Logan took a deep breath as he caught Namir’s wrist with both hands. He locked his legs around the struggling man’s torso and squeezed as he pulled Namir’s wrist toward him and down, the momentum driving them both underwater.
Logan snaked his arm over the back of the man’s wrist and pushed forcefully with his right hand. He felt rather than heard the crunch as Namir’s wrist snapped, and Logan was rewarded with a muffled scream and an expulsion of bubbles. You brought this on yourself, Logan thought.
He yanked the push dagger from Namir’s now-useless grip and encircled his neck with his left arm, his legs still securing Namir’s torso in place.
Aware that he had precious few seconds left before the crocodile reached them, he plunged the dagger into Namir’s side. The man’s body stiffened as if struck by a bolt of lightning, and Logan kicked down as hard as he could, pushing himself above the Nile’s surface and dragging Namir with him.
Logan looked in the direction where the monster had been, and his blood turned to ice. The crocodile was now less than three feet from them, and the sheer horror of its proximity sent a jolt of true fear through him.
The top of its head was still the only part exposed, its reptilian eyes now focused on the two men. But it was the shadow of its immense body below the surface of the water that created a single, solitary thought in Logan’s mind—swim.
His fear transformed into focus, a physical sensation that fueled him and provided the courage to act in the face of paralyzing terror.
Logan released Namir, turned, and buried his arm into the water in front of him as he began his frenzied stroke, pulling as much water as he could to start his escape.
Namir let out a high-pitched shriek that sent a chill through Logan. He finally sees it.
Logan heard a loud splash, followed by a definitive thwump, the magnified sound of an oversized briefcase slamming shut.
The scream instantly dimmed, and Logan realized with horror what the predator had done—struck and closed its jaws around Namir’s head.
For the love of God, Logan, swim like you’ve never swum before. You don’t want to die like that.
Logan pulled and kicked as hard and fast as any Olympic athlete in the race of his life.
The thrashing continued behind him, but he didn’t dare turn around.
The muffled scream was abruptly cut off after several seconds of horrifying, audible terror. Mercifully, Logan thought.
“Swim to the dock! Now!” Logan heard John shout from nearby.
He didn’t look up, and he didn’t look back. As he’d done so often in his life, Logan West pressed forward with one objective clearly in mind—reach the pier and safety.
His heart pounded wildly in his chest, but he controlled his breaths and exhaled below the surface of the Nile, inhaling every time his face turned to the side. He sensed the thrashing behind him—now farther away—subside, but he didn’t know if that meant the crocodile had turned its carnivorous intentions toward him.
It didn’t matter. All that did was the stroke. Keep pushing. You’re almost there.
John’s voice grew louder, and he sensed he was extremely close to the pier. He finally relented and risked a glance up . . .
. . . As two strong arms reached down into the water and grabbed his forearms. Logan grabbed John’s in return, and as John pulled, Logan kicked to propel himself upward.
The pier was nearly three feet above the surface, and a moment later, Logan’s chest lay on the rough planks, his legs dangling in the water. John reached down behind him and grabbed his pants, pulling Logan’s lower half to safety.
Logan rolled over and lay on his back, his chest heaving up and down as he fought to slow his breathing and heart rate. John sat next to him, his hand on Logan’s shoulder in reassurance that he was safe from the river monster.
“Where is it?” Logan gasped, and propped himself on his elbows, spotting the location where the crocodile had attacked.
The water was a darker shade of brown and crimson, swirling with the recent commotion. Namir was gone, dragged to the depths of his watery grave, where his body would be consumed piece by piece by the monstrous crocodile.
“After it got him by the head, it thrashed from side to side. I’m pretty sure it broke his neck. It then took him under. I saw it roll a few times, and then it was gone,” John said, and looked at Logan.
“He didn’t see it until the last second. I spotted it right away. I was going to cut him and use him as bait so I could escape,” Logan confessed. “But he made a last-ditch effort to attack with a small push dagger he had on him. So I never got the chance.”
