by Marc Cameron
DAY ZERO
MARC CAMERON
PINNACLE BOOKS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Prologue
DAY ONE
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
DAY TWO
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Epilogue
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Copyright Page
For Martha Cope, Charlotte Skidmore, Bill Witherspoon, and Gene Reynolds—teachers who inspired and expected.
Violence isn’t the answer. Violence is the question . . . The answer is yes.
—ANONYMOUS
Prologue
June
Razika village, northern Pakistan
Emiko Miyagi was not accustomed to wearing so many clothes. Considering the deeply conservative Islamic practices in this part of Pakistan, the muscular little Japanese woman was fortunate to be wearing her head. Defending herself was not normally a problem she worried about. At forty-four, she could have killed any three men in the village at one time without batting an eye. Still, she knew that enough wild dogs could bring down even a powerful lioness, so she covered her body—and kept her plans to herself.
Tugging at the heavy, earth-colored robe she wore over her slacks and long-sleeve cotton shirt, Emiko pulled her black head scarf tight against the breeze and heaved a five-gallon plastic water jug onto the uneven wooden bed of a donkey cart with a dull thump. In truth, forty pounds of water was nowhere near too heavy for her, but she had to keep up appearances.
She used the back of her arm to mop the drops of sweat from her forehead and paused from her work at the communal well to gaze through the crystalline air of the broad river valley. She could have been in Montana were it not for the slumping stone houses and terraced green fields. Dark stands of spruce and oak spilled down the boulder-strewn mountains that rose up on either side. The ever-present smell of wood smoke, human waste, and burned trash, common to underdeveloped countries, also provided a clue that she was a long way from any amber waves of American grain.
A rusty diesel engine and the series of belts and pulleys that served as a pump for the community well stood alongside the knock-kneed beast. Two black weatherproof Pelican cases containing Emiko’s water-testing equipment sat in the back of the cart. There was other gear too—sure to get her head sawed off with a dull knife if it was discovered.
The warped wheels on the ancient cart listed heavily to the right just like her hovering warden, Ismail. The village headman had assured her the bent old man was her protector, but Emiko knew better. The man was little more than her guard—who seemed much more intent on catching her in some minute violation of Sharia law than protecting her from danger.
It was unheard of for a woman to move about the village unaccompanied by a male escort—even a woman who was supposed to be a Japanese NGO scientist assisting with a clean water initiative. Japan and Pakistan had a special arrangement, with the former sending great sums of money and aid while the latter agreed to protect the people administering the aid . . . for the most part.
Traditions ran deep here in the untamed wilds of the Kohistan Province, where every household was required to have a male leader. Lone women were such a danger to religious sensibilities that local clerics had threatened female NGO aid workers with forced marriage to village men—or on occasion, simply dragged them into the street and shot them.
A recent outbreak of dysentery had paved the way for this male-dominated society to allow Miyagi into the valley—because of her supposed scientific background in potable water systems.
Had they known her real intentions, the villagers would have cut her down on the spot.
Ismail canted sideways, leaning on his knotted elmwood cane beside the sun-bleached timbers of an old well house. The ribs of the long-gone building, with timbers curved upward, were gray and weatherworn, like something out of an ancient sailing ship. They were taller than the old man by a head and leaned inward, surrounding the communal pool of the well. A round pakool hat, common in the tribal areas of Pakistan and Afghanistan, slumped over Ismail’s wizened brow. The long, pajamalike shirt and pants known as shalwar kameez clung to his bony body. He looked as if he might topple over at any moment. Surely in his seventies, he was a dinosaur in this impoverished area of an impoverished country where fifty-five was considered elderly. Presumably too old to have unclean thoughts about a female infidel scientist, he did his job without speaking. He watched her every move, ensuring that she committed no blasphemy or insult to the village. It was a tall order for a tribal area where, just months before, a minority Christian woman had earned herself a death sentence for drinking out of a village well and then dipping that same cup—that had touched her infidel lips—back in the water.
A soft breeze tumbled down from the blackness of the Karakorum Mountains, bringing welcome relief from the mid-morning heat. The wind pulled the old man’s wisp of a beard to one side, adding to his tilted appearance. Emiko kept an eye on Ismail while she moved around the well, inspecting the pump. It made her belly burn that he could stand there in his light cotton clothing while she baked in a layer of robes that covered her from head to ankle—all in an effort to shield him from lascivious thoughts.
