mile away. At least the American M4 carbines and M240B machine guns would be effective against the ground soldiers.
Opening the door to Shayne’s container, he saw the young man trying to crawl. He had been wounded. Mahegan flipped him onto his back and ran toward Spartak/Langevin, who was impatiently waiting.
“We stay here, we die,” she said.
“Follow me,” Mahegan said.
“Holy shit. You’ve really got Shayne. Keep him alive! He’s the only one who can unscrew all of this.”
Less than 300 meters away, the Green Berets were cutting down the infantry that had deployed from armored personnel carriers. Mahegan carried Shayne on his back like a harvested deer, felt the blood flowing down his back, and ushered Spartak/Langevin along, who was bitching about her handcuffs. He linked up with O’Malley, Owens, and Savage who were in a Gator all-terrain vehicle that somehow had survived the ComWar attack.
“Airfield, now,” Mahegan directed. He nodded at the Green Beret colonel who was running toward the fight with his men.
“You’ve got some pull man. B-2 bomber is going to drop some dumb bombs on these guys and then land to pick you up. SEAL team is waiting for you at the airfield,” the Green Beret said.
Just
then Mahegan noticed the bat-winged aircraft slicing through the darkness less than a half mile above ground level. Normally the B-2 would drop smart bombs from 40,000 feet above ground level and it was almost in close air support mode. Its bomb bay doors opened and rained large bombs on the enemy formation. Some were direct hits, others were wide, short, or long, but they were effective. A few came near the camp, but it was danger close and Mahegan was okay with that.
The bombing run kicked up enough dust and debris that it made Mahegan think of the shamal they had jumped into just twenty-four hours earlier. With the sun nosing over the mountains, they would have to hustle. Less than forty hours now and all indicators were that Russia, Iran, and North Korea would conduct a major nuclear strike against every target they could range. Shoot their entire wad.
The B-2 made a wide, arcing turn, exposing its underbelly to the enemy tanks, but thankfully leveled out and managed to stay ahead of the barrage that came its way. It banked, lined up on the runway that Mahegan and team were approaching, and then popped its landing gear.
The B-2 skidded to a landing on the two-mile runway. Hobart and Van Dreeves linked up with Mahegan, did the combat shake and half hug.
Wasting no time, Mahegan said, “Patch is your man. He has all the intel. Bring him back alive after you get the North Korean Key into the chamber.”
“Roger that, Jake,” Van Dreeves said. He was a tall man, wearing dark clothes and a helmet with the earpieces cut out. A scraggly black beard hugged his chin and bounced as he spoke.
Mahegan turned to Owens. The two longtime friends and battle buddies stood on the tarmac of the Farah Airfield. The same XB-2 bomber from which Mahegan and Cassie had jumped into Iran was impatiently blowing hot jet wash along the runway.
“You’ve got the target folder in all of your comms, Patch. You’ll be jumping into North Korea right on top of the facility. Even though Dear Supreme Leader is dead, this woman, Kal, is the Korean Key. She is supposedly on her way back from the Iranian meet up. You must take her alive and walk her through the chamber in Manaslu’s Samjiyon facility. You’ve got Hobart and VD jumping with you at 35,000 feet. You’ll be in the bomb bays of the B-2. They’ve got heaters and sleeping bags. You’ll only be in the air for three, maybe four hours. Jump, snatch, breach, and shut down the Korean nuclear countdown.”
“Then what?” Owens smiled.
“Smoke a cigar. We’ll figure the rest out. Maybe bring you back to the states. Maybe send you to Moscow. Who knows. We’re making shit up as we go,” Mahegan said. “You ever seen anything like this?”
“Combat’s the same wherever we go, isn’t it? Good people doing the right thing for the right reasons. Like you say, ‘Better to die a hero than grow old.’ ”
“Don’t be a hero, dickhead. Just execute like we always do and find a way to contact me.”
Owens smiled and nodded. “Roger that.”
Mahegan and Owens clasped hand to forearm in the warrior’s grip, cognizant of the fact that they may never see one another again.
Mahegan didn’t have time to think about the downsides, only the upsides. “Seriously, get this done, Patch. We’ll drink a beer in Wilmington when we get back.”
“No worries, Jake. See you soon.”
With that, Owens, Hobart, and Van Dreeves raced to the XB-2, where they were helped into their parachute harnesses, then into the bomb bays, given artic sleeping bags in which to stay warm. Once the bomb bay doors were closed, the XB-2 crawled, then sped, then raced into the sky.
Mahegan watched it climb across the desert to the east and found himself thinking it was odd that the safest place to fly right now was over Afghanistan. He turned to O’Malley and Savage, thinking his way through the next problem set. “How’s Shayne?”
“Hanging, but critical, I’d say.” O’Malley also doubled as the team medic. He had grabbed an aid bag from the medic station and was poking an IV into Shayne’s arm.
“Okay, there’s our ride,” Mahegan said, pointing at the XC-17 that had ferried them to Kandahar and then landed behind the B-2, stopping short and turning onto the distant apron.
The commander in Afghanistan had ordered U.S. A-10s and Apache helicopters to join the fight. Some were effective, most were not. Missiles missed, rockets flew crazily into the sky, and cannon rounds punched harmlessly into the dirt.