John studied Logan for a moment and weighed the moral dilemma his closest friend had faced. “That’s the best choice you could’ve made in that situation. That’s what sets you apart pretty much from everyone else—you can make those hard choices.”
“I know, but what’s scary, even for me, is how fast I made it. There was no hesitation, no consideration for his humanity.”
“That quick decision-making is why you survived,” John said earnestly. “You made the right call, and you were prepared to do the hard, right thing.”
Logan nodded and finally stood, water dripping from his soaked clothing.
“More importantly,” John said, a wicked grin breaking across his face, “don’t you know you’re not supposed to feed the animals?”
Logan couldn’t help himself, he laughed, momentarily breaking the fatigue and tension he felt. He shook his head at his friend, grateful for the bond they shared. I’m humbled to have such companions as these.
But then he thought of Mike, and his mood sobered.
“Let’s find out how our friends are doing and then get the hell out of here,” Logan said. “I’m officially ending our Sudanese vacation.”
PART VIII
ARES
CHAPTER 56
Arlington National Cemetery, Virginia
In the front of a small, intimate group of friends and family, Logan stood at attention as seven Marines fired three volleys in the traditional twenty-one-gun salute.
Crack!
Crack!
Crack!
Sarah West stood next to her husband, black-gloved hands crossed in front of her. She knew the playing of taps by a live bugler would be next. She’d been to all the funerals for the Recon Marines killed in Fallujah in 2004, and she knew the ceremony by heart, even years later.
John, Amira, and Cole huddled around them in the December air. Even Mike’s ex-wife, Corey, and Special Agent Lance Foster were in attendance for the sorrowful occasion. Standing in front of them all was Mike’s uncle, FBI Director Jake Benson.
The heartbreaking melody drifted down the hill, shrouding the funeral party with a sense of loss and overwhelming grief. Even the most battle-hardened in the group, including Logan himself, were moved to tears during Butterfield’s Lullaby.
When the bugler was finished, two Marines folded the American flag draped over Mike’s coffin and presented it to Jake Benson, who reverently accepted it.
A slender man at just under six feet, he cut a distinguished figure with chiseled features, a sloping, hawkish nose, and peppered gray hair. While Mike had had the presence of a linebacker, Jake Benson carried the aura of a statesman. In reality, he and Mike had been cut from the same cloth, but in the same way that Mike had used his physicality, Jake had used his charm and charisma to navigate the treacherous political waters of DC.
Jake stood back and watched through a mask of grief as Mike’s ornate casket was lowered into the hallowed ground.
The site was normally reserved for active or retired military members, their spouses and children, elected officials, Supreme Court justices, and a few other select, stringently protected categories, but the secretary of the Army had approved the exception for Mike’s burial ground at the urging of the president. A plot had been identified in the southern part of the same section that held President Kennedy. Located just east of the Tomb of the Unkno
wn Soldier, the area had a gorgeous and serene hillside setting befitting the country’s national heroes.
The service ended, and the group stood at the coffin, knowing that once they left, the finality would sink in.
Mike’s ceremonial interment had been for friends and family only, and they’d all agreed not to say any words over his casket. Anything they said would seem too shallow or artificial for a man such as Mike. The shock of his loss was still too fresh. It’d only been six days since he’d been killed.
The FBI had planned a large memorial for later in the week, and Logan had been told hundreds—if not thousands—would attend. Mike’s career had spanned more than two decades, and he’d impacted agents across all organizations in the Bureau, not the least, Special Agent Sheila Marcus, the last person to see him alive. She’d been asked to speak at the service, and Logan had every intention of talking to her after the event. He wanted to know every detail of Mike’s last minutes on earth, although he was sure he died the way he had always lived—as a warrior.
