Dark Winter

by Anthony J. Tata

“You know what we saw, right? This could all be bullshit,” O’Malley said.

  “Five hundred nukes. Two thousand nukes. Not much difference. The one key is that Gorham has an ace up his sleeve. Several really. He’s got Stasovich. He’s maybe got Draganova, here.”

  “I am not spy for Gorham,” Draganova spat. “I risked my life to warn you and the U.S. If not for me, no one would know about this.”

  “Perhaps. Sean found you,” Mahegan said. “You’ve lied multiple times.”

  “He found me because I wanted him to. That’s my point. And I lied to survive.”

  “Perhaps you’re still surviving?”

  “I’m here. I’m helping. I’m contributing.”

  All true, but not a denial.

  With no time to waste, Mahegan said, “Okay, I’ve got to get over to Manaslu HQ. Wish me luck.”

  “Never needed it before,” O’Malley quipped.

  Ranger whimpered with a squealing moan, sensing Mahegan was leaving.

  He knelt down, rubbed her ears again, looked in her pouting eyes. “Sorry, girl. You’ve got to stay here and protect Sean.”

  She stared at him, leveled her gaze, locked it in place. Her eyes were golden, flecked with green. Her face was long and angular. She playfully snapped at him with her teeth. Mahegan clasped her lower jaw and ran his thumb across her bottom row of teeth. She lolled her tongue out and pressed her nose against his cheek. A sense of calm washed over Mahegan. He closed his eyes and listened to the rapid heartbeat of the animal. Taking a full minute to center himself, he thought about Cassie and Owens. Prayed they would be okay. That his mission would go well. The others had done what they had to do. War was raging, but the one real threat to the United States lay in a domain that was not his expertise, not his forte, the Internet of Things. Could he stop the Russian countdown? If Gorham was the universal biometric key, they stood a chance.

  Ranger tilted her head at Mahegan, as if to ask Whatcha thinking about? Or maybe it was a simpler communication, such as It will all be okay. He ran his hand along the length of her back and she nuzzled sideways into him until her body was pressed into his chest. She was almost begging him to lift her and take her with him.

  “See you in a bit, girl,” Mahegan whispered. Ranger turned and pressed her nose against his face again, then ran her tongue along his chin. Mahegan smiled when he noticed her drool on his shirt sleeve. He rubbed her head and kissed the top of her brow between her eyes.

  “Gotta go.” Mahegan nodded. “Sean, keep her close.”

  “Roger that. Just waiting my turn with her,” O’Malley said.

  “Please, it’s just a dog,” Draganova scoffed.

  “Most likely more valuable than your life, Doctor.” Mahegan leveled a hardened stare at her, causing Draganova to take a step back. He handed Ranger’s leash to O’Malley, who knelt and pulled her close.

  “Mess with that animal and you mess with me. Understand?”

  Draganova nodded cautiously.

  Ranger whimpered again as Mahegan walked to the government SUV left for them in the hangar and exited away from the throng of military and law enforcement vehicles near the main tarmac nearly a mile away on the other side of the runway. He carried with him the peace of an innocent animal, unpolluted by the vagaries of the world. He followed Interstate 15 north until he hit State Route 33 East, traveled until he saw the giant M looking like a snowcapped, treacherous mountain. He kept driving and turned off to the north, parallel to Gorham’s compound, dipping into low trenches called wadis. In the dry season the drainage areas made perfect infiltration routes. Mahegan kept the SUV in the low ground, bouncing and pitching over ruts and rocks. After another fifteen minutes, he figured he had cut back close enough to be able to walk to the fence.

  The sun was low in the western sky. The air was warm with a slight zephyr. Mahegan stood in front of the SUV, listening to the engine ticking and cooling. He found a wadi that ran to the west, toward the river. In the rainy season, the water would be up to his waist, at least. He walked toward Gorham’s compound, thinking, no fence was perfect, no technology flawless.

  If you defend everywhere, you defend nowhere.

  He had to find Gorham and convince the Internet mogul to walk through his own biometric chamber in order to unlock the Russian nuclear command system. Mahegan walked about a mile before sliding up to the lip of the ravine. He was less than two hundred yards from the back fence. The sun had dipped behind the mountains in the west, but he still had considerable daylight.

