by Gary Ponzo
When Jackson saw Nick, he did a double take. “What are you doing here? I sent for Matt, not you.”
“It’s okay,” Nick said, approaching the table. “Julie’s going to recover. I’m much better off working.”
“I didn’t come all the way down here for small talk, gentlemen,” Hatfield bristled.
Nick and Matt looked at him as if he spoke a foreign language, but the men sitting around the table with Hatfield didn’t even act surprised. It looked like they’d been hearing a lot worse from the Chief of Staff. Although Hatfield held absolutely no authority at the table, everyone understood who he represented.
When Nick and Matt stood there unsure of their welcome status, Hatfield boomed. “Either sit down and help, or get the fuck out of here.”
Nick saw Matt’s face getting flush. He shot Matt a look and Matt tightened his lips, while he and Nick found seats opposite each other. Matt sat directly to Hatfield’s left.
Nick wasn’t sure how to introduce the subject of Sal’s information. Hatfield’s presence made it almost impossible to explain his source. Hatfield wasn’t privy to any deals made with Sal’s crew, and his proximity to the president precluded him from being briefed.
In a slow beaten voice, Jackson said, “Here’s where we are.” He said it in a reviewing tone, but Nick knew he was recapping for his and Matt’s benefit. “We have Mustafa revealing Kharrazi’s plan to attack the White House with an underwater missile. We have Kharrazi flying somewhere out west to detonate the missile. We also have every Naval vessel searching the coastline for anything suspicious, and we’re scoping every body of water inside of five miles of the White House.”
Jackson turned toward an electronic map of the United States on the near wall, pointed to Ohio and clicked a button on his remote control. The city of Cleveland lit up with a small green light. “After interrogating a KSF soldier in Cleveland, we discover that Kharrazi is still in America, and will remain here until his mission is accomplished.” Another click and Las Vegas lit up, “Here is where Kharrazi kidnapped Phil Bracco. It took months for the KSF to prepare a safe house the way they did.” Another click, and another light. “Henderson, Nevada. A tip at a local gun show nets us another three KSF soldiers. Yet we still have no big names. The way we see it, their headquarters is out west, probably in Nevada, more specifically, Las Vegas.”
Jackson turned to Dutton and handed him the remote. Dutton clicked a button and a series of red lights sprung up in a circle surrounding the Washington, DC area. “Here’s where we have the Sentinel Radars stationed. If a missile is launched anywhere outside of this perimeter, we have anti-missile launchers in place.”
“What if the missile is launched inside the perimeter?” Hatfield asked.
Dutton hesitated. “Well, we’re fairly certain-”
“Fairly certain isn’t going to cut it,” Hatfield huffed. “If I wanted fairly certain I would have phoned you instead of coming to meet with you personally. The President-shit, the country can’t afford for us to be fairly certain any more. We need certainty and effectiveness.”
Hatfield seemed to compose himself for a moment. He clasped his hands in front of him and leaned forward, as if he were going to let everyone in on a secret. “I have a direct quote from the President. Would you like to hear it?” He didn’t wait for their nods. “If the White House even gets egged tonight, his quote is, ‘Tell them to find new careers, because theirs will be over.’ Now, I don’t have to tell you that President Merrick doesn’t bluff, do I?”
It was a lie. Merrick was too polished to make such a crude threat, but Hatfield wasn’t. In years past, Chiefs like Leon Panetta and Andrew Card would embrace their domain and stay perfectly happy within the walls of the White House. But Hatfield was of a different ilk. He spread his tentacles into places he had no business being, and as a consequence, he had few political allies. And in a place like Washington D.C., allies were a potent currency.
Regardless of the veracity of Hatfield’s statement, everyone at the table commenced a slow squirm. Almost everyone. Matt McColm casually removed a stick of gum from its wrapper, and giving it his full attention, slid it into his mouth and began a leisurely chew. He was using the most powerful weapon he had to counteract an overbearing authority figure. Apathy. He wasn’t about to give Hatfield the satisfaction.
