by Dale Brown
Jason Richter had just started jogging as fast as his malfunctioning CID unit could go back toward the Kingman Building when the ONC explosion ripped it apart. He watched in horror as the Kingman Building went down in a huge cloud of dust and debris. The sound was deafening. People were screaming behind him, running in all directions in panic. The fogbank of debris rushed over him, but he was still too stunned to move.
“Jason!” Ariadna radioed. “Can you hear me? Jason!”
“I hear you, Ari,” he replied solemnly. Jason took a deep breath inside the CID unit. Soon the dust and debris was so thick he couldn’t see a thing.
“What happened? I lost the video feed from Doug. Can you see him out there?”
He was being pummeled by chunks of flying steel, glass, and concrete as well as by the windblast created by the collapsing building, but he still could not make himself move for several long moments.
“Jason…!”
“He’s gone, Ari,” Jason finally said. “The Kingman Building blew up…he’s gone. Doug is gone.”
“Wha…what?” Ari asked. “Say again, Jason? What happened?”
“Zakharov has got to be stopped,” Jason said. “We have got to pick up his trail and track him down fast, before he kills any more innocent people. We have to think of a way to find this guy before he strikes again. We have to take the fight to him this time.” He paused, taking another deep breath, then turned and started walking out of the river of debris swirling all around him. “Sergeant Major Jefferson.”
“Sir?” Jefferson radioed from his spot on one of the “Rat Patrol” dune buggies, which had evacuated on Maxwell’s orders uptown on California Street.
“Recall Task Force TALON to Pecos East immediately. We’ve got work to do.”
“I’m sure the feds and the state of California will want a debriefing on…”
“Sergeant Major, I gave you an order,” Jason said. “Assemble the team at Pecos East immediately.”
“What about Lieutenant Maxwell’s and Sergeant Moore’s bodies, sir?”
“When they’re recovered, we’ll return and take them back to their families,” Jason said. “Our job is to get that sonofabitch Zakharov. Move out.”
Ray Jefferson liked the sound of the voice on the other end of that radio conversation. “Yes, sir,” he responded, smiling. “All Task Force TALON squads, secure your locations and assemble at rally point Delta. Move!”
Washington, D.C.
A short time later
This time there was none of the usual pomp and ceremony when the President of the United States visits Congress: no ceremonial banging on the chamber door requesting admittance; no loud announcement of his arrival by the sergeant-at-arms; no welcoming applause; no handshakes. The assembled members of both houses of Congress simply rose to their feet and remained silent as the President, surrounded by Secret Service, walked quickly down the aisle to the podium.
The Vice President was not there, still in a secure location outside the capital due to security concerns; his spot was taken by the Senate majority leader. The Speaker of the House was in his usual position, behind and to the President’s left; the bulk of the bulletproof vest he wore obvious beneath his suit, as was the case with most of the ranking members of Congress. Most of the Supreme Court justices, Armed Forces chiefs of staff, Cabinet members, and White House senior staff were in attendance, as were the members of Congress themselves. There were just a few observers allowed. Every door was guarded by a uniformed U.S. Marine Corps soldier with full battle gear and assault rifle.
“Mr. Chairman, Mr. Speaker, members of Congress, thank you for responding so quickly to my request to address a joint session,” the President began moments after reaching the podium. “I know over the past several weeks you have been informally debating the idea of declaring war on terrorism. Today, that’s exactly what I’m asking Congress for this afternoon: I wish Congress to issue a declaration of war against terrorism.
“I have already declared the entire San Francisco Bay area a federal disaster area and have activated the Joint Civil Response Force to help the state of California deal with the emergency. As commander in chief, I have federalized the California National Guard and Reserve Forces Command to help local and state authorities in rescue, recovery, medical, relief, and security efforts; I have directed the Secretary of Defense to assign active-duty units based in the U.S. to U.S. Northern Command and to be made available for defense and security assignments throughout North America; and I have ordered the highest possible level of security for all oil and gas, chemical, power production, water, and transportation facilities all across the United States.
“But all of this not enough—not nearly enough. Our resources, which were already stretched thin after the attack on Kingman City, are now at the complete exhaustion point. My only option is to request from Congress full war authority to muster resources to defend our nation and to deploy worldwide to hunt down and destroy these terrorists. I am asking Congress for a declaration of war on terrorism.
“Specifically, I am asking Congress to authorize all available resources of the United States of America to investigate, indict, pursue, capture, or destroy terrorists anywhere in the world. I specifically refer to the man known as Colonel Yegor Viktorvich Zakharov, whom we believe was the mastermind and weapons procurer of the nuclear attacks on Kingman City, Texas, as well as the attacks this morning in San Francisco. This resolution also pertains to his coconspirators around the world, and to any person, group, organization, or nation that harbors, protects, assists, or facilitates his movements or activities, past or present.