The water loaded, she returned to the well. A stone wall, a little taller than her knees, formed a circular reservoir pool roughly fifteen feet across. Water dripped from a rusted pipe beside the engine. Patches of green grass and lush weeds grew around the edge of the pool, taking advantage of the shade and consistent supply of water. Miyagi took a small glass vial from the folds of her robes and leaned over the wall and dipped it into the pool. A slurry of stone and mortar from the decaying wall skittered over the lip and sank into the dark water.
Miyagi muttered under her breath as if she cared about the water, while she paid close attention to the reason she was actually in the village. Fifty f
eet away, under the sprawling branches of an ancient oak tree, seven bearded men sat in council. The men spoke with animated gestures over mid-morning tea. Now and again barking voices carried over on the breeze, loud enough that Miyagi could tell they were having a heated conversation about something.
Ismail gave Emiko a long, chastising look, before hobbling off toward the meeting-tree without a word of explanation. He was apparently satisfied that she could not possibly fall into serious mischief while merely filling glass vials with water. He was probably hoping the men under the tree would give him a handout of naswar, the local snuff made from tobacco, lime, and indigo. It was already a slight to his manhood that he was assigned to watch the female foreign devil all day long anyway. Emiko frightened him, and as she well knew, the worst of all insults a woman could pay a man was to make him aware of his fears.
Emiko Miyagi had been in Pakistan for four months, ingratiating herself with a Japanese NGO, Helpful Hands, an organization that funded water testing and the building of tube wells in rural Pakistan. She was smart enough to learn enough about the process to look like an expert to all but the most trained eye, and when one of the scientists had to return to Japan because of an illness, Emiko had assumed her identity and slid into her place.
Far from any sort of scientist, Emiko was a hunter, and found herself in this lawless area of Pakistan for one reason alone. She was looking for a man named Qasim Ranjhani. She’d discovered his name in a book during her last trip to Japan—a journey where a close friend had lost her life. Ranjhani was the key to unraveling the plot that put a foreign mole into the US presidency.
For months, her work had yielded nothing, but now, in this remote valley, she’d heard the other women speak of a meeting of Al Qaeda and another terrorist group known as the Jundalla—or Soldiers of God. The Jundalla had claimed responsibility for many atrocities in northern Pakistan over recent years—including the murder of eighteen passengers on a bus for the crime of being Shia rather than Sunni Muslims. The driver, a Sunni, was killed because he didn’t answer quickly enough when quizzed about Fajr prayer. Later, this same group had slaughtered sixteen international mountain climbers at the base camp to Nanga Parbat in Gilgit Baltistan.
Miyagi continued filling vials with water samples as the men gathered under the shade of the tree, some sitting back on a large woven rug, others squatting on their haunches in the manner peculiar to Asian men. One, a large man with a full black beard that doubled the size of his face, appeared to be the guest of honor. He sat at the head of the blanket, where he could rest his back against the oak. He would be Ali Kadir, a close associate of Ranjhani—Emiko’s target. She had learned that his parents lived here in Razika village and he’d come to visit them and pay his respects. With any luck, he would lead her to Ranjhani.
Miyagi knew the great oak was a customary place for men to hold a Jirga or sit in council. The day before, she had placed two listening devices in the crooked branches as she’d walked by, feigning the need to lean against the tree to fix her sandals. The bugs were small gray-brown sticks, barely two inches long and made to blend into wood or stone backgrounds.
With Ismail safely talking to the gathered men, Emiko reached beneath her robes and took the small earpiece from the pocket of her khakis. She flicked open the latches on the smaller Pelican case to activate the receiver that would boost the signal from the listening devices. The receiver was nestled in the foam padding of the plastic case and difficult to distinguish from her other test equipment.
Men’s voices resonated in her ear. Amazingly clear, they spoke in the singsong cadence of Urdu. Though not fluent, Miyagi was conversant enough to know the men were speaking of their journeys in and the hardships of simply “being men these days,” what with their government of weak-minded American puppets. Ali Kadir told fantastic tales about beloved brothers who’d martyred themselves in the war against the Great Satan. Miyagi’s ears perked up when he spoke of an upcoming mission “to spill infidel blood.” He gave no specifics but mentioned only vague allusions when pressed for details by the other men.
Miyagi used a Sharpie marker to label her test vials in order to appear busy. She tilted her head when a round of crackling static filled her earpiece. When it didn’t go away, she adjusted the gain on the receiver inside her Pelican case and glanced toward the oak.
A flash of movement caught her eye. At first she thought it was a bird, but there was something different in the way the thing moved, like a bee or a hummingbird, only bigger. It flitted back and forth, hovering for a moment in one spot before zipping to another, as if working a grid. Whatever it was, it was searching for something—or more likely, someone. The static in her ear grew louder as the object came closer. Five more of the little things zipped in from nowhere appearing nearer the oak, barely visible against the blue sky.
