Oath of Honor

by Matthew Betley

“It’s really no problem, sir,” Special Agent Hunt said, revealing an attractive smile that brightened a face lined by age and experience. “This is what we do, as you well know, and we’re happy to have you.”

  “Excuse me, sir,” said a voice behind Mike, who turned to face a young female agent looking up at him expectantly. “I have something for Special Agent Hunt, although I doubt it’s related to the Chambers investigation and the current threat.”

  “Don’t let me stand in the way,” Mike said self-deprecatingly.

  “Never, sir,” the young agent said, a grin splitting her chiseled and pretty young face.

  Jesus. These kids sure are confident these days, Mike thought. Makes me feel like a dinosaur.

  “Come on in, Special Agent Marcus. What do you have?” asked her boss.

  “Like I said, it’s probably nothing, but I thought you should know about the trucks that were reported stolen this morning,” Special Agent Marcus said.

  The skin on the back of Mike’s neck prickled, and he looked at Special Agent Hunt. Her reaction told him she was already thinking the same thing. Trucks were stolen for usually two reasons—to be used in a heist or as the casing for a large vehicular explosive. Because of the direction in which this case was heading, Mike feared the latter. Not another Oklahoma City bombing. Please let us catch this in time.

  ———

  MGM Grand Casino

  Crawford Stubbins had a problem. His three-day, self-described “end-of-the-line” trip to Las Vegas wasn’t working out as planned. An electrician from Baton Rouge, he had two expectations—get out of the hole he was in with the union boys back home and get his relentlessly nagging wife off his back. Neither one looked like it was going to happen. He’d lost more than three thousand dollars in the casino’s sports book over the past forty-eight hours, and he knew the moment he told his wife, he’d never hear the end of it.

  A longtime low-limit gambler, he’d been careful always to stay even or just ahead. Somehow, the college football season had wiped him out. He’d had a string of bad luck—that’s what he knew it was—with a series of losses, almost all of them by only a few points. If they’d gone the other way, he’d have been way ahead for the year. Instead, Rayleen’s haranguing had forced him to make a resentful promise to her—he’d go to Vegas, get up a few thousand dollars, and then quit.

  His American Express still had two thousand dollars left in cash advances. I just need one winner to turn it around. I know it’s going to happen.

  Forty pounds overweight with thinning black hair, and in his early fifties, he was smart enough to know if he lost his wife—epic pain in the ass that she was—he wasn’t likely to find a second one. He wasn’t exactly a keeper, and his bachelor days were long gone. Don’t fuck it up anymore, Crawdaddy. Just one more bet for the day and then take a break.

  He needed fresh air. The stale odor and overpowering smoke of the casino dwellers was getting to his head.

  He pushed back from the slot machine in which he’d lost another hundred and walked past the lion exhibit where some young trainer working her way through college threw a blue ball at three lions that looked as bored and desperate as he felt. At least you don’t have bills, he silently told the big cats.

  He fought his way through the haze toward the main lobby and stopped at the gold MGM lion. They sure like these things around here.

  He grabbed his cell phone from inside his worn blue sport coat and saw a missed call from his wife. Guess I should call her back.

  BAM! BAM! BAM!

  What idiot set off firecrackers in the lobby? Crawford thought, but then he saw the red droplets on the golden lion. What the hell?

  A solitary scream rose above the echoes of the loud noises.

  Crawford suddenly felt weak, and wet warmth spread across his white cotton polo. This isn’t real. I’m drunk somewhere in the casino, having a really bad day. But then he turned and slumped to the floor, his rear end slamming onto the ground. Even though the impact was hard enough to shatter his reality, what he saw heightened the panic that suddenly gripped him.

  Four men in dark brown camouflage fatigues moved from the glass doors of the main entrance toward the floor of the casino. Crimson scarves were loosely tied around their throats, covering their mouths. Only their eyes were visible under the black wool hats pulled over their dark hair.