“I am also requesting one more thing from Congress: repeal of the Posse Comitatus Act of 1878,” the President went on. “The act was designed to keep federal military troops from violating the people’s constitutional rights by acting in a warlike manner to civilians on American soil without due process. What it has succeeded in doing, however, is to keep America incapable of defending itself against an attack on its own soil. The President needs the authority to deploy the full range of military forces anywhere, at any time, for any and all purposes in order to defeat this enemy. It cannot be restrained or hampered by the fear of crossing state or local jurisdictions.
“The war is no longer ‘over there’; the oceans no longer insulate us; and the enemy is using weapons and tactics that were once reserved only for the most extremely desperate battlefields. We are not fighting in the aftermath of a civil war—we are fighting a strong and determined enemy that can destroy this nation if we allow it. It is time for the U.S. military to be given the authority to use its power right here on our own soil to defend our great nation. As commander in chief, I promise I will not waver or shirk my responsibility to defend our nation; but I must be given the tools I need to combat terrorism wherever I find it, whether foreign or domestic.
“I therefore ask Congress…no, I demand that you pass a war resolution against terrorism, and that you repeal the Posse Comitatus Act of 1878 and allow U.S. military commanders and the forces under their command to take any and all measures necessary to defend and protect the United States of America right here at home. Time is of the essence; the very future of our nation is at stake. May God bless and protect the United States of America.”
As the stunned members of Congress got to their feet, the President stepped off the dais and walked out of the chamber without speaking or shaking hands with anyone. He was escorted under very tight security to his waiting armored limousine. His chief of staff and National Security Adviser were already in the limo waiting. The President took a deep breath and loosened his tie, slumping in his seat. “I picked one hell of a day to quit drinking,” he said wearily. “When do you think the vote will come in?”
“They have a quorum, but they still might send the draft resolution down to committee,” Victoria Collins said.
“They won’t do that—not with almost continuous images of San Francisco being played on TV,” the President said. “
What’s the latest straw poll?”
“The war resolution is evenly split,” Collins replied. “Repealing Posse Comitatus…still three to one against.”
“But that was before San Francisco,” Robert Chamberlain reminded her. “They might change their votes now. There was a nuclear bomb planted right in downtown San Francisco, for God’s sake!”
“They see enough National Guard troops in their cities, airports, and bus terminals now—they might think that’s plenty,” Collins said uneasily.
“I’m done waiting around here,” the President said resolutely. “Where do we start, Robert?”
“Task Force TALON is back at their base in New Mexico, sir,” Chamberlain replied. “They’re investigating several possibilities. The FBI is interviewing tollbooth operators to see if anyone can identify Pavel Khalimov, but we’re fairly certain that he was involved in the bombings in San Francisco.”
“Be sure TALON is fully reconstituted and ready to fight,” the President said.
“Does that mean I get control of the unit back, sir?”
“Damn right it does. I don’t want them on the backside of the power curve any longer—I want them right up front, wherever the investigation takes them. Get them moving, Robert. Find Zakharov and destroy him. Wherever it leads them, whatever it takes—find him and destroy him. They get anything they want: aircraft carriers, bombers, tankers, transport planes, troops, the works. But they find this Zakharov guy and destroy him.”
“Yes, sir,” Chamberlain responded. “It will be my pleasure—my extreme pleasure.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Dumyat, Egypt
Two nights later
It had not taken as long as he thought it might, but it was still well after 9 P.M. when Yusuf Gemici closed the last accounts receivable file on his computer and secured it with a password. He took a last sip of thick, strong Turkish coffee, popular in Egypt and around the Middle East, and was ready to start shutting the computer down when a gentleman and a lady came through the outer office door. The secretary—his slutty but very cute sister-in-law—was long gone for the day, so he rose and went out to the reception area. This was an intrusion, sure, but he wasn’t yet rich enough to turn away customers, especially those who looked well-off enough.
“Ahlan wa sahlan,” Gemici said in Egyptian Arabic. “Misae el kher.”
“Ahlan bik,” the man said in response, in stilted but passable Arabic with an American accent. “Enta bititkallim inglizi?”
“Yes, of course, I speak English,” Gemici replied. “Welcome to my place of business. How may I be of service?”
“I apologize for the late hour,” the man said. The woman, who had been unobtrusively hanging behind the man, walked off and began looking at the pictures of cargo vessels on the walls in front of the secretary’s desk.
“Not at all. Please come in and sit.” The man came into Gemici’s office; the woman stayed outside. “I am Yusuf Gemici, the owner of this business. I shall make coffee, unless you prefer water? Juice?”
“Water, min fadlak.”
“Of course. You Americans are not accustomed to ahwa turki.” He retrieved bottles of mineral water from a small refrigerator next to the secretary’s desk, along with a bowl of half-melted chips of ice and a couple small glasses. The woman stayed outside, as a woman who knew her place should always do. “I do not forget how much you Americans like your ice cubes.”
“Shukran,” the man said.
“Afwan.” Gemici kept the door to his office partially open. The woman was still looking at the pictures of various ships on the wall—she hadn’t said a thing, unusual for a Western woman. “We do not see many Americans here in our little city, except for the oil workers and tourists taking the felucca tours. Have you been on the Mouth of the Nile tour?”