The men sitting in Jirga under the tree would pay the tiny drones no mind, thinking they were birds or insects. Miyagi recognized them for what they were. Known as a Black Hornet, the tiny radio-controlled helicopter could have fit into her palm. Each was outfitted with a nose-mounted camera that fed images back to its handler. They were also capable of remotely “painting” a target for laser-guided munitions.
It was no secret that the US military employed all sorts of Unmanned Aerial Vehicles for everything from forward observation to assassination. Targeting a terrorist leader like Ali Kadir and the other men under the great oak certainly met the drones’ mission description of work that was too “dull, dirty, or dangerous.”
Miyagi cursed the irony of her luck. The man who would lead her to the terrorist responsible for trying to topple the US government was about to be killed by the US military.
She moved instinctively to the far side of the stone wall that surrounded the well reservoir, putting as much distance as she could between herself and the men. Once the target was found, it would be only a matter of seconds before a larger Predator drone or even some manned aircraft sent a Hellfire missile screaming into their position, reducing them to a crater of ash.
Miyagi watched as the Black Hornet spun on its axis, following her as she moved. The nose of the hellish little thing continued to point directly at her. A moment later, two more of the tiny pocket drones zipped in from the direction of the oak and settled in a tight formation next to the first—hovering passively against the pale blue sky.
A cold realization crept over Emiko Miyagi, chilling her even under the heavy robes. A half a breath later, a screaming hiss split the air and a Hellfire missile impacted dead center on the donkey cart, fifteen feet away. The drones weren’t looking for Ali Kadir.
They had come for her.
DAY ONE
My wife handed me my rifle, saying, “Here’s your gun . . . fight.”
—CHIEF JOSEPH
Chapter 1
Mountain Village, Alaska
450 miles west of Anchorage
Jericho Quinn used the back of a bloody hand to wipe windblown spray from his eyes. Behind him, the growl of a single-engine airplane brought a familiar twist of concern to his gut. He turned from his spot at the steering post of an open aluminum skiff to watch a newer-looking Cessna Caravan emerge from a line of low, boiling clouds to the south, on the other side of the Yukon River. Quinn nudged the throttle forward and leaned against the console, bracing himself against the constant chop brought on by a fresh breeze that worked against the current of the mighty river. Water hung in droplets on his thick black beard. A tangle of wet hair escaped a camouflage ball cap, framing the portions of his face not covered by the beard. Even after a long, lightless winter in the north, he was deeply tanned—a trait inherited from an Apache grandmother—and chapped by wind and weather. His knees ached from the constant bouncing on the river—one of the several new pains to which he’d resigned himself over the past half year.
The ripping blat of the approaching aircraft drew his attention away from his aches. Even the most experienced bush pilots steered clear of weather like this.
Quinn tamped back the nagging uneasiness in his belly and coaxed the skiff around to cut the current diagonally. A hundred meters away, in the lap of rolling hills, low and covered in willow, white birch, and spruce, a tumble of weather-worn buildings spilled from the fog. It was Asaacarsaq in traditional Yup’ik, but to the United States Post Office it was known as Mountain Village.
Behind Quinn, standing at the stern of the little skiff, a big-boned Eskimo leaned back to watch the airplane pass directly overhead, less than five hundred feet off the water. The big man shook his head in amazement. His name was James Perry, but Quinn had known him since high school and had never called him anything but Ukka. When Perry was nine, his grandfather had given him the Yup’ik nickname, Ukkatamani—“a long time ago.” It was the Eskimo equivalent of “once upon a time.”
Quinn looked back over his shoulder from the steering pedestal while he turned the boat in a slow arc. “You see something in the water?”
Ukka’s eyes were locked off the stern. “Never know,” he said, cocking his head to one side in concentration. He was a broad man, standing an inch over six feet and weighing in at nearly two hundred and fifty pounds. “We’ll have to get in close if we see one so I can stick it. You can’t just shoot ’em out here. Freshwater doesn’t float them as well as seawater . . . so they sink fast.” He glanced up. “I ever tell you about the time my grandfather caught that beluga whale with a harpoon from his kayak down by Alakunuk?”
“You have not,” Quinn said, smiling to himself.
Five months of stories had made it easy to see why James Perry’s grandfather had called him “Once Upon a Time.” No matter his nickname, Ukka certainly held the short weapon like he knew how to use it. When he wasn’t bringing in his family’s winter supply of meat, he made his living as a village public safety officer. In the Alaska bush, a VPSO was often the only law out here on the rough edges of the world. Ukka carried himself with the attendant swagger of a man in charge.
