Oath of Honor

by Matthew Betley

  “I’ll call her myself if you want, but I need you here at my office in DC by zero seven tomorrow morning. We have a meeting at seven thirty. I’ll fill you in when I see you both. Use the agency’s Gulfstream. I know you’re four hours behind, and it’s two o’clock there, which means you’re going to be flying all night and coming straight here when you land. I’ll have a car waiting.”

  Logan looked at John and lowered his head in mock defeat. “John might be more upset than Sarah. He was starting to fall in love with this place. He was even thinking of converting one of these bunkers into a summer home, living off the land, and writing his own manifesto.”

  John flipped Logan the middle finger in response and silently mouthed, Asshole.

  “Tell John I’m surprised he knows how to write,” Mike replied. “More importantly, tell him—and this goes for you as well—to get some rest on the plane. You’re both going to need it.”

  “Will do. Anything else before I go?” Logan asked.

  “Now that you asked . . . you wouldn’t happen to have your passport on you, do you? Both of you are going to need them.”

  “No. Mine is back in Maryland.” He mouthed, Passport? to John, who immediately understood but shook his head and mouthed DC. “John’s is in DC,” he added. “So we’re taking the Logan and John show global? I always wanted to be a spy, a sort of roguish double-O seven.”

  “Stop talking about your IQ,” Mike retorted sharply. “See you tomorrow.” And he hung up.

  Logan had detected an edge to Mike’s voice. Something’s got him concerned. He looked at John. “Whatever’s going on, Mike’s worried.”

  “I guess we’ll know in the morning.” John added, “And Logan, you’ll never be James Bond. More like Maxwell Smart.”

  “Always have to bring me down, don’t you? Crush my hopes and dreams . . .”

  “I just don’t want you to have any unattainable aspirations,” John said, and smiled. “I’m looking out for you,” he emphasized.

  “Thanks. I can tell,” Logan said wryly. “My heart’s all aflutter. Now let’s get to the plane. We just got voted off the island.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Republican Palace, Khartoum

  Namir had watched the video of the gun battle countless times through Sky News via his satellite provider. It had only started running within the last few hours, but Gang had informed him that the battle had occurred more than two days ago. He hadn’t asked Gang about the team that had been killed. He didn’t need to. He knew that Gang would only have involved professionals, a fact which meant that whoever the Americans were, they were good.

  It didn’t matter. Even if the Americans were on their trail, the plan was already in motion. The team had succeeded. The equipment was in Europe and awaiting ground transportation to a private airfield that Major Lau had selected. Namir didn’t know or want the details. The less he knew about the movements of the equipment, the better.

  What was most critical was that by tomorrow, it would reach his beloved continent and embark on the last leg of the journey to Sudan.

  And once it’s here, there’s nothing anyone can do to stop us or the Chinese. Not the US, not the international community—no one. They don’t have the stomach for it.

  His cell phone rang. It was Gang.

  Namir answered. “I assume you’ve been watching the news?”

  “Of course,” Gang answered tersely. “No matter—the team served its purpose. My operatives in Europe have collected no intelligence that indicates the Americans know we have it. The package leaves tonight for the airfield and should arrive tomorrow morning.”

  “That’s good to hear,” Namir replied.

  “The equipment should fly out tomorrow or the next day. There’s a weather system that may delay them,” Gang said.

  “These things happen. A small delay, nothing more. I have full confidence in your ability to deliver,” Namir said.

  “As you should,” Gang said, “since I’ve never failed to meet an operational deadline.” He hesitated, and added, “I assure you. We will succeed. No matter what obstacles land in our path, we will overcome them. America’s status as a superpower will be no more by the time our countries are done with it. The oil will be ours, and the largest influx of money your country has ever seen will be yours.”

  He is driven by something other than Chinese nationalism, Namir thought. He recognized the intensity and hatred in the young man’s voice. It’s personal for him.