“Where are we going?” Spartak/Langevin demanded.
“We will figure that out in the air,” Mahegan said.
They jumped into the Gator and rode the quarter mile to the XC-17.
Mahegan linked up with the two pilots and said, “If you’re fueled up, we need to at least get back to Kandahar.”
“We’re good to get back there, Jake. Also got two refuel tankers off the coast in the Indian Ocean. Thinking those might be a good idea. Diego Garcia is an option, too.” Diego Garcia was an island in the Indian Ocean where the U.S. military maintained a power projection base.
“Let’s just get in the air,” Mahegan said. “We’ve got to keep this prisoner alive.” He pointed at Shayne being lifted out of the Gator. “We’ve got it about ninety percent figured out, but that last ten percent is in his head.”
They clambered aboard the XC-17 via its open cargo ramp, which quickly closed as soon as Mahegan, Savage, O’Malley, Spartak /Langevin, Ranger, and Shayne were inside. The loadmaster was wearing a space-age helmet and face shield. He motioned them to sit down and buckle up. Mahegan helped situate Ranger on one of the center console medical litters. The animal seemed to be hanging in there. Breathing was a bit labored, but her eyes looked clear. A good sign. She was going to be okay.
He had a long history and close connection with animals and was glad he was able to keep the beautiful canine alive. Next, he helped O’Malley position Shayne on a stretcher. He hung the IV bag above the prisoner and for the first time inspected the wounds.
Shayne had been hit in two places, the left shoulder and directly in the stomach. Being gut shot was never good. Too many organs could be damaged and internal bleeding was always an issue.
Mahegan leaned over the coder and looked into his milky eyes. Shayne was dying in the next five minutes.
“How do we solve the Russian Key issue?” Mahegan asked. He put his palm on Shayne’s face and turned his head toward him. “You’re dying. There’s nothing we can do to save you. Make it right with your God. Tell me how we stop nuclear armageddon.”
Shayne’s head lolled around back onto the stretcher so that he was looking at the ceiling of the aircraft. His eyes were still open and registered a hint of recognition.
Spartak/Langevin had walked to the opposite side of Mahegan, her hands still bound.
“Shayne. Tell him,” she said. “We need to know. Russia will launch two thousand nukes at the United States and allies.”
“That’s enough,” Mahegan said. She could be giving him code words so that he didn’t reveal the information. The airplane banked hard to the right and climbed. Threats were everywhere and no one was safe. Tank main gun rounds, antiaircraft missiles, and enemy drones were all distinct threats in the region. The plane engines revved to what sounded like max throttle as they hurtled through the sky.
“Deploying chaff!” the loadmaster shouted through the intercom.
Mahegan remained calm and still, staring at Shayne, watching him die. He glanced at Spartak/Langevin briefly, looked at Ranger’s shallow breathing one litter over, and then refocused on Shayne, who was staring at him now.
“It is better to die having done the right thing than to grow old,” Mahegan said, paraphrasing and bastardizing the Croatan saying he had learned from his mother.
“You’re looking at the only one who can stop this,” Shayne said. It was his last breath. The man died, his eyes frozen and fixated on the ceiling.
“No!” Spartak/Langevin shouted. “He was the last chance to stop everything.”
“If we get Ian Gorham, we can override it all. That’s what Shayne said earlier in the cell,” Mahegan sa
id.
“You don’t know that. I don’t know that. Just as the other country leaders aren’t the keys, Gorham might not be the key or have the biometric data. I know for a fact that Shayne was and did. He was everything to Gorham. It was intentional. Like the person who carries the nuclear codes for the president. It’s the same thing.” She pointed at Shayne’s lifeless body. “This! This was a sure thing!”
They spoke loudly above the din of the jet engines whining at full throttle with Shayne’s dead body between them. Mahegan understood. There were military officers that carried “the football,” a briefcase full of nuclear codes and instructions that the president of the United States would use in the event of needing to launch a nuclear strike somewhere in the world. These drills were rehearsed so that everyone up and down the chain understood their precise role in an operation that required flawless execution. Mahegan wondered about the wisdom of having human biometric keys as part of the chain. So much could go wrong, as had been proven.
It made a kind of simple sense to him. Today’s world was highly digitized. Sometimes analog solutions provided the best security. Where just about everything could be mined and hacked on the Internet, going analog was an asymmetric form of protection. Mahegan had seen it in combat before. When the U.S. Army deployed high tech jammers to block wireless signals from triggering bombs, the enemy would counter by using pressure plates and a battery, or a clothes pin and two thumb tacks to provide the metal to metal contact necessary to carry the electric current. High tech was good at beating high tech, but sometimes not so great at beating low tech.
Manaslu had hacked the nuclear command and control centers of at least four countries, Mahegan guessed—America, Russia, North Korea, and Iran. America had 6,000 nukes. Russia 7,000. Maybe half of each of those stockpiles were operable. Intelligence reports showed North Korea with up to ten nukes and Iran with perhaps five. Mossad was estimating twice that in Iran’s case, but there was little doubt that the money received by Iran in the nuclear deal went two places—funding terrorists like Hamas and Hezbollah, and rapidly developing nuclear weapons in concert with Russia and North Korea.
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