Nick understood the move. Everyone knew the Chief of Staff had the President’s ear, but he wasn’t Matt’s boss. Matt’s boss sat directly across from him, and by the look on his face, Jackson was enjoying every minute of it.
Hatfield glared at Matt. “Do you understand me?”
Matt folded his gum wrapper with methodical precision.
“I’m talking to you, Mr. Sharpshooter.”
Nick braced himself for the collision.
Matt took the empty wrapper, folded it, and carefully placed it in his breast pocket like it was a rare jewel. “Tell me something, Bill,” he said. “When are you going to show us how to wipe our ass?”
The table smoldered with stifled laughter.
Hatfield’s eyes tightened into penetrating beams of malevolence. He pointed a manicured finger at Matt. “Start reading the classifieds, asshole.”
Matt leaned into Hatfield’s finger. “What the fuck do you know about-”
“That’s enough!” a voice boomed from behind them. Defense Secretary Martin Riggs loomed over the table. He still had on his suit jacket, but his tie was pulled down, and a portion of his collar was stuck on the outside of his jacket. Even though the ex-Marine looked as if he hadn’t seen a bed in a week, his stature alone made you think twice before challenging him. Riggs dropped a large stack of manila files onto the table and strategically sandwiched himself in a seat between Matt and Hatfield. “After this is over they’ll be plenty of blame to go around. Right now we need to focus on the enemy.”
Matt and Hatfield gave each other malicious glares, but nothing more.
Riggs thumbed through his stack of files. Without looking up he said, “To answer your question, Mr. Chief of Staff,” he glanced at Matt for effect, “there is no guarantee we can shoot this missile down whether it’s inside or outside the perimeter.”
Hatfield folded his arms. Riggs opened a file marked, “Classified” and continued. “We have twenty F-16’s armed with the newest generation of Sidewinders dedicated to safeguard the White House. Even so, hitting a missile with a Sidewinder is tantamount to a bullet hitting a bullet. It’s not easy.”
Riggs placed the file on the table in front of him and addressed Hatfield. “There’s also the issue of countermeasures. Our intelligence tells us that if Kharrazi does have missiles off of our shore, they’ll almost definitely be Russian technology. If that’s true, the missile will come supplied with decoys.”
Hatfield had a confused look on his face, so Riggs took a deep breath. “Decoys, Mr. Hatfield. Sometime during the flight the missile will drop off large aluminum coated balloons. To our laser-guided radar system they will appear as metal objects, no different than the missile itself. It will give us too many targets to choose from. Mistakes will be made, I assure you.”
“Still,” Riggs said, turning back to his file, “with the amount of ground troops roaming the vicinity, and the Sentinels and fighters flanking the zone, I’d give a rouge missile one chance in three of making it through. And that’s only if there’s one missile deployed.” He gave Hatfield a long look. “That good enough for you, Bill?”
Hatfield allowed a deep breath to convert itself into the tiniest of nods. “If that’s the best we can do.”
Matt looked away from Hatfield and shook his head, fighting to maintain control.
“You got those reports?” Jackson asked.
“Right here,” Riggs said, sliding a large folded piece of paper from the file and opening it all the way. He moved the stack of files to the side and laid the paper across the middle of the table. As Riggs leaned over the paper, Nick could see that it was a map of the United States.
&nbs
p; Riggs removed a pencil from his breast pocket and hovered over the map. With millions of dollars worth of computer technology surrounding him, Riggs was going with his strength; a pencil and a piece of paper. He drew a straight line from Hoover Dam to Las Vegas. “Three-thirty this morning an operative in Nevada made an ID on a KSF soldier traveling from Arizona to Las Vegas.”
“What happened with him?” Hatfield asked.
Nick winced. Hatfield had obviously never been to a Riggs briefing before. Riggs didn’t tolerate interruptions when he was disseminating intelligence. He would almost always answer your question at some point during the briefing, and the ones he didn’t answer usually weren’t pertinent enough to warrant an explanation.