  The large rectangular building looked as though it could have been a castle in a previous life if he hadn’t known that Gorham designed and oversaw the construction from day one. What they had learned from studying the blueprints and construction documents—to the extent they were real or accurate—was that Gorham had constructed a test range running north, all the way to Spencer, some fifty-two miles to the north at the base of Signal Peak.

  He and O’Malley had debated about what the test range could be, but the one thing they agreed upon was that there appeared to be an underground system that ran in a straight line. Thermal imaging radar showed an anomaly, like a tunnel, that was 100% linear from Manaslu HQ in Idaho Falls to this compound near Spencer.

  Mahegan guessed that was Gorham’s home. Accustomed to using cover and concealment, he admitted to himself that Gorham had made any approach difficult. The compound was one hundred meters inside a high razor wire fence with one hundred foot towers. The cameras atop the towers were up-fitted with slew to cue technology. If the sensors picked up movement, the cameras would turn and focus on the “cue.” There was very little chance he could enter undetected. That was never his plan.

  Plan A was to attempt an undetected breach, fully expecting to be discovered. Based upon Draganova’s insight into Gorham’s psyche, Mahegan was betting that Gorham wanted a showdown with him. Gorham needed to win and to be recognized for that win. He most likely knew that Mahegan was the one who had disrupted the raid in Detroit and the meeting in Yazd. Mahegan figured that Gorham could extrapolate from there that he had a role in stopping the ground attacks on the Korean Peninsula and into Israel.

  “Jake, we’ve got an ASAT going up to the Russian minisat farm now,” Savage said into his earpiece.

  “Roger,” Mahegan whispered. “Ground terminal?”

  “Destroyed five minutes ago,” Savage said.

  “Cassie?”

  “Rangers are experiencing some resistance. Still en route. We have eyes on,” Savage said.

  “Get her out of there, General,” Mahegan said.

  “We’ll get her, Jake. Focus.”

  “Time on target?”

  “Less than an hour. Ninety-seven minutes until a launch.”

  “Roger that. I’m focused.” And he was.

  He backed down into the ravine and walked another half mile until he saw animals gathered together at a single point. Some birds, a coyote, and some desert rats. As he approached, their heads turned and sized him up as a competitor or perhaps looking for a seat at the buffet. The food chain participants told Mahegan that this was some form of carrion, perhaps just an aged-out animal that had died and fallen right there.

  Then he saw the light brown hair, the skeletal remains of a hand where a bird picked at flesh, and tattered remnants of blue cloth. He walked up to the remains of the human, the coyote being the last to leave. The blood around its mouth looked like a macabre lipstick as he sized up Mahegan then trotted away. The buzzards flapped away a short distance and repositioned, perhaps calculating that Mahegan could be next.

  Kneeling in the sand at the base of the wadi, it was clear that it was a female. The shirt had been pecked away and the body was laid bare. Mahegan used his phone to snap a picture of the remnants of the face, but he thought he already knew who it was. Nancy Langevin, the Chief Financial Officer. Picking lightly through the remnants of clothing, he found no identification. Murdered and left for the animals.

  Gorham? Shayne? Draganova?
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  What was left of her neck showed ligature remnants. Draganova’s preferred method of killing. He uploaded the picture back to O’Malley then texted Draganova killed Langevin. Lock her down.

  He continued to walk until he was directly between the mountain peak to his rear and the compound to his front. The best reception. The most visible.

  As hoped, a dozen small drones buzzed past his head, forming an outer perimeter around him. These were the same grasshopper looking devices he had seen in Iran, more evidence that Gorham was the mastermind of everything taking place.

  “Welcome, Captain Mahegan,” a voice called out.

  The drones served as speakers. In digital surround sound, they added a surreal quality to his detection, still a quarter mile away. Gorham was someplace he could control the drones.

  When a small helicopter landed, the drones echoed, “Please board the aircraft.”

  Mahegan stepped onto the Manaslu helicopter. Saw a light quickly flash, like a copy machine. Dax Stasovich smiled at him. The teeth on the top row were broken and crooked. His face was badly scarred, with a long vertical slash barely healing. But he was still recognizable from the photos O’Malley had provided him and the action on the ground.