  More shots rang out through the lobby, and the solitary scream he’d heard turned into a symphony of terror as men, women, and children joined in the panic.

  This can’t be happening, he thought, but he knew it was. He felt himself slipping away, and he fumbled for his phone inside his jacket. He realized with brutal clarity he was dying, but he hoped he had enough time to send Rayleen a text message telling her that he loved her.

  The phone clattered next to his hand, and he picked it up, noticing the blood on the shiny tiled floor. He struggled to punch in his message in the text screen, the panic slowly ebbing away with his life.

  A pair of black boots appeared in his vision. He felt compelled to look into the face of his killer, but he forced himself to finish what he’d started. At least I can do that right . . .

  Crawford heard the man shouting in some language—Chinese? Japenese?—but he ignored him. One more moment . . . there! He hit the send button with his thumb, and the phone dropped from his hand onto the floor. He was fading fast now. Time to go, Crawford.

  His head felt like the weight of the world was on it, but he finally lifted it enough to stare into the face of his killer.

  A young man with olive skin looked down at him, holding a black automatic rifle pointed at his chest. He can’t be older than twenty-five. But then he saw the eyes, and he realized age didn’t matter. The ends of his eyes sloped upwards—he’s definitely Asian—but the black pools stared down at him with a calculated coolness, and Crawford realized he only had a moment left in this lifetime.

  How can he be so cruel? How can he carry the weight of being a cold-blooded murderer? He suddenly felt compassion for his killer, the rational part of his mind clinging to life, telling him to let go, but to go with peace. So he closed his eyes and thought of Rayleen, summoning an image of her from their wedding day, her red hair blowing in the warm Louisiana breeze from the Gulf. He felt a strange sensation as he was pulled away toward the breeze, and he realized he was smiling.

  Crawford Stubbins never felt the bullet fired point-blank into his chest, intended to finish the job the first shot had started. He was already gone.

  ———

  “What kind of trucks?” Special Agent Hunt asked, the levity gone from her voice.

  “Two laundry trucks were stolen from a Laundromat in Eastland Heights last night. The police took the report this morning, and they just forwarded us a copy since we have that standing request for information about any large stolen vehicles,” Agent Marcus said, sensing the tension in the room rise exponentially.

  Mike’s mind processed the information in overdrive, and he was the first one to ask the question, even as Special Agent Hunt opened her mouth. “Who owns the Laundromat?” Please let me be wrong, Mike thought, dreading the answer.

  “Hold on,” Special Agent Marcus said, scanning the three-page police report, finding the information halfway down the first sheet. “Looks like a Chinese family . . . the Yee family. It’s a mom-and-pop place. Their two daughters work there as well.”

  “Shit,” Special Agent Hunt said.

  “Yup,” Mike added. “Bet you my badge our four Chinese suspects were working there.” It’s happening soon, if not today.

  “Special Agent Hunt, I need you to get all your folks together on the floor. We need to find these trucks.” Mike turned to Special Agent Marcus and said, “We also need a list of places they service. It might help determine a target, unless whoever has them just plans to use them as truck bombs.”

  “I already did, sir. It was easy since they only service one company—American Elemental, a rare earth elements mining corporatio
n about an hour north of here. They’re one of two companies in the United States that mine and process rare earth elements for the US government. The other one has been shut down for the past decade and is in the process of obtaining approval to start up again. American Elemental was built two years ago, but they don’t go fully operational for another month.”

  “Which means American Elemental is the only US company that produces rare earth elements for our government,” Mike said definitively. “That’s the target.”

  “How do you figure, sir?” Special Agent Hunt asked.