“No, not yet.”
Gemici gave the man his business card after scribbling some Arabic on the back. “My brother runs the Timsaeh tour company. The best boats on the Mediterranean. Show him this card and he will get you a bottle of Omar Khayyam wine for your sunset cruise.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Pleasantries over, Gemici leaned back in his chair expansively. “How may I help you, sir?”
“My company is in the process of negotiating a sale of newly designed natural-gas metering equipment to the Egyptian General Petroleum Company,” the man said. Gemici’s eyes widened. The Egyptian General Petroleum Company was Egypt’s second-largest petroleum consortium, with an immense presence in the area because of its development of several natural-gas fields near Port Said, on the other side of the Gulf of Dumyat. “The Point Fouad project is ready to expand, and my company has a contract to provide new equipment to be shipped from Newark, New Jersey, to Dumyat.”
“Very excellent,” Gemici said. “I am glad you chose us. We have a very fine vessel to move your equipment.” He stood and went over to a large photograph of a ship on his office wall. “My pride and joy: the King Zoser, named after the man who united the two desert kingdoms into one nation which became Mi?r, or modern-day Egypt,” he said. “She is fast, reliable, efficient, fully inspected and certified by the U.S. Coast Guard, and specially designed to safely and securely handle outsized and delicate machinery such as computerized field equipment. We require very little handling equipment at the pier, so we routinely go into smaller ports which is often much more convenient for our clients. We can even offload outsized equipment directly onto offshore platforms if necessary without the use of helicopters.”
“The crew is especially important to this shipment, sir,” the man said. “To cut costs, I would like to know if the crew has any experience handling equipment such as ours. We would like to avoid sending a number of engineers on the ship if at all possible.”
“But of course!” Gemici said. “As I said, we specialize in serving the oil and gas exploration industry with safe, secure, and professional transportation support.”
“Excellent,” the man said. “In fact, I believe it was one name in particular from your company that came very highly recommended: Gennadyi Boroshev.”
Gemici kept his smile in place, but he could feel sweat start to pop out around his collar and in the soles of his feet. “I am sorry to inform you, sir, that I do not know of any such man. He does not work for my company.”
“Then maybe you can tell us where to find him, Mr. Gemici.” The woman had come into the office, followed by two younger men with obvious gun bulges under their sportcoats. He noted the shades in the windows in the outer office were all closed and the lights turned out. The woman held up a wallet and showed a gold badge. “Special Agent Kelsey DeLaine, FBI,” she said. The men with her closed the rest of the blinds in Gemici’s office and started going through his file drawers. “Gennadyi Boroshev. Where is he?”
Gemici closed his eyes as his heart sank through his chest into his bowels. Shit, he knew this was going to happen. But he still motioned to the agents rifling his file cabinets. “Do you not need a search warrant to do that, Special Agent DeLaine?”
“Do you want me to get a warrant, Yusuf?” Kelsey asked. “Would you like me to call the Mubahath el-Dawla? I’m sure they’d want to know what you’re up to.” The Mubahath el-Dawla, or State Security Investigations, was the Egyptian internal intelligence force, the secret Gestapo-like unit that provided information to the President and the Ministries of the Interior and Justice—any way they could, in whichever way the ministries wanted it, or so their reputations suggested.
Gemici’s eyes were darting around the room now in confusion, but he was still trying to bluff his way out of this, waiting to hear exactly how much information they had or if they were just on a fishing expedition. “Boroshev…Boroshev…”
“He was on board your vessel for several weeks on your last North and South American cruise,” Kelsey said. “As far as we can tell, he was on board all the way from Damascus to Richmond and all the way back to here. You don’t remember him?”
Crap, Gemici thought,
they had everything…“Ah! You said Boroshev! Your accent is difficult for me,” he said, smiling and bobbing his head. “Of course I recognize him. Russian. Ugly. Sickly. A drug fiend, if I remember correctly. I do not know where he is.”
“Got the crew files, Kelsey,” one of the agents searching his file drawers said.
“Boroshev was not a crew member,” Gemici said. “He was a courier, a messenger boy. We paid very little attention to him.”
“Wall safe,” the other agent said, moving the large photograph of the King Zoser aside. He immediately started searching around the area of the picture, especially in dark, out-of-the-way places.
“That is the owner’s safe,” Gemici said.
“I thought you were the owner, Yusuf.”
“I am just a lowly ship’s captain,” he said. “I am not allowed to touch it. I do not have the…”
“Got it,” the second agent said. He copied a combination from the very edge of a piece of trim around the photograph on his notepad and then entered it into the wall safe, and the door popped open.
“You men are all alike—you can’t remember combinations so you write it on something nearby, thinking no one will ever find it,” Kelsey said. The second agent withdrew another batch of personnel files.
“I told you, Boroshev was a courier, a representative of a client,” Gemici said. The second agent flipped quickly through the personnel files, then went back to the open wall safe. “I have no records on him whatso…