  This was the man who had pulled Cassie off the helicopter and placed her in danger. Mahegan felt something tick in the back of his mind. The flywheel that governed his emotions was being put to the test. He needed to get inside Manaslu and shut down the nuclear strike, not succumb to simple revenge—yet.

  Plus, Stasovich held a pistol in his face. “The pistol and the knife. I know you have those. Plus the radio and earpiece.” Stasovich was looking at a radar scan result on a small monitor in the back of the helicopter. It was similar to what a TSA agent might be using at the airport security line.

  Mahegan looked at the helicopter door and saw the runners for the scanning device. The light he had seen. He retrieved his Tribal and his Blackhawk knife and placed them on the seat between him and Stasovich. Reaching up, he removed his earpiece and pulled at the wire and radio secured to his rigger’s belt. He laid his communications devices atop his pistol and weapon. Shoot, move, and communicate were the maxims drilled into him as a young army Ranger. Now all he could do was move. Yet, now was not the time to get fancy. Not the time for revenge. Five hundred nukes. Maybe two thousand. A different world. Cassie’s survival depended on him successfully executing this mission.

  On the quick flight, he noticed three rows of fencing with razor wire on top, followed by a moat with clear water circulating around the compound. The straight line underground anomaly was visible only because he was looking for it. He thought about what that might be and hoped that he and O’Malley were right. Everything could depend on that anomaly, or, of course, it could just be a water line, in which case, it was useless.

  The best and quickest way for him to gain entry to the compound was to be captured.

  The helicopter whined as its blades slowed. In each cardinal direction was a concrete walkway to a low tan brick building with a roof covered in solar panels and satellite dishes. From the inner courtyard, it appeared to Mahegan that the design was like the Pentagon.

  Stasovich stepped outside of the helicopter on the starboard side, Mahegan, the port. The helicopter quickly lifted away and buzzed to the west, toward the mountains. The sun was setting. The night was cool. The noise of the helicopter, as always, was replaced by utter silence as Mahegan’s mind zoomed into singular focus on his mission.

  As he turned to get his bearings, Mahegan saw Stasovich standing on the tarmac on the opposite side. Two handguns, his knife, and his communications equipment were lying on the ground ten feet away from Stasovich. In his beefy paw, he held a bull whip, which he snapped in Mahegan’s direction.

  Stasovich held the whip in his right hand. His left arm seemed unnaturally positioned, as if he had injured it. Something to bear in mind. He looked at the pile of gear and thought, shoot, move, communicate.

  All he could do was move.

  The whip lashed out at him like a serpent’s tongue, sparking off his left ear. Searing pain rocketed through his body. Stasovich was quick and Mahegan had no advantage at that distance. He rushed Stasovich as the hulking beast lashed again with the whip. The whip’s popper reached over Mahegan’s shoulder and stung his hamstring. He reached for the whip as he raced the ten yards across the helipad. Stasovich’s strength and quickness proved too much, as the rope’s thong and fall seared Mahegan’s palm on the big man’s retraction. Thinking Stasovich had too much upper body strength, Mahegan dove low. Stasovich’s legs were powerful, though, and the big man pounded him in the back of the head with a heavy fist.

  Mahegan’s goal was to imbalance Stasovich and control the whip. He was successful in getting his hand on the whip’s handle. Stasovich’s powerful arm attempted to wrest the whip away, but Mahegan’s vise grip matched his opponent’s power. Mahegan rose from his wrestling move and came face-to-face with Stasovich, who was leering at Mahegan.

  “Fun, no?” Stasovich said in a taunting East European voice.

  Mahegan head butted Stasovich’s left eye, bursting the seams on the healing scab and whatever sutures had been applied. Blood burst everywhere, spraying into Mahegan’s face. Stasovich howled as if the precision of Mahegan’s impact had struck ground zero of his injury. Mahegan wiped the blood from his eyes and grabbed Stasovich’s right arm, pulled it forward, ducked beneath it, and executed a perfect Roman Greco near fall trip on him. He slid out of the way of Stasovich’s bulk, allowing him to land with a thunderous thud onto the helipad.

  Mahegan was channeling the rage of what Stasovich had done to Cassie, the predicament in which he had placed her, and the uncertain future she immediately faced. His forearm pummeled Stasovich’s larynx until the man was choking and reaching for his neck. For good measure, Mahegan stood and planted a size-twelve boot toe in his ribs five times, grabbed the dormant whip, and looped it twice around Stasovich’s neck. He spotted a U-bolt anchor on the helipad, most likely for tying down the aircraft when not in use. He tied a quick bowline knot through the U-bolt and then cinched the whip as hard as he could in the opposite direction. He had concocted an effective garrote around Stasovich’s neck and was torqueing it down tighter and tighter. The large man’s eyes were bulging out of his face. Mahegan created a quick bowline loop at the end with the popper, looped his hand through the new handle, and then turned his back toward Stasovich. He put the whip over his shoulder as if he were carrying something heavy or dragging a large object.

  As he walked in the opposite direction, the rope tightened around Stasovich’s neck and he figured it wouldn’t be long before it snapped.

  That was the precise moment Mahegan was shot in the head.

  * * *

  Like an emperor speculating as two gladiators tear each other apart, Gorham had been enjoying watching Stasovich and Mahegan fight. Once Mahegan swiftly turned the tide, Gorham became concerned. It was not a good idea to have a monster like Mahegan inside his compound unabated.

  The nuclear weapons were less than thirty minutes from launch. Two thousand of them. Even one was targeting Idaho National Labs. That was a primary target and the main reason he had moved to the region. The nuke would destroy all evidence of Manaslu involvement. Everything else he could explain as being an emissary on behalf of the United States. A Dennis Rodman or Sean Penn negotiating in good faith where the pinhead bureaucrats couldn’t.

  Gorham leaned over from his perch, laid his binoculars down, and grabbed a nonlethal beanbag rifle that had been resting against the wall. He was like the safari guide checking to make sure the big game never got out of control. Aiming through the Armalite scope at less than one hundred meters was easy. Mahegan’s motionless head was the size of a pumpkin. The man was leaning into the makeshift noose he’d looped around Stasovich’s neck. Hopefully he hadn’t killed Stasovich, yet. Gorham needed Mahegan. Oddly enough, Gorham wanted to face the beast. Draganova had called him the beas
t with red cheeks primarily because he wanted attention, but Mahegan was pure beast. The man was relentless and skilled. He should have been a gladiator, Gorham thought.

  Pulling the trigger, Gorham watched the nonlethal munition strike Mahegan in the temple, a perfect shot. For good measure, he pumped another round into the man’s rib cage. Target practice. He retrieved a Glock 19 pistol from the table by his bedroom window and walked across his expansive chambers, into the hallway, and down the steps. He checked his phone and saw that there were twenty seven minutes remaining before the nuclear launch.

  Two thousand missiles. Hundreds of targets.

  Including Idaho National Labs.

  He stepped into the courtyard near the helipad, ready to check on Stasovich and get him to drag Mahegan into the dungeon below.

  * * *

  Mahegan felt the beanbag impact his head. It knocked him down flat, but not out. The second beanbag into his ribcage told him that Gorham, if he was the shooter, believed he was unconscious. Otherwise, Gorham would have given him another head shot.

  But he was semiconscious. He had been too filled with rage to have his mind stop for any reason. He gave Gorham ten seconds to leave his sniper hide, wherever that might have been, then pushed up quickly. He looked at Stasovich, his eyes wide, mouth open, and blood trickling from the corner of his lips. Close to dead. Maybe dead.

  Mahegan stood in the middle of the helipad. No reason to run or hide. Every camera and drone conceivable was covering him. Gorham knew the twitch of every muscle.

  On cue, the Manaslu CEO came barreling through the door into the evening lit bright by spotlights shining on the helipad and swimming pool. He was bigger than Mahegan expected. Not much shorter than him, Gorham was also reasonably fit looking. Not soft, not toned, but somewhere closer to toned than soft. He was wearing a form fitting T-shirt and blue jeans with running shoes. Not exactly fighting clothes, but Mahegan figured Gorham didn’t have to do much fighting and had expected Stasovich to subdue him.

  The tech CEO was on plan B, something he most likely had not expected. How well would he adapt?