  “China has been behind this all along. They only used the Russians as proxies to obtain the ONERING,” Mike said quickly, his words trying to keep up with his racing thoughts, which were already anticipating the next moves. “Now that it’s been used in Sudan to attack an oil exploration site—one of their own—American Elemental has to be the next target. It’s all about natural resources. The Chinese government has a global monopoly on rare earth elements. In fact, most of them are mined in China. Last year, we investigated a Chinese corporation that was conducting cyberattacks against several US companies. This Chinese company was the largest supplier of satellite technology, but in addition to that, they also owned several of the largest rare earth element mines in China. Rare earth elements are key components for all satellites, from batteries to heat shields. I had no idea how dependent we were on China for these things until these cyberattacks happened.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Special Agent Marcus said.

  “My sentiments exactly,” Mike replied. “The Chinese government has to be behind this whole thing. And somehow, Sudan fits into this plot. Regardless, by eliminating our source of rare earth elements, it gives them a complete monopoly and makes us even more dependent on their resources. And after this, they’re under no obligation to provide us with anything, leaving our satellite technology to fall behind as the Chinese keep on building and advancing their own satellites. I’d be willing to bet this is just the opening salvo in a new type of cold war.”

  “Sir, that sounds incredibly scary,” Special Agent Marcus said.

  “It is,” Mike said. “It’s a brave new world, with new enemies that masquerade as benevolent friends.” He turned to Special Agent Hunt. “I need a secure line. I have to call the director and let—” was all he had time to finish as an audible gasp came from the operations floor behind him.

  With a growing sense of dread, Mike turned his head toward the source of the outcry. A tall male agent stood in front of the bank of HDTVs the field office used to monitor local and national news. All six monitors now played the same footage.

  The video was hard to follow because of the jittery camerawork, but Mike caught glimpses of at least three gunmen wielding automatic weapons. Three bodies lay on the ground, and when the cameramen zoomed out, he didn’t need the caption to know where the violence was unfolding. We’re too late. It’s already begun.

  “Terrorists Attack the MGM Grand Casino Hotel,” read the main caption as the video played.

  Mike grabbed his secure cell from his suit coat pocket and sent a text. He looked up at Special Agent Hunt and said, “I need you to mobilize your HRT guys to support the team I brought with me. If there are hostages at the MGM Grand, you’re going to want my guys. They’re the best shooters in the Bureau. Also, I’ll be borrowing Special Agent Marcus here. She and I have a different location to investigate.”

  “Sir?” Special Agent Marcus said questioningly.

  “You and I and a small team are heading to American Elemental. You told us about the trucks, so I assumed you’d want to check it out.” Mike raised his eyebrows. “Correct?”

  “Absolutely, sir,” Special Agent Marcus said enthusiastically.

  “I thought so,” Mike said. He turned to Special Agent Hunt. “I need you to send a team of agents to the Laundromat and see what they can find out about this robbery. I’m heading downstairs to meet Special Agent Foster in the motor pool. We’re out of here in ten mikes. I’ll call my uncle on the way. You have my cell. I trust you to make the operational decisions for HRT, but Special Agent Foster’s second in command, Danny Palmer, will run tactical once on site. He’s as good as his boss. Call me if you need anything.”

  “Got it, sir. Good luck. Be safe,” Special Agent Hunt said. “Once I brief the floor on what your plan is, I’ll get HRT and myself to the MGM.”

  “Sounds good. One more thing—don’t hesitate to kill these monsters. Whoever they are, they don’t care about negotiations. If you can take one alive, great; if not, kill ’em all and call it a day. Bring everyone home safely. Understand?”

  Special Agent Marcus heard the conviction in the deputy director’s voice, and it sent a chill through her small frame. She knew his background. It was legendary. He knows exactly what needs to be done. He’s been face-to-face with evil before. He might be the deputy director of the FBI, beholden to the Constitution and the laws of our land, but he’s a man on fire. More importantly, he’s one of the good guys.

  “Absolutely, sir. I’ve got it,” Special Agent Hunt replied.

  “Good.” Mike turned to Special Agent Marcus and said, “Let’s go.”

  “Anywhere you want, sir,” Special Agent Marcus replied with growing admiration, reacting instinctively to his natural leadership.

  Had she known where that would be, she might’ve reconsidered.