Riggs simply gave Hatfield his game face. The Chief of Staff developed a sudden fascination with the diagram of Hoover Dam. Riggs returned his attention to the map.
“Now then,” he continued. Drawing a line from Flagstaff, Arizona to Santa Fe, New Mexico, he added, “Four-fifteen this morning, an experienced trucker traveling east on Interstate 40 near Flagstaff noticed a truck pulling a trailer that didn’t match the markings on the cab. He called DPS and they discovered two KSF soldiers transporting explosives.” He looked up at Hatfield. “They made the arrest without incident.”
Drawing another line from Yuma, Arizona to San Diego, California, he said, “At five-twenty AM, a highway patrol officer discovered a car making a U-turn on a grass median, trying to avoid a road block on Interstate 8 west. He called for backup and they arrested two more KSF soldiers with a trunk full of explosives.”
Riggs pointed to Jackson, “I assume you have the samples back.”
Jackson nodded, taking his cue to finish the intelligence report. “Yes, we took soil samples from all of the captured soldier’s shoes. There’s trace of Pinyon Juniper present in each of their samples. This particular type of plant is most commonly found in higher elevation. In the four to seven thousand foot range.”
Jackson took the pencil from Riggs’ hand and traced a serpentine oval around the northern Arizona portion of the map. “This puts them either up here in the Flagstaff, Prescott, Payson area, or down here around the outskirts of the Tucson. It’s a large region to cover in such a short time, but we should focus in or around the small towns. They need supplies, so we have to gamble a little here.”
Riggs stood upright from his hunched position, as if to get a better perspective of the markings. He looked around the table, while pointing to the areas Jackson just circled. “Gentlemen, the enemy is here somewhere. We just need good old fashioned investigative skills to sniff them out.”
Walt must have read Nick’s face because he looked at him with raised eyebrows. “You have something to add, Nick?”
Nick looked up at Matt, but his partner’s face was shut tight. This was Nick’s call and he knew it.
“Nick?”
Nick looked at his watch, then back to Jackson. There wasn’t time for the usual political dance. He either opened up and risked a scandal that made Watergate look like misdemeanor trespassing, or keep quiet and possibly watch the White House light up the night sky. He thought about Julie, and how desperate she looked when she pleaded for him to keep going. To find Kharrazi and kill him.
“Something wrong, Nick?” Ken Morris said.
Nick felt a drop of sweat tickle the back of his neck. “They’re in Payson,” he said.
“Is that a hunch?” Riggs asked.
Nick shook his head. “I have an informant.”
“Who?”
Nick shrugged, but before he could pry open the can of worms, Matt stepped into the fire. “It’s an operative we have working undercover,” Matt said.
Hatfield glanced at Matt for a brief moment, then back to Nick. “Is that true, Nick?”
It was almost true, but not quite. He felt his stomach move ever so slightly upward. He was now in a corner. If he gave up Sal, then Hatfield would have questions. Questions that he couldn’t be allowed to have the answers to. And if he contradicted his partner. .well, he couldn’t do that either. His brain swelled with frustration.
Suddenly, a commotion in the back of the room erupted.
“Get him!” someone shouted.
Nick looked up and saw a dozen analysts cheering in front of a big screen video monitor as if they were watching the Super Bowl. On the screen, a dark haired man in jeans and a long sleeve shirt ran through a backyard, being chased by another man wearing an FBI windbreaker. The view was from overhead and it resembled video that reality cop shows would film from a helicopter. The clarity on the screen was remarkable. Nick could tell that the dark haired man wore black high top sneakers. But they weren’t watching a shot from a helicopter; they were watching an image projected from a spy satellite hundreds of miles in space. Nick had heard stories of its capabilities, but when he saw the picture himself, he was amazed.
Walt Jackson was having a conversation on his headset. “Bring it in closer,” he said.
Nick thought if the image were any closer he could tell which brand of toothpaste the guy used.
Matt looked over his shoulder at Nick. “Recognize him?”
Nick squinted, trying to catch the face of the fleeing man. “Bali?”