  “I believe you. Keep me posted if anything changes.”

  “I will. If you hear nothing from me in the next twenty-four hours, we’re on schedule. I’ll update you next when the plane takes off for Sudan.” Gang hung up.

  Namir stared out the window at the sluggish waters of the Nile River, which patiently wound its way north through his country and ultimately fed into Lake Nasser. He prayed for that type of steadfast patience to carry him through the next two days. Now the most difficult part of any operation—the waiting—had begun.

  ———

  Gang dialed another number the moment he disconnected the call to Namir. The call was answered on the third ring.

  “Hello?” the American said cautiously and somewhat sleepily. It was the middle of the night on the East Coast.

  “The equipment is in Europe. It leaves tomorrow for here. We’re in the last leg of the operation. Does your government know anything yet?” Gang asked.

  “Only that the team was Russian, but that was always part of the plan,” the American said. “If they take the bait, it will guarantee your success.”

  “Is there anything that can lead back to you?” Gang asked. The American was one of the most highly placed double agents Gang had encountered in his career in the clandestine world. The compromise of his identity would be nearly as catastrophic as the failure of their main mission.

  “Negative,” the American said. “The team is dead, and my source in Moscow has gone dark now that the team has been identified. He’s as good as gone, even though he set the whole thing in motion. As for the researcher, I convinced him we needed an actual trial before we could go operational with the equipment. I managed to persuade him to keep it from his superiors, reassuring him that he’d be more than rewarded by his government with limitless funding when the appropriate time came. The ironic part is that it was his idea to use the Arctic Glide through the contacts he had from his oil exploration consulting. And now that he’s dead, it couldn’t have worked out any better.”

  “That’s very smart,” Gang said.

  “I’ve covered my tracks. Don’t worry. I’ve been doing this long enough. But I should know more in a few hours. I’ve got a meeting with several of the key players.”

  “Please keep me informed when you know what your government’s plan is,” Gang said.

  “I will. Now I’m going to go back to sleep. The next few days are going to be long,” the American said. “I’ll let you know when I have something.”

  “Very well. But be safe,” Gang emphasized. “My leadership cares greatly about your position.”

  “I understand, and I will be,” the American replied, and hung up.

  The false flag is set, Gang thought. Now it was time to see if the American government tried to capture it. If they did, it nearly guaranteed his success, even in a brutal business that often had no guarantees other than death and betrayal.

  PART II

  SHELL GAME

  WONJO BUHWAL

  CHAPTER 9

  Arlington, Virginia

  When Mike Benson’s chauffeured and armored SUV picked them up at Dulles International Airport, they’d immediately known it was a major crisis. Mike looked like he’d barely slept, and he hardly spoke on the drive to DARPA’s headquarters, a massive building of black glass and brown stone.

  He’d only informed them of their audience and the organizations it represented as they pulled into the underground garage.

  Logan and John now sat at the conference table on the
twelfth floor and listened as the director of DARPA, Dr. Anita Mackenzie, continued the brief.

  In addition to FBI Deputy Director Mike Benson, the other attendees for the morning meeting included the deputy director of the Central Intelligence Agency, the national security advisor, and the director of DARPA’s Tactical Technology Office.

  A fit man in his midthirties sat in a chair along the wall and observed the discussion. He hadn’t introduced himself, but Logan identified him as military or covert operations. Even with long, black, combed-back hair, it was hard to conceal the mannerisms of a professional warrior.

  Logan suddenly recalled a brief period several years ago when he’d let his hair grow out and hadn’t shaved for three months. He’d been at a bar in Baltimore when an extremely attractive woman beside him had initiated a conversation. “So which branch of the service are you in?” He’d been surprised and asked her why she thought he’d been in the service. She’d leaned in to him and said, “I can always tell. No matter what you do to hide it, it’s always written all over you guys like a flashing neon sign.”