As the group walked toward the procession of black stretch limousines, which waited to take them to the Capital Grille—Mike’s favorite steakhouse in DC—for a funeral luncheon, Jake appeared at Logan’s side and pulled him away from the group.
“Logan, do you have a moment?” Jake asked, his eyes still glistening from the service.
“Of course,” Logan answered. “What is it?”
“This is going to sound odd at a time like this, but I need you, John, Cole, and Amira to come with me in my limo,” Jake said. “We have to make a stop before lunch.”
“Is everything okay?” Logan asked, concern creeping into his voice.
“Yes, but there’s something we have to do, and it can’t wait,” Jake said.
Logan studied the man’s face. Whatever it was, it was serious, as well as urgent.
“I’ll gather the troops,” Logan said.
“Okay. See you at the car.” Jake walked away, the flag still held tenderly in his hands.
Logan caught up to his family, who immediately knew from the look on his face that something was amiss.
“What is it, babe?” Sarah asked, gently placing her hand on her husband’s arm.
“I’m not sure.” Logan smiled at his beautiful, brown-haired wife. “But Jake needs John, Cole, Amira, and me to take a trip with him before we hit the restaurant,” Logan said, looking at each person as he said each name. “He didn’t say why.”
“Sounds like business,” John said.
“But what kind of business that it has to be this minute?” Cole asked.
Logan shrugged. “I don’t know, but we’ll find out soon enough. We’ll meet you at the restaurant. I love you,” he said, and leaned in and kissed Sarah on the mouth.
“Love you too,” Sarah said.
“Come on then, gang. Let’s go see what the man wants,” Logan said, and the group strode to the waiting limousine.
CHAPTER 57
Fifteen minutes later, Logan, John, and the others found themselves in the Treasury Building’s ornately adorned conference room directly across the hall from the Treasury secretary’s office.
In addition to the group and Jake Benson, there was only one other occupant—the director of the CIA, Sheldon Tooney. A legendary case officer, he’d earned his stripes during the latter days of the Cold War, serving as the chief of station in Berlin when the wall came tumbling down.
Cole and Amira were momentarily shocked to see the CIA’s number one—their ultimate boss—sitting at the table, smiling at them when they walked in.
Known for his interpersonal skills, a trait often lacked by senior officials, he’d stood and greeted them as they entered the room. A man in his early sixties who’d taken care of himself, he moved easily and confidently.
“It’s good to see you, Ms. Cerone,” Director Tooney said. It wasn’t the first time they’d met. He’d shaken the hand of every active LEGION operative. He considered it his personal responsibility to know who his most valuable assets were and to let them know that what they did mattered. “I knew when I sent out the activation message that if anyone had a chance to find that plane, it’d be one of our LEGION.” He smiled warmly. “And I was right.”
“But sir, how did you know the plane might be coming to Khartoum?” Amira asked. “For a while, I thought LEGION might be compromised and that I’d been sent to fail as part of some sort of diversion.”
“Ms. Cerone, have you ever failed?” Director Tooney asked, raising his eyebrows.
She didn’t respond, accepting the praise with her traditional silence.
“We were lucky. Nothing more,” the director continued.
“You’re kidding, sir,” Cole said incredulously.
“Not at all, Mr. Matthews. You know this business. Sometimes, it’s better to be lucky than good. Once we realized the North Korean cargo ship was a wild goose chase, I had our analysts brainstorm where it could go and how it could get there. The ‘where’ was impossible to know, but they all agreed the safest bet would be via private charter. There was no way they’d go over water after setting up that diversion. So they cross-referenced all private charters and managed to provide a list of potential destinations. Due to the sensitivity of the operation, I decided to activate every LEGION agent near every possible destination. And you just happened to be the one that fate selected,” he finished, looking at Amira.
“I’m just a lucky girl, I guess,” Amira said.