  PART V

  BLOOD AND GLORY

  THE BLACK HOLE

  CHAPTER 35

  Republican Palace, Khartoum, Sudan

  The twinkling lights from the small vessels flickered across the water of the Nile like luminescent guides, begging to be followed into the black horizon of the African wilderness beyond the outskirts of Khartoum. Namir wouldn’t be fooled. He knew what lay in those lands. He’d survived them as a child. Even though they were his origin, the clay that had molded him, Khartoum was now his home.

  For the first time since the operation had begun, Namir was calm and content, though not happy. He wasn’t sure he was capable of such a mundane emotion. He’d just left an emergency cabinet meeting that his president had convened regarding the attack on the Chinese drill site.

  Namir had provided carefully crafted intelligence to the cabinet, explaining that initial indications were that an American space weapon of some kind had attacked the Chinese exploration site. The Americans were, of course, denying it, but the evidence was overwhelming. Mainly, because it actually was their satellite, he’d thought as he’d lied to the most senior leaders of his country. But the question of who actually fired the weapon that attacked their oil site was a different matter entirely.

  The president planned to file a complaint with the UN Security Council within the next hour. But before he did, he would place a call to the president of China to convey his condolences and assure him that China would be given anything it needed during its operation to recover those killed. At Namir’s urging—backed by the minister of oil—he planned to conclude the conversation by promising that the contract for Xiang’s field would be drafted immediately. Once the initial agreement was signed, China would have the sole rights to the world’s largest oil reserve.

  The financial future of Sudan had been secured, exactly as Namir had planned. The prime minister and president might never know the direct role they’d played, but—praise Allah—he himself knew, which was all that mattered.

  Namir’s sense of accomplishment had been magnified when the president had issued an order to the minister of oil to immediately rescind all of North American Oil’s drilling rights. He’d anticipated that move, but to see it unfold in exactly the way he envisioned? He’d thoroughly enjoyed adding insult to American injury.

  He looked at his watch. It was nearly seven thirty p.m., and he needed to check in with Gang. Even though Namir had been certain that the fierce leader, his men, and the ONERING were secure on Tuti Island, Gang had decided it was safer to relocate to an abandoned factory southeast of Khartoum. He’d planne
d to do it this evening, but events concerning their two captives had altered his plan. Now that the ONERING had been used, Gang wanted to return to the Black Hole this very night.

  Namir’s name for the prison was fitting—it was where rebels from Darfur and others opposed to his government vanished from the heart of Africa. Gang wanted to personally question the American prisoners, if they were both still alive. Namir almost pitied them.

  Namir still wasn’t sure how Gang had known about the Americans’ presence in Sudan. He assumed it was Gang’s Chinese Ministry of State Security that had fed him the information. Gang had even obtained pictures, which was why it’d been so easy to identify them as they left the airport.

  Namir dialed Gang’s cell. It rang four times before automatically disconnecting. Gang didn’t use voice mail. He’d told Namir that even though he was confident his phone was secure thanks to the advanced encryption software developed by his government, he wanted to minimize the amount of time his phone was active. Gang had told him that even the time it took to listen to a thirty-second message established an accurate “handshake” between a handset and the nearest tower, allowing the phone’s user to be all-too-easily located.

  He’s a very smart, resourceful young man. No wonder his government sent him.

  Namir hung up the phone and returned to his desk to check his computer. An AP story questioned the moral authority of the US, asking, “How does the largest superpower in the world justify attacking another nation engaged in capitalism, the very economic principle that drives the US economy and underpins its moral imperative to spread freedom to the rest of the world?”

  Namir smiled at the drivel. The American media reveled in pointing out the flaws of its own government. He didn’t understand it, but he was grateful for the propaganda.

  Soon they’d have tied up the loose ends that their American captives represented, their graves serving as unmarked capstones to the success of the operation. And his adult ambition would be fulfilled—to further and protect the interests of his beloved Sudan.