“Uh huh.”
“Who’s Bali?” Riggs asked.
“Reyola Bali,” Nick answered. “He’s one of Kharrazi’s top soldiers. They call him the ‘Specialist.’”
“What’s so special about him?”
“Well, it’s common knowledge that everyone in Kharrazi’s organization uses a knife as their weapon of choice. Bali is one of the few who prefers a gun. He’s their premier sniper.”
Riggs pointed at the screen. “Do you think this agent chasing him knows that?”
Nick watched the chase, anxiously tapping his fist to his lips. He saw the face of the young FBI agent and it reminded him of himself his first couple of years with the Baltimore P.D.-brash, aggressive, too aggressive. As if the aggression could somehow make up for his lack of experience. The agent was running recklessly toward Bali, practically stumbling on every third step. Nick could feel the agent’s adrenal gland surging unnatural levels of hormones through his blood system.
Nick suddenly felt someone watching him. Riggs was staring at him, waiting for a response to his question. Nick considered how much an ordinary field agent would know about Bali. Finally, he looked away from the screen just long enough to make eye contact with Riggs and give him a grim shake of his head.
“Shit.” Riggs turned back toward the screen.
Nick watched the action on the satellite feed with a new sense of dread. Now Bali was hopping a block fence and running down a dirt alleyway. The young agent was fifty feet behind him. He was a little sloppier with the fence and landed awkwardly, but he immediately jumped to his feet and started gaining on Bali. The angle of the screen was so close that it was hard to see the terrain, or what was ahead of the two men.
“Where is this? Nick asked.
“Gary, Indiana,” Walt said, without removing his eyes from the screen.
“Where’s his backup?”
“It’s coming.”
The cheering in the War Room grew louder as the FBI agent drew nearer, sending shivers up Nick’s spine. Bali was quick, but he had to make decisions of direction that seemed to slow him up. The FBI agent appeared more familiar with the surroundings, and all he had to do was follow Bali.
Finally, a beam of swirling lights preceded the entrance of a local police car taking up the chase from the left portion of the screen. The buzz in the War Room grew intense with an ovation for the back up.
“Here comes the cavalry!” someone shouted.
Nick still tapped his lips with his fist, only his grip grew tighter.
The police car was spitting up dirt with its tires while fishtailing down a dirt alley, leaving a trail of sideswiped garbage cans in its wake. The driver slowed when he approached an intersection of alleys. As the car nosed its way into the intersection,
Bali ran directly across the front bumper of the vehicle without even turning his head. The car backed up and attempted to turn down Bali’s alley. The FBI agent banged the hood of the car with his credentials as he fled past the vehicle. The turn was too sharp for the police car so the cruiser had to make several back and forth maneuvers, costing precious seconds before finally returning to the chase.
Suddenly, Bali made a wide right turn around the corner of a block fence. The width of the turn made it appear as if he was picking up speed, but the moment Bali felt the agent was out of sight, he darted straight right and crouched up against the fence for cover. The agent couldn’t see Bali double back, so he kept barreling forward. The entire War Room took a collective gasp. Someone yelled at the screen to look out. The agent couldn’t hear the pleas from the War Room, nor could he see the man pulling a gun from his belt in the back of his jeans. Like watching a motorboat speeding toward a hidden waterfall, Nick cringed at the sight.
The agent slowed slightly as he turned the corner, but he obviously expected Bali to be in a full sprint. By the time his momentum took him past the fence line it was too late. Bali was waiting for him, arms outstretched, gun trained on the man. The soundless picture added a creepy element to the inevitable shooting. The agent tried desperately to get down, but Bali was too quick. When the agent hit the ground he was already immobile. Bali moved closer. Someone shouted, “Let him be.” But Bali was ruthless. Even with the police car approaching, and maybe because the cruiser approached, Bali edged to within three feet of the fallen agent. He pointed his gun down at the man’s head.
Nick cupped his hand over his eyes. He heard the groans, first from the men around him, then from all four corners of the underground bunker.