“You are most definitely not lucky. You’re one of the most talented agents we have,” the director said. “I know it’s been a while, and although I know you know it already, I wholeheartedly appreciate everything you’ve done in your position. You have one of the most difficult and critical jobs, not just in the agency, but in the country, and I can’t thank you enough for the way you do it.”
He turned to Cole. “The same goes for you, Mr. Matthews. While your position may be a little different, you both possess skills we need, especially now.”
“Thank you, sir,” Cole said. “Since we just got here, do you have any idea what this is all about?”
Director Tooney smiled, looked at his stainless-steel chronograph watch, and said, “As a matter of fact, I do, and unless my time-telling skills are off in my old age, you’ll all find out very soon.”
As if on cue, the main doorway to the conference room opened and in walked two Secret Service agents, followed by the last person they’d expected—Preston R. Scott, the president of the United States of America.
———
Preston Scott was an anomaly in the Democratic Party. A former Air Force officer who’d flown A-10 missions during Desert Storm, he understood the necessity of combat and the ultimate sacrifices that war demanded. The descendant of a long line of military leaders and a native of Georgia, it was rumored that one of his relatives had served alongside Robert E. Lee. The legend only added to the popularity he garnered with the country’s voters, especially in the South.
A fiscal conservative—or blue dog Democrat—he actually had more in common with the Republican party on defense and economic issues; however, it was the social issues that had held sway over his moral compass, and he’d ultimately entered politics as a Democrat. As much as he respected Republican policies, he believed that their social agenda and the accompanying perception of intolerance it created was an obstacle they needed to overcome. His moderate approach had somehow found the right balance and struck a chord with both parties. It also helped that he was physically fit and extremely good-looking for a man in his early fifties, his thick black hair worn short, clean, and slightly tousled.
He introduced himself and shook each of their hands after he dismissed his two detailed bodyguards with specific instructions—this was a meeting for only those inside the room.
He sat at the head of the table and spoke clearly and directly, with no exaggerated expressions or feigned sentiment.
“Lady and gentlemen, it’s been a rough week for this
country, but especially for you with the loss of Mike Benson,” President Scott began. “Let me start by saying that I didn’t know him well at all; however, I know his uncle quite well. As I told Jake and I’m telling each of you now, I’m extremely sorry for your loss. This country lost a hero and a patriot, the FBI lost an excellent leader, and you lost a close friend. And nothing I can say will make up for it.”
His sincerity was palpable, and each of them felt a bond grow toward the man they’d just met moments before.
“But that’s not why you’re all here. First, I chose this location because it’s a short walk from my home next door.” The east entrance to the White House opened directly opposite the western entrance to the Treasury Department, the convergence of the two buildings already protected by security. “It’s easy to cover the distance unnoticed. Additionally, there’s no logbook here. I know I don’t have to sign anything, but neither do you. There will never be a record that this meeting ever occurred,” the president said.
Focusing his attention on Logan, John, Cole, and Amira, the president said, “I’ve been talking to Jake and Sheldon all week long. They brought me up to speed on what happened to the ONERING, how the Chinese and Sudanese were involved in the hijacking of THOR’S HAMMER, and how it was used to give us a black eye by framing us for an attack on a Chinese oil corporation on Sudanese soil.” He paused and placed his hands on the table. “Honestly, it’s hard to believe that we could be so careless as to allow something so dangerous to fall into the hands of our enemies, only to have it blatantly used against us. Right now, I’ve got the State Department in full battle-damage mode, trying to explain to the UN that we weren’t responsible. But here’s the real bombshell—the Chinese, Sudanese, Russians, and even the North Koreans, if you can believe it, are all denying any role in last week’s events. And after what we’ve learned, it’s likely they’re all telling the truth. The Russians even acknowledged the existence and identity of the team in Alaska, going so far as to provide us with a file on each man you killed—something the Russian government has never done. They insisted they didn’t activate their assets, although they acknowledged that the order came from Moscow. They just can’t explain how. The same goes for the Chinese.”
Oath of Honor Page 33