  Refocusing his attention, Logan struggled to comprehend the highly technical aspects of the brief, but he’d already grasped the major points, as well as the global implications and imminent threat to national security. I knew this was going to be a bad one, he thought. I hate it when I’m right.

  Now clean-shaven, Logan spoke to Dr. Mackenzie. “Ma’am, are you telling me that you had no idea Colin Davies was testing the equipment on the boat in Alaska? How’d he get it out of the facility?”

  Dr. Mackenzie sighed and placed her well-manicured hands on the table. “Mr. West, the facility was only one of our computer laboratories in the DC area. We have several. Mr. Davies—who pointed you to us before he died—was the program lead for ONERING, and he had complete access to all areas of that facility. Due to the sensitive nature of our work, it’s not uncommon for employees to transfer equipment between facilities or even take computers home.”

  Logan raised his eyebrows. “Dr. Mackenzie, you may want to reconsider that policy.” The deputy director of the CIA, Roger Brock, shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

  Dr. Mackenzie responded, without any notice or offense, “Mr. West, not all of our work is classified. Unfortunately, in this case, ONERING is one of the most sensitive and secret projects we have under development. We didn’t even think it was fully functional, let alone ready for field testing.”

  “Why ONERING, Dr. Mackenzie?” John suddenly asked. The program name had raised a curiosity in his mind, and he couldn’t shake it loose until he asked the question.

  “From The Lord of the Rings, Mr. Quick. ‘The one ring to rule them all,’ or something to that effect.”

  John stared at her in disbelief. “You named one of the most sensitive classified projects you have after Tolkien?”

  “Mr. Quick,” Dr. Mackenzie responded, “you’d be surprised at some of the project and program names in the Intelligence Community. I’ve seen everything from Harry Potter to Hello Kitty. Some of our brightest folks have a rather wry sense of humor.”

  John looked at Logan and said, “And I thought our recon operations named after brands of beer were clever. Not so much now.”

  Colin Davies had died in John’s arms; however, after learning of the man’s activities and the potential threat he’d created with his irresponsible actions, he felt slightly less sympathetic about his fate. He continued to Dr. Mackenzie, “Do you have any indications that Davies actually tested it? Hell, would you even have any way to know if he did?”

  “I spoke to the deputy director of the NRO, who built most of our intelligence satellites,” Dr. Mackenzie said. “Based on what I told him about ONERING, he reached out to his folks. There was a GPS fail-safe built into it to let us know when it’s been activated, but if whoever has it now has found and disabled it, we’re screwed. Also, once it’s used, there’s no way for the target satellite to detect from where or how it’s being controlled. As the deputy director said—and I quote—‘And you thought this was a good fucking idea how?’ ”

  Dr. Mackenzie only shook her head and lowered her eyes to the table. No one spoke.

  Finally, Mike Benson leaned forward, his enormous frame pressing against the table. “John, it doesn’t matter. What does matter is the limited information we have at this time and where it puts us. What’s even scarier is that if the boat’s propeller hadn’t broken, the Russian team probably would’ve taken the equipment off the island via other means. The fact that they used a public freight shipping company rather than wait for that repair tells me they’re on a time line.”

  “I still can’t believe they used the same credit card to ship the equipment,” Logan said. “Seems like such an amateur mistake.”

  “They probably never planned for a mechanical malfunction,” Mike replied. “They also probably never thought we’d catch on to them so quickly. Fortunately, we did, but unfortunately for us, now we’re playing catch-up.” He paused. “The equipment reached Madrid, Spain, late last night.”

  Jonathan Sommers, the President’s national security advisor, interrupted and added, “I spoke to Ambassador Santos several hours ago. He personally spoke to the captain of Madrid’s National Police Force, who dispatched a special investigative unit to the cargo receiving area of the Madrid-Barajas Airport. Their computers indicated the equipment was picked up within an hour of arrival.” He looked down at his watch. “Which means it’s now been en route to God knows where for the last five hours.”

  John tilted his head back and laughed out loud. He looked up at the ceiling of the conference room and placed his hands behind his head. All eyes turned toward him, and conversation stopped.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, you are some of the brightest people our government has—the president’s national security advisor, leaders in several powerful agencies—and yet here we all are, stuck in the same boat. Since I’m probably dragging the intelligence quotient down a bit, let me see if I can get this straight,” he said.

  Logan knew John was much smarter than he often acted and probably as quick in his analytical processing as more than a few of the members of their esteemed audience.

  “Colin Davies led a program to develop a ground-based antisatellite weapon that is theoretically capable of hijacking any satellite it targets and then controlling that satellite, all the while remaining undetected. He then walked right out of one of your DC laboratories with the test unit, five extremely powerful classified laptops, and a next-generation portable satellite broadcast system. He somehow ended up on the Arctic Glide a week later as a result of a connection he has in North American Oil. You have no idea if he tested his equipment, which doesn’t matter anymore, since an elite Russian special-ops team killed him and the crew and managed to steal all of the equipment, which is now somewhere within five hours of Madrid, Spain. We have no idea who is behind this or what they intend to do with the system, although the possibilities are limitless and equally sinister. Does that about sum it up?”

  It was John’s last point that chilled the listeners. All knew the enormous risk to national security if an enemy of the United States could control any satellite it desired and use it for its own purposes. The result would be catastrophic for the US and the international intelligence community. Systems would be compromised; information stolen; and most importantly, people would die. It was an unfathomable scenario. No. It’s a fucking doomsday nightmare, Logan thought.

  “Good Christ, and I thought stopping a war in the Middle East was hard,” John said, and looked around the room at the group. “So what now?”

  “I think I can answer that. We’re going to Spain,” Logan said. “And I believe that debonair gentleman in the back”—he paused, and nodded toward the quiet, fit man with long black hair—“will be our CIA chaperone. How’s that for some good prognostication?”

  “I really hate it when you use big words,” John said in a deeply sarcastic tone as Dr. Mackenzie stared wide-eye
d at the exchange. John saw her expression and added, “Don’t worry, Dr. Mackenzie,” in a suddenly serious tone. He looked her squarely in the eyes. “There are few better when it really matters.”

  The man with the black hair smiled genuinely, and said, “Well done, Mr. West. I was wondering how long I was going to have to sit here.”

  “I thought about commenting earlier but figured I’d wait for the appropriate moment.”

  CIA Deputy Director Roger Brock spoke up. “Lady and gentlemen, please say hello to Mr. Cole Matthews, the chief of the CIA’s Special Operations Group.” Commonly referred to as SOG, it was the arm of the CIA involved in all high-risk, military, or clandestine intelligence activities overseas. It was a team from this group that had reportedly captured Khalid Sheikh Mohammed, the mastermind behind the 9/11 attacks.

  Before Logan could catch himself, he said, “Hi, Cole. Thanks for sharing. Keep coming back.” Dr. Mackenzie looked at Logan quizzically. “Just a little AA humor, nothing to worry about . . . too much.” He grinned for emphasis.

  Cole Matthews smiled back at him and exposed a neat row of teeth set amid an angular jaw and square facial features. The teeth of a shark, or some kind of predator, Logan thought.

  Mike Benson realized the formal portion of the meeting was at an end. “Play nice, Logan. Cole’s your new battle buddy.”

  Logan and John both looked at Mike and simultaneously said, “Thanks, Dad.” Cole was the only member of the audience who laughed. At least he has a sense of humor, Logan thought.

  CHAPTER 10

  Over the Atlantic Ocean

  Logan watched the wispy clouds race below the speeding Gulfstream jet. Even at this altitude, he spotted a whitecap wave and the occasional ship. He turned his attention back to the two men accompanying him to Madrid. Two more hours. I hope the trail’s not